Page 82 of The Christmas Yes List

I laugh out loud. “Everything is stopping me. I can’t just tell people I want to become a homemaker.”

“Sure you can.”

“No I can’t.”

“You just told me.”

True. But at the moment, James is a heartbreaking, handsome weasel who doesn’t count.

“Nobody wants to go on a date with somebody who announces they live with their parents and would like not to pull their weight financially.”

“Sure they do.”

“No they don’t. I sound incredibly lazy.”

“No you don’t. The difference lies in the motivation. Nothing you just said is motivated by laziness.”

“I’m a walking red flag. I can’t imagine one person finding this announcement on a date acceptable.”

“I can.”

“Who?”

James turns to me. He looks surprised. “Well . . . me. You just told me. And here I am.”

“Oh. Right.” My cheeks flush and my hands fidget, searching for somewhere to go. I feel a flood of emotions that puts my stomach in knots as I look at James looking at me.

The facade of this moment, this date, feels all too real.

He’s a superb liar.

So superb . . . he just might break my heart all over again.

I drop my ladle. I can’t do this. What a fool I was to think I could.

Some stronger, fiercer woman than I could handle trying to take down this man and overcome her personal issues in one fell swoop, but not me. Not with a man who looks like he does staring me straight in the eye and lying to me with all the insincerity in the world. You can be whatever you want to be. I find you attractive.

This is a nightmare.

I’ve actually, somehow, created my own nightmare.

Go on a fake date with the man who makes your heart race and who would otherwise be your dream man and have him tell you everything you ever wanted to hear, all while knowing it’s a lie.

I have to get out of here.

I have to leave now.

Čedomir’s grip comes out of nowhere and claps onto our shoulders. A hearty pat on our backs before he removes the lids from our pots and peers inside. “Ah, it’s coming along nicely!” He does a double take at James’s pot and frowns at the burnt, oversized pieces of garlic drifting in the soup. “For you, Chloe,” he continues. “For him? Ehhhh . . .” he says in a singsong voice, tipping his hand the way a child’s boat seesaws up and down.

He gives James an extra-heavy double whap on the back. “I kid—I mean, I’m not kidding, that soup looks bad, but you are trying and that’s noble,” he finishes in a friendly way. “Anyway, where are we with the soup, Chloe? How is it coming along?”

He takes a spoon and plunks it in, takes a sip, and his eyes brighten.

“You added something while I was not looking,” he says in a playful tone of You naughty girl. “Bay. Thyme. Salt. Pepper. Not . . . mustard?”

“Marjoram.”

He claps his hands to my cheeks. “Marjoram,” he announces gleefully. “But of course. Marjoram.”