Page 44 of Not Home Alone

“Can I bring you something to drink while you two look at the menu?”

“Actually,” Merrily says, looking across the table at me, “Baby’s Breath…?”

Baby’s Breath?

“Would you mind if I order for us?” she asks sweetly. “I think I know what we want.”

“By all means, Baby Carrot. Please do.”

“Thanks, Baby Grand.” Handing Gretchen back our menus, she says, “We’ll both have the special holiday schnitzel plate and the O Holy Flight of local brews with a pretzel board and a sausage sampler to start.”

I can’t stop staring at her mouth. The way my body’s responding to that mouth saying “sausage,” you’d think I was watching her shower. This attraction between us is like that damn reindeer statue in the living room. It repels me but I can’t stop staring, and I can’t bring myself to throw it away.

Is that true?

Not anymore.

If I’m being honest, now it’s more like the Christmas tree in the living room. Taking up space. Lighting up a dark corner. Fake, because that makes it easier to clean up and put away, but it looks real. And it’s not meant to be permanent.

Holding my hand up for Gretchen’s attention, I say, “I don’t suppose you have any single malt whiskey, do you, ma’am?”

I catch the look Merrily gives me. She shakes her head. Like I just requested a martini served on a platinum tray. I give her a look that says, What? I can be townsy and order good whiskey too. It’s not like I asked for Pappy Van Winkle.

“We have Jim Beam,” our server informs me.

“Perfect. Jim Beam, rocks.”

Gretchen winces, probably at the request for ice, but I need it to smooth out the rougher edges. “Beam and rocks. You got it.”

“On an empty stomach, Baby Shark? You sure?”

“I think I can handle it, Baby Einstein.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have a shot of Jägermeister then,” my date proclaims.

Ohhhh shit.

“Sounds good, Baby Corns!” Gretchen says with a wink as she turns on her heel.

“Jäger, huh? You going to a sorority Christmas party after this?”

“If that’s where you’re going, Baby Steps. Wherever you go, I go, right?” She gives me an exaggerated wink. “That’s what girlfriends do.”

“Right,” I say. Do I enjoy watching her blush and squirm around in her chair when I wink back at her? I do. I really, really do. “Especially fun girlfriends like you, Baby Back Ribs.”

My phone is vibrating in my pocket. I take it out, but only to turn off the notifications. There’s a text from my sister.

AVA: Could you not have kept it in your pants until Quinn wasn’t in the winery with me?! Someone sent her a video of you making out with Merrily in some restaurant and now she’s freaking out.

GRANT: Who sent her the video?

AVA: IDK. A visiting aunt of a friend of hers?

GRANT: I don’t see what she’s freaking out about since I told her I had plans with my girlfriend.

AVA: That’s cold, Grant. Even for you.

I don’t see what’s cold about the actual truth, but I’m not going to continue this text convo. The phone goes back into my pocket, and my attention goes back to my fake girlfriend. She’s doing that thing where she’s watching my every move but trying not to show she cares.