Page 49 of Single Dad's Christmas Cookie

I successfully redirected her energy and focus while Bryan heated the soup up. I felt a little dumb watching him. He didn’t do anything complicated or involving some spectacular feat of engineering. He simply filled a pan with soup from the cans and set it on the edge of the fire, stirring occasionally.

Soup in pan, heat. I should have been able to figure that out.

“This is not how I expected today to turn out,” I admitted as I sat next to Bryan and watched him stir the soup.

“Better, or worse?”

Better. I was sitting with him next to a fire. This could have been a very romantic situation, even with Amelia around. The presence of children didn’t diminish romance, only the sexy aspect. Worse, my car was stuck in a ditch, covered in snow. I had no idea when I’d get it back.

“Better in some ways, worse in others. I mean, under normal circumstances, I would have been home by now.”

“Yeah, this is better,” Bryan said.

What was he thinking? Why did he think this was better? Did he like snow storms? Maybe he really enjoyed camping? Maybe he wanted me there, trapped in the dark house with him. I may have held my breath, hoping for the last option.

“I can’t imagine your apartment would maintain its heat very well. You’re safer here.”

Oh. I let out a sigh. That made sense, Bryan being concerned with the cold. Even though I hoped he would have said something more like I was there with them, and it was my company that made things better.

“Yeah, I can’t imagine how cold my apartment would be right now. Thank you. I definitely don’t have enough pillows and blankets to make an inside fort. Or a fireplace to cook over and keep me warm.”

“Soup’s ready,” he announced.

I helped Amelia get settled and handed her a bowl and spoon. Bryan ladled another bowl of soup for me.

“I guess this isn’t so bad,” I admitted as I accepted the bowl.

“Wait till you taste my cooking,” Bryan said. “Then you’ll get the full camping experience.”

The soup was delicious. It wasn’t anything special. It came from a can. It was something I’ve had a million times before, but never cooked over an open fire. Maybe that made a difference. Maybe it was the company.

We didn’t have any marshmallows to roast after dinner, which was just as well. I could only imagine that would have created a sticky mess, and without lights, getting Amelia cleaned up after something like that seemed like all kinds of a bad idea.

Bryan carried the dishes into the kitchen so I didn’t have to make another journey into the dark. I could only assume he left them in the sink for when we had power.

The fire crackled, giving us its heat and bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. He was right. This was nice, and almost like camping. The biggest difference was that when I looked up, there weren’t stars in the sky but a ceiling above us.

Bryan picked up his guitar and began plucking at strings, tuning the instrument.

“I didn’t know you could play.” I wasn’t a musician, but it didn’t sound very out of tune to me.

“A little,” he said. “You said you liked music. What’s a campfire without some folk songs?”

I cast my gaze to the fireplace and then over the fort-tent Amelia and I had constructed.

Bryan strummed on his guitar, humming along to whatever he played.

Amelia and I snuggled together in the little nest of pillows and blankets. Recognizing the music, I began humming until I could remember the words. Bryan’s playing grew a little louder as our voices filled the quiet evening. Amelia got up and began swaying and dancing to the music.

One song blended into the next. It took me a few moments before I recognized the new song and could sing along. He picked songs that were old. He didn’t play anything more recent than the nineteen nineties. I couldn’t decide if that was an age thing or if he was playing the classics so that I might know the lyrics.

It became a game with Bryan selecting a song and then seeing if I knew the words. Eventually, Amelia collapsed, too tired to dance anymore. I stopped recognizing anything he played, but he continued to sing in a soothing, deep voice. I was pretty certain that by then, he was simply making words up to familiar tunes.

Once Amelia quieted down and she cuddled in next to me again, Bryan began playing familiar, traditional Christmas music. His playing sounded less like someone strumming guitar around a campfire and more like someone who had been classically trained. He picked out the individual notes and played more complex chords and harmonies.

Unable to remember any of the words beyond the first line ofWhat Child Is This, I hummed along as he played. The music was soothing and had a lullaby quality to it. It felt appropriate somehow, in the dimly lit room with the blazing fire, to have Bryan playing music that made me think of the Renaissance.

Bryan stopped playing and set the guitar aside. “Is she out?” he asked.

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