Page 28 of Stella's Christmas Rescue
“You’re dressed up. How come?”
“We’re decorating a Christmas tree. Seems like the sort of thing I should dress for. Like church or something. I dunno. Got any bourbon?”
He’s nervous. Why the hell is he nervous? It’s making me nervous. “I have some bourbon left over, but that’s not what we’re drinking tonight.”
“No?” he sounds so disappointed.
I gesture to the punch bowl on my table. “You like eggnog?”
“Hell yeah, but I don’t serve the grocery store stuff in a fancy crystal bowl.”
I ladle it out and pass the creamy liquid over, before getting myself a glass. Then, I grate some nutmeg over the glasses. “This is not the grocery store stuff. This is my family’s recipe for eggnog. And I wanted to share it with you.” I clink my glass to his, then sip. Decades of memories flow into my mind, along with the high proof booze.
He looks at his glass with surprise on his handsome face. “That’s potent. Good, too. Careful you don’t put hair on your chest.”
I smile, “My family likes to throw a good Christmas party. But since that’s not really an option for me right now, I thought we’d have one of our own.”
“I’m glad you thought of me.” He smiles.
“Well, to be perfectly honest, you’re the only person I know here.”
He smirks. “Then, I’m glad I’m the only person you know in Floyd.”
“So, how does pot roast sound for dinner?”
“Perfect.”
“It will be ready when we are done with the decorations.” I point to the spruce tree near the living room. We spend an hour spreading out the glass balls and tinsel, while we get silly drunk and chat about our families.
“I was ten years old the first time I made dinner for my family; it was for a special occasion. Never do make the first time you let a kid cook be for a special occasion, it is way too much pressure on them. And when I finished, I was so excited, so proud of myself. Everything looked perfect, the garlic bread, the salad, all of it. We gathered around for my grandparents 32ndanniversary dinner. I watched as everyone tasted their spaghetti and exchanged a glance. I asked what was going on, and my grandfather said with a smirk, ‘Taste it.’”
“And?” He’s hanging on my every word, and it’s nice having someone to share stupid family things with. I’m not sure that’s ever happened.
“Awful,” I giggle, “Oh, it was just awful.”
“What went wrong?”
“I had somehow gotten the salt and sugar confused, and probably the amounts, too. The sauce was sweet like ketchup, the meatballs were salt bombs. It was horrifying.”
He laughs, then asks, “What happened after that?”
I smile at the memory. “I was so embarrassed, I ran to my room crying and tried to hide in there the rest of the night. But then, my family came upstairs, each of them had a bowl of spaghetti in their hands. And each of them ate their spaghetti and meatballs in front of me.”
“Wow, that was so nice of them.”
A lump swells in my throat. “It was. But then I begged them to stop, because I didn’t want them to get sick. We went out for pizza after that.”
“Sounds like they are great people.” Jordan has the kindest eyes I have ever seen.
I wipe a tear away and sniff. “They are.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t. What about yours? When did you first cook for your family?”
“I never did,” he says, as he sprinkles the last bit of tinsel.
“Are you close?”
