Page 36 of Holly Jolly July

Matt steps closer, blocking the light, bringing his own radiance with him.

“Are you wearing plaid?!” I gasp, my mouth dropping open.

He eyes himself, then looks up to me, a playful grin lighting his features. “I thought I’d join you for Christmas, if that’s okay?”

Dear god, the strength it takes to stay standing on my own two legs. I manage a nod while biting my quivering bottom lip, then step aside so Matt can enter. He’s wearing red plaid PJ bottoms and a tight black V-neck shirt that hugs his upper body and biceps in a drool-inducing way. His scruff is neatly trimmed, forming a short beard, and his hair is combed back into a high bun with little golden tendrils escaping the sides.

I close the door, wafting his cologne my way, which must be infused with pheromones because I can feel my nostrils flaring and my lower half warming at his scent alone.

Matt toes off his sneakers and heads to the kitchen, setting reusable grocery bags on the counter. “I thought we’d have lunch together. Have you eaten?”

“I’m always down to eat.”

“Good. I hope you’re hungry.” He takes a few Tupperware containers out of the bag and sets them down, the plastic fogged.

I reach out and touch one; it’s still hot. “Did you cook this morning?”

He gives me a shy grin. “Maybe.”

“What is it?”

Matt organizes all the dishes in front of me, then takes off the lids one by one to reveal a full turkey dinner. Baked turkey breasts fragrant with rosemary and thyme, garlic mashed potatoes, steamed carrots and peas, gravy, stuffing, and even a can of cranberries. “I bought the buns at the store, though,” he says, removing a plastic bag of bakery-prepared tray buns.

Stunned, I look at all the food, then up to Matt’s face, which is somewhere between giddy and nervous.

“Is this... okay?” he asks. “We can go out to lunch instead if you like. I thought we could have a Christmas dinner, but I also know this great sushi place—”

“Matt,” I interrupt him, reaching out and taking his hand. My throat is thick with emotion. “This is... beyond perfect. Thank you.”

His shoulders relax and he releases a slow breath, turning his palm up to hold my hand. We stare at each other for a long moment, a zing of possibilities igniting a fire in my belly.

I give his hand a squeeze before releasing it, moving behind him to get plates and cutlery. Matt and I work in silence as we dish each other up, elbow to elbow, hip to hip, and I know immediately that I can get used to this. I get a flash of us living days, weeks, years, going through the minutia of everyday life: him making my coffee in the morning, me ensuring he packs fruit in his lunch, him kissing me on the way out the door for work, me waiting up until he gets home, tangling in the bedsheets together and making sweet love while the nighttime sounds of crickets chirping and owls hooting floats in through the open window with the cool evening breeze.

I glance at him. He looks at me. We both smile and look away.

Plates piled high, we settle on the stools on the opposite side of the peninsula and dig in.

My first bite elicits a moan, and I close my eyes to savour the nostalgic flavours.

“Oh no, you hate it,” Matt jokes, nudging me with his elbow.

“It’s so good!” I mumble, mouth full of half-masticated food. I finish chewing and swallow. “Seriously, you cooked this, all by yourself?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Does that surprise you?”

“It does.”

“Kind of sexist.” He chuckles.

I laugh too. “I never thought about it that way, but I guess it is. It’s just, you’re so... attractive? And you’re a hard worker. And you’re a kind, genuine person.”

He presses a hand to his chest and lifts his chin. “Go on.”

I elbow him back. “You’re the full package, is all I’m saying. Add ‘can cook’ to that list and you’re officially out of my league.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His leg rubs against mine and I return the gesture, my toes running up the back of his calf.

“How’d you learn to cook like this?” I ask before forking another mouthful.

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