Page 16 of The Snuggle is Real
“That looks delicious,” Mik Gilmore said, leaning closer to inhale the steamy scent wafting from it. He wore a truly ugly Christmas sweater with Bigfoot on it. “Wow, my mouth is watering.”
I smiled a little. “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe. She’s a chef.”
“No kidding?” Rudy leaned in from the other side of the bar, where he was serving drinks. “We better steal a sample before it’s gone. Watch out, Mason. These singles find out you can cook like this and you’re gonna be introuble.”
I laughed. “Not likely. I picked up a few things from my mom, but I’m no chef.”
Mik picked up a fork from the stack of cutlery nearby and sampled the stuffing, making an embarrassing noise. “Is there cranberry in this? There is. Damn, it’s good.”
I was happy someone else was enjoying one of Mom’s recipes. She’d always done Thanksgiving upbig.Our family itself was small—especially once Dad was gone—but in Swallow Cove, the whole town was practically family.
She cooked for an army of friends, all of them coming and going, drooling over her cooking—and mine, because I was her appointed helper in the kitchen since Sawyer was hopeless.
Watching Mik try her stuffing was nice, but it made my heart ache for what I was missing, too.
“Can I get a beer?” I asked Rudy, seeking distraction.
“Sure thing.”
Rudy reached for the tap to pull the amber ale they were serving for the occasion, while Mik skipped over to the door to greet a good-looking man with dark hair and broad shoulders.
Rudy set a pint glass in front of me, then muttered under his breath, “Geez, Mik, don’t harass the poor guy.”
I glanced over to see Mik trying to peek under the tinfoil of the guy’s dish. Rudy chuckled and shook his head as he rounded the bar and charged over.
I took a sip from my beer, enjoying the slight hint of caramel flavor, then surveyed the food on display.
There was turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy provided by the bar, and a smorgasbord of side items brought by the crowd, including all the classics: sweet potato pie, green bean casserole, glazed carrots, and so much more.
A pan of lasagna caught my eye, and though it wasn’t typical for a Thanksgiving potluck, I couldn’t wait to try it.
The man who’d made it—Rocco Moretti, the new owner of Jolly Java—was sitting with Taylor, the deputy mayor and one of the guys on the hiring committee who’d chosen me to run the Holiday Hope Foundation.
Aside from Elias, he was one of the few people in this town I’d gotten to know fairly well. And judging by the way he looked at Rocco, he’d found the single he wanted tomingle.
Before I could go over and tease him about his obvious crush, Mik returned and grabbed my arm.
“Have you met Mason West?” he was saying to his victi—er, new friend. “He’s the new director of the Holiday Hope Foundation. Mason, this is Hank Beaufort. He’s the hockey director at the community center.”
“Hi.” Hank, the man with the broad shoulders and enticing food that Mik had taken possession of, held out a hand gamely. “Good to meet you.”
“You too.”
“And now you’re besties,” Mik pronounced with a grin. He sauntered off, leaving us to stare after him.
“He’s certainly…something,” I said.
“He marches to the beat of his own drum, that’s for sure.”
Hank and I made small talk, joking about how wild Christmas Falls got.
“What’s so funny?” Mik asked, swinging back by to check on us like some sort of weird chaperone.
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “We love this town.”
Hank choked on a laugh.
“Okay,” Mik said slowly, clearly not buying it. He didn’t linger on it, though, thrusting the martini glass in Hank’s direction. “Here. You need this. It’s a sugar cookie martini. Bailey’s, milk, vanilla vodka, and Amaretto. It’s my favorite Festival Season drink.”
