Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
When I pull it from my purse on our way to the food trucks later, his expression softens, “Wow. It’s Satan if he loved the holidays.”
I grin. “Looks just like him, right? I couldn’t resist. Happy Hanukkah!”
“I love it,” he says, looking visibly moved.
And a little sad…
I loop my arm through his and give his bicep a squeeze, telling myself I’m doing it because I want to offer him comfort, not because the feel of his powerful body beneath his clothes does fizzy things to me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to miss your cat, Fenton. You know we can always call off the move if you need Greg here with you. That’s totally fine.”
He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not a chance, Cane. He’s yours. It’s just… My friends aren’t the kind who exchange gifts, and I don’t have much family anymore. It’s been a while since I got a Hanukkah gift. Especially one this nice. So…thank you.”
Chest aching, I promise, “You’re welcome. And consider yourself on my holiday gift list for life. Or until you tell me to stop sending you crap every December. Fair warning, I usually give prank gifts. The holidays start to feel stressful if I take the gift-giving too seriously.”
“I’m a comedy writer. Who better to appreciate the glory of a prank gift? I would be honored to be on your list.”
I smile. “Good. Then it’s a deal. I’ll put your address in my book before I leave.”
Leave…
It was the wrong thing to say. Our festive vibe dips, making the late afternoon air feel cooler than it did before. But soon, we reach the food trucks, where vintage holiday tunes blast from speakers above the picnic tables and bonfires crackle in cozy fire pits. The smell of fried dough, freshly grilled meat, and mulled wine cheers us, and by the time we’ve eaten our way through three countries, we’re both smiling again.
“Now the hard part. Choosing the last snack,” Leo says, scanning the line of vendors with narrowed yes. “Brisket taco or smoked goose with orange sauce?”
“Taco every time,” I say. “Though eating goose is intriguing from a vengeance point of view. We had geese on my parents’ farm when I was a kid. They pooped under my tire swing and Francine liked to sneak up behind me and bite my butt while I was feeding the chickens before school.”
He winces. “Not cool, Francine. What was up with her?”
“Not sure,” I say. “She might have been jealous. She adored my mother and wasn’t too happy that I got to sleep inside the house with Cherry, while she had to stay out in the shed.”
“Your mom’s name is Cherry?”
“Yep. Cherry and Bart Cane, the cutest couple in Reindeer Corners.” I add with a wry smile, “And the most oblivious. They insist they didn’t realize they’d basically named me ‘Candy Cane’ until after they’d signed the birth certificate.”
He laughs. “No way.”
“Yes, way. I was named after my mother’s sister, Candace, who was lucky enough to have a different last name. But they’re both sweethearts, and great parents. Though they stress out about when I’m going to settle down more than I’d like.” I sigh as I realize… “They’re going to be upset about me calling it quits with Chris.”
“They honestly thought he was the guy for you?” Leo asks, a hint of judgment in his tone.
I shake my head. “No, but I think they were glad I seemed to be on the verge of starting a family. I’m not getting any younger, you know. Thirty-four is dangerously close to ‘geriatric pregnancy’ territory and Mom and Dad are desperate for grandkids.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Do you want kids?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my shoulders creeping closer to my ears. “I mean, I love the idea of being a mom, but only if I had a stellar dad in the picture. I don’t want to go it alone or with a man who doesn’t want kids as much as I do. My dad was always there for me, every bit as much as my mom. I want the same for my children. If I have them.”
Leo nods seriously. “That makes sense.”
Peeking at him from the corners of my eyes, I ask, “How about you?”
His lips hook up on one side. “I think that ship has sailed for me.”
I frown. “Why?”
“I’m old.”
“Forty isn’t old,” I scoff.
“If thirty-four is a geriatric pregnancy, forty is absolutely a geriatric paternity. My sperm is probably all crooked and wrong.”
I laugh. “Crooked and wrong?”
“Mutated,” he says. “That’s the word I was looking for. I probably have geriatric mutant sperm.”
I hum beneath my breath. “I think you’d be fine. The rest of you seems to be holding up okay so far.”
“Yeah, well, I’m in the same boat you are. I’d only want kids if I had the right partner and so far, not so good, on that front.”