Page 14 of Honkers Under the Holly

“With a goose.” Mac was trying to hold back his laugh, but it came out as a snort.

“During the holidays.”I giggled at him, at the ridiculousness of the situation, and the way the butterflies were tickling my stomach, my nerves, and maybe even my heart.

We looked at each other, and I felt that same flutter in my chest I’d gotten the first time he smiled at me.

“We are so not boring,” I whispered.

He pulled me closer, and just before his lips met mine, he whispered back, “Don’t tell Magda.”

PLAYING HOUSE

“Son, that better not be the Manniway rookie jersey you’re stuffing in there.” Dad’s voice carried from behind a tower of boxes. “That needs proper archival packaging.”

I pulled the jersey back out of the moving box, trying to remember which of the seventeen different tissue paper colors Mom had designated for premium items. The shop looked strange all cleaned up of personal items, the display cases empty except for the last few items they taking to the Florida house. Thirty years of sports history, all going into boxes or already sold to the new owner.

“Got the bubble wrap for the signed footballs,” Tommy announced, bursting through the door with Sir Honksalot waddling importantly behind him. “And Sir Honksalot brought his organizational expertise.”

“By which you mean he’s going to steal things and hide them in random boxes?” I asked.

“Hey, his chaos has a system.” Tommy dropped the bubble wrap on the counter. “Speaking of systems, how’s the move to the love nest—ow!” He rubbed his shin where I’d kicked him.

Dad emerged from behind the boxes. “You found a place, son? Why is it a love nest?”

“Just house-sitting,” I said quickly, shooting Tommy a warning look. “For a client. Well, sort of a client. It’s a networking thing.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mom called from the back room. “Is it one of those football players you met? The ones from the party Sara Jayne took you to?”

“Yeah, Sara Jayne’s boss and her husband are heading to Europe for a few months.” I carefully didn’t mention that Sara Jayne would be house-sitting too. Or that we were pretending to be engaged. Or that I couldn’t stop thinking about how it didn’t feel like pretending at all.

“Sara Jayne,” Dad said thoughtfully, picking up a signed Mustangs helmet. “Sweet girl. Way too pretty for you.”

I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t wrong. She was hands down the most gorgeous woman I’d ever dated, or kissed, or been fake engaged to. “Thanks, Dad.”

“No, I mean it as a compliment.” He set the helmet in its designated box and winked at me. “The way she looks at you... reminds me of how your mother used to look at me when we were dating. Still does, sometimes, when she thinks I’m not paying attention.”

Sir Honksalot chose that moment to snatch a Mountaineers pennant and take off toward the back room.

Tommy sprinted after the goose. “Sir Honksalot! We talked about this! Theft is not a personality trait!”

Dad chuckled. “Never thought I’d see the day when L.A.’s most promising running back was chasing a goose through my shop.” He turned back to me. “You know, son, sometimes the best things in life come at you sideways. Your mother and I, we met when she accidentally sold her father’s entire baseball card collection to me at a yard sale.”

“I know, Dad. You tell that story every anniversary.”

“My point is, don’t overthink it. When something feels right...” He trailed off as a crash came from the back room, followed by Tommy’s, “It’s fine! Only knocked over the Bandits memorabilia.”

Mom’s voice rose in alarm. “Not the Bandits box. That’s organized alphabetically.”

I hurried toward the chaos, but Dad caught my arm. “Just... don’t let a good thing slip away because of bad timing or circumstances like your parents up and selling your house out from under you. Sometimes life gets in the way, but when you know, you know.”

The thing was, I did know.

Had known since Sara Jayne first smiled at me over a runaway goose at Oktoberfest. Everything since then, the social media scheme, the house-sitting arrangement, even this crazy fake engagement, it all felt like the universe’s extremely unsubtle way of pushing us together.

Tommy returned with a smugly triumphant Sir Honksalot and a slightly crumpled pennant, “wait until you hear about the engage?—”

“Engaging conversation we had about social media metrics,” I interrupted. “Very boring. Lots of spreadsheets. Hey, Tommy, didn’t you want to show me that thing? Upstairs? Away from here?”

“What? Oh, right! The thing. With the... spreadsheets.” He winked, so obviously I considered letting Sir Honksalot steal his phone again. Or his contract.

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