Page 21 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
"Low blow, little brother."But there's no heat in it.Only regret."Also, Mom says the new nurse seems nice.Wait until she realizes who it is.She also said Sally mentioned a Dickle?”
Of course Mom and Sally already chatted.
Kellan continues, “What the fuck is a Dickle?”
“I think it’s supposed to be an emotional support pickle."
"Of course… So how is she?"
"Good.Well…Divorced.Asshole ex.Wary with big walls."
"Remind you of someone else?"
"You trying to tell me I should crochet Martian dicks too?"
“You could."His voice softens."All I’m saying is that she's single.You're single.You could crochet a whole damn Martian Dick Dynasty together if that makes you happy."
I scrub a hand over my face."You make it sound so poetic.Doesn't matter.I'm leaving.To another small town.And she doesn't do small towns."
"Would she do the small-town vet?"
"Hilarious."
"Yep.One of my best qualities, really."
"Goodnight Kellan."
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.And that leaves you a TON of possibilities."
And on that note, I hang up, my stomach rumbling as I remember that I haven’t eaten since I didn’t go to the birthday party.My own party.Shit.
So, I scratch LoverBoy’s ears, before venturing out and dropping the carrier she used in front of her door.Not knocking.Not trying to see her again.
I head down to the kitchen, avoiding the parlor and dining area where guests are laughing, playing games."And I love you!"Someone yells.Someone definitely had wine.Pine Creek is small, but the winter season always brings tourists looking for that holiday magic.
I push the door open enough to slip in.The kitchen lights are off except for the faint glow over the stove, casting everything in soft yellow.
Eve's standing at the far end of the kitchen, one knee propped up on a stool.She's in slippers and wearing an old University of Chicago sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up.Her hair's messy in a way that shouldn't make my ribs feel tight, wondering if that's how she'd look after I ran my fingers through it.
She’s muttering at the cabinet, cradling a box of Will Flour B&B Pancake mix like it's a puppy.
“That one’s delicious,” I say, stepping inside.“Gluten-free.She gets it from the Moose Meadow Lodge & Tree in Vermont.With their maple syrup.And she sends them her snickerdoodle mix.”
She spins, clutching the box tighter.“Adam.”But when she tries to put it back on the shelf, it slips, hits the counter with athud-pop, and explodes in a flour bomb that fogs the whole kitchen.
We freeze.
Flour clings to her lashes, her cheekbones, the soft waves of her hair.She looks like a pissed-off holiday cookie and somehow still manages to knock the air out of me.
“Sally’s going to kill me,” she says, stunned.“First day in town and I’ve destroyed...her pancake mix supply.”
“You did save a chihuahua, so you’re still net positive.”
She huffs, half laughing as she wipes at her sleeve, only smearing it more.
“You’re just making it worse,” I say, and for a second, she looks at me like she might crack up or throw the rest of the box at my face.
I missed her.
