Page 34 of Jingle Bell Flock
“Oh my god,” Stella said, her voice full of amused disgust. “Your face.” She made a gagging sound in the back of her throat.
“What about my face?” I asked, fighting the grin I knew was growing.
“You look like a golden retriever who just got told he’s a good boy.” She made a shooing motion with both hands. “Go. Get out of my brewery. Go home to your man before you start wagging your tail.”
“Fuck off,” I said, but I was already standing, smiling like the love-sick fool that I was.
“Yeah, yeah. See you Saturday.”
I was halfway to my truck when I pulled out my phone and called Harrison instead of texting back.
He answered on the second ring. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I unlocked the truck but didn't get in yet. “Got your message.”
“And you called instead of texting back. Who are you and what have you done with Jeremy Price?”
I chuckled. “I just …” I leaned against the truck bed, right next to the back wheel well. “Wanted to hear your voice.”
“Yeah?” he asked after a pause, his voice dropping low.
“Mmm-hmm,” I hummed, picturing the way his eyes would soften when his voice sounded like that.
“Aren’t you sweet?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I’ve never been sweet a day in my life.” Heat crept up the back of my neck, and I scuffed the toe of my boot through the snow, carving a line in the fresh powder.
I heard Harrison snicker, but he didn’t argue. “What are you up to?”
“Just finished up with Stella.”
“Everything squared away?”
“Yup, we’re set.” I looked up at a sky filled with thick gray clouds, promising more snow. “You really making pasta from scratch?”
“I really am. I seem to recall you love carbonara.”
My chest tightened, but it was a good kind of tight. The kind that came from someone remembering small details about you, things you figured they would have forgotten.
We’d been at a hockey tournament our junior year, some chain restaurant outside of Providence after we’d won our bracket. The team had been celebrating, and Harrison had ordered the carbonara. I’d stolen a bite off his plate and ended up eating half of it before he’d shoved me away, laughing. Then he’d ordered me my own plate, and I’d devoured both servings like I’d never eaten before, declaring it my favorite pasta ever.
And he remembered. After all this time, he remembered.
“That the one with the pancetta?” I asked, pretending I didn’t know exactly which dish he was talking about.
“Guanciale, but yes.”
That tightness in my chest loosened, warmth spreading through me like I’d taken a shot of good whiskey. “I could get used to this.”
“To what?”
“Coming home to you. You cooking for me. Us having dinner plans.” I hesitated. “All of it.”
Harrison paused again, longer this time. “Me too,” he said quietly. “I could get used to all of it, too.”
“Good. That’s … good.” I cleared my throat around the lump that had suddenly formed there. My throat went tight, my eyes burning slightly, and I had to blink a few times to clear them.
The cold air bit at my face, and I realized I’d been standing out here long enough that my fingers were starting to go numb around my phone.
