Page 73 of The Christmas Yes List

“Yes,” I say, a little quieter.

“That’s amazing, Chloe. What else can you do?”

I’m actively tearing at the corner of my thumbnail beneath the table now, drawn by my painfully intense desire to please this man despite the longing to follow through with Genie’s plan. But it’s one thing to say you can be a jerk at dinner and cause a guy to leave. This, actually being face-to-face, with people around—well, it’s something else.

“Can you . . .” he says, jump-starting the conversation to keep it going, “fix a cabinet?”

I want to drop my head. But what do I do? Smile.

I flash him a nice. Fake. Smile. “Yes.”

“And . . .”

A server passes by and I tense, sensing the presence all around us. “And . . . I have wired a dimmer switch.”

James’s brows shoot up. He has his hands patiently in his lap as he waits for more.

Don’t give in!

“And . . . I’ve hardwired some under-cabinet lighting.” I scroll through a lifetime of Dad-and-me projects. “Cleaned a P trap. Replaced doors. Replumbed the bathroom.”

And that’s how I get completely derailed from my mission all the way through our rolls and drink orders.

I’ve failed.

He’s particularly impressed and pulls an entire monologue out of me about cutting compound miter joints for crown molding in Mom’s sewing room. And all the while, I loathe myself.

Clearly, I’d take a compliment from Dracula on how well I can find studs before he murdered me.

“And have you had a chance to decide?”

A server, one of several who was standing along the tray line gathering plates, suddenly swivels and goes from off-duty kitchen staff talking about Christmas plans to waiter settling Sancerre into an ice bucket on the table and painstakingly tucking a crisp white napkin around the condensating bottle.

Right. Down to business.

Let this be your moment, Chloe. Get your plan back. On. Track.

“Yes,” I say politely, flapping open my menu. I draw my gaze down the page of porterhouse steaks, fillets of lobster tails, braised beef, and maple-rubbed salmon.

My stomach is rumbling. My thoughts are too.

And just then, when I need it most, comes a reassuring, Genie-infused ding from my purse.

I can do this.

She is counting on me.

I am counting on me.

I look up at James with fresh, innocent eyes. “You know what, James? What if we were a little adventurous? What if I . . . introduced you to the local culture?”

“Um, sure. Why not,” he says, clearly having a hiccup and then trying to match my enthusiasm. “What are you thinking?”

“The Huntsman Platter. I think you should get it. I think we both should get it.”

Even our server’s face grimaces slightly. Suddenly, he’s very fascinated by his shoes.

James looks down at the menu, and after about five seconds, it becomes clear that he has seen what I mean. “The . . . Huntsman Platter?”