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“Well, okay,” she says with a shaky exhale. “I... I like you, Ves. And part of me still isn’t sure why, because we’re nothing alike and you aren’t my usual type, but I do. I hate tidying up and yet, when I’m helping you, it doesn’t feel like work. Or it does, but not in the way that makes me want to avoid or hate every second of it. And I have to think it’s because I’m spending that time with you. So—and hear me out here, okay?—I was thinking that... maybe I wouldn’t mind spending even more time with you.”
Now she’s looking at him with those big brown eyes, silently willing him to say something. To have an opinion. Seeing that anticipation on her face makes his throat dry and his mind go as blank as a new Word doc. The pressure builds and builds until something in her eyes dims a bit.
No, absolutely not. He cannot have that. Not because of him. Anyway, disappointing the sunshiniest girl in Piney Peaks would probably get him run out of town with pitchforks and flaming torches.
“How is that different from what we’re doing now?” asks Ves. He can’t look at her face, so he focuses on removing his gloves, plucking one finger loose at a time before sliding the whole thing off.
“Look, people are already speculating about us. They have been since you stepped in oh-so-gallantly with Bentley, and I know the way we were at the party last night didn’t exactly shut down the rumors. Speaking of... say hi to Marcy.”
Elisha waves at the parka-clad figure stopped on the sidewalk to peer through the bistro window at them. To Ves’s horror, Marcy seems to take that as an invitation to join them, because she starts toward the door before frowning and shaking her head. She taps her watch as if to say Can’t, sorry, there’s somewhere I need to be, and continues on her way.
At the aghast look on his face, Elisha’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile.
“So you just want to pretend to date?” Ves asks, wondering if he should be intrigued or offended.
“God, no. It’s not about what anyone thinks of us. It just occurred to me last night that you and I are going to act on our attraction for each other sooner or later, and before that happens, maybe we should have the conversation about where this is going. So what I mean is: let’s actually date, but with a deadline.”
He’s catching on. “So it ends on our terms without either of us getting upset.”
“Exactly. To be perfectly candid, I know you’re leaving town in a few weeks, and we aren’t looking for the same things in the long term, so I’m not expecting our relationship to, like, turn into anything?” She ducks her head, looks at the paper menu like she’s actually reading the specials and doesn’t already know her order by heart. There’s a little tap-tap-tap below the table, like her boot is working overtime. “We’re already spending so much time together, and since we clearly have chemistry, it wouldn’t be such a leap to have a little holiday romance, or even just holiday sex, if you’re game. Just casual, no strings attached.”
Ves’s throat has gone from Saharan dry to feeling as if someone’s shredded his vocal cords into Christmas confetti. He’s never been propositioned like this before, all pragmatic and transparent. And definitely not in public, in broad daylight—well, broad cloudiness. Shit. Where’s the server with the water?
When they show up with ice cold glasses of water, Ves croaks out, “Scotch, please. Make it a double.”
“The second least expensive one,” says Elisha. “Sorry, but you’d be better off buying a bottle from the store. Don’t you know how much hard liquor costs at restaurants?”
He laughs weakly, gulping down water that does absolutely nothing for his stampeding heartbeat. “Yeah, I have some idea. Look, it’s not that I’m not, uh, flattered, but I’m not so sure this is a good—”
That seems to amuse her. “I’m not proposing marriage, Ves. I just don’t want to be alone over the holidays and I’m guessing that you don’t love it, either.”
No, I don’t, he thinks. And then immediately checks himself—where has that thought come from?
The server returns with his drink and asks if they’re ready to order.
“I’ll have the roasted chestnut soup with sourdough bread, not the whole wheat. And the grilled salmon with fig glaze,” Elisha rattles off.
“Same,” says Ves, relieved he doesn’t have to make a new decision while he’s still working through the old one. He takes a bracing sip of his scotch before he braves eye contact with Elisha. “Can I think about it?”
She tilts her head and regards him in a way that makes him suspect he’s just behaved in a way she finds entirely predictable. “Sure,” she agrees. “Just not too long. We don’t have forever.”
Luckily Elisha has the gift of gab and steers the conversation to small talk, which Ves usually detests but is now thankful for. The soup arrives, sweet and nutty, and the fish is delicate and flaky, grilled to perfection. He bites back the impulse to tell her that her lunch choice is excellent, because it may lead them both down the road of wondering what else she’s right about.
If he isn’t careful, he’s actually going to agree to date her just to get rid of this restless, agitated vortex of energy. Which he’s not going to do, obviously. And to drive it home, he stabs harder at his fish.
This should be an easy yes, so why is he hesitating? He dates girls, treats them well, enjoys their company—and that’s it. He doesn’t date exclusively and he’s always up front about that. The second someone doesn’t take him seriously about keeping it casual and their toothbrush magically appears next to his on the bathroom sink, he knows it’s time to bail out.
He doesn’t wonder what they’re doing when they’re not with him, doesn’t see something cool or funny or gross and immediately want to share it with them. It sounds bad, but once they’re out of his vicinity, he doesn’t think about them much at all. Getting emotionally involved has never worked out for him.
So what Elisha’s offering is, well, perfect. There’s no real reason to hesitate, and yet he can’t shake the feeling it’s his heart making the choice for him rather than his head.
They’re midway through their post-lunch coffee when Ves feels Elisha’s foot slide against his. “You hadn’t been to the Chocolate Mouse before yesterday, had you?” she asks, not moving her leg. She isn’t doing anything, just silently reminding him that she’s there, waiting for his decision.
His pulse trips. “No, I...”
The truth is, he’d been avoiding it. He can’t put his finger on why, though. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it every time he’s on Main Street.
The emporium is enchanting and welcoming, buttery-golden light spilling through the windowpanes and the wafting scent of cinnamon and sugar. No one is immune to its charm; even locals who must pass the store regularly pause in front of the gold-and-red spiral columns on either side of the front door, hesitating only seconds before ducking in. And now having been inside, he can understand the impulse. It’s the kind of place you never want to leave, and if you do, you want to return as soon as possible.
