I extend a hand to help him up, and he lifts his eyebrows at the offer. “You realize I’d be pulling you down rather than you pulling me up.”
My hand shifts until I’m giving him the middle finger, though I doubt he can tell with the gloves on. “I’m trying to be nice. Also, is it just me, or would that entire process have gone a lot faster without me?”
“Probably,” he admits with a grin, pushing to his feet without my help.
I extend my arms to the side so he has to take in the fact that I’m now completely covered in mud on one side. “I’m a mess.”
He looks pointedly down at himself. “So am I.”
“Yes, but—”
I break off, realizing that I’m about to give away the real reason I’d wanted to cut down the tree today as opposed to waiting until tomorrow, when it’s less crowded and when Mr. Gavelroy gives a discount on weekday trees.
“But . . .” Mark lets the saw swing from one finger and leans forward slightly.
I cross my arms. “Nothing.”
He smiles. “Bullshit.”
“What—”
“That was Joey Russo helping the Culvers attach a tree to the roof of their car, wasn’t it?”
Damn. “Maybe.”
“Uh-huh.” Mark gives the saw a little swing. “And you used to date him, right?”
“For a few months, junior year.”
He shakes his head. “I could have saved you the trouble. That’s not the ex who you missed out on keeping around.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he comes into the restaurant once a month and insists on slathering my ribeye with ketchup,” Mark snaps, moving toward the base of the downed tree and motioning for me to move toward the top.
I do as instructed. “Okay, so he doesn’t have great taste in food. But—”
Mark gives me a look as though to say this should be good.
I try to think of a defense for Joey, but I don’t really have one. Not only is Mark prickly about anyone “adjusting” his dishes with anything more than basic salt and pepper preferences, but he’s got a point. The steak at his restaurant is perfect as is, with delicious butter flavored with delicate herbs and just the right amount of red pepper flakes. Ketchup would ruin it.
He picks up the base of the trunk, and I reach down, fiddling with the branches until I can find a spot on the trunk that’s sturdy enough so I won’t risk snapping the top.
Together we hoist the tree to carrying position, and Mark whistles for the dog, who comes bounding through the bushes.
I groan when I see Rigby. His holiday sweater is now totally covered in brown mud. “Oh, baby. You’re a mess.”
“Sort of like his mom.”
I glare at Mark as I begin to walk backward. “If you knew I was here to see Joey, why’d you let me get all dirty?” I grumble.
Mark’s grin is all the answer I need.
He’d made me get dirty because I’d be seeing Joey Russo.
Saboteur!
“Oh well,” I say, keeping my voice deliberately light and breezy. “A little mud won’t matter much if I can get him into the gift shop.”
Mark gives me a sharp look. “Why’s that?”
“Didn’t you see it when we passed?” I ask innocently. “Big old piece of mistletoe right over the door. Couldn’t be more perfect for my mistletoe test.”
Mark’s grin vanishes completely, although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why that pleases me so much.
December 17, Sunday Afternoon
So, Joey doesn’t even recognize me.
I can’t figure out if that’s a good thing or not. I mean, I wasn’t the hottest girl in high school, but I wasn’t a complete train wreck either.
So either I’ve improved so much since then that he was like, “Damn, who’s this babe talking to me?” or I’ve deteriorated so much that he’s like, “Why’s this hag wasting my time?”
But here’s the kicker: I live in a small town, remember? It’s not like Joey and I have stayed besties or anything, but I just saw him a few months ago at his uncle’s retirement party.
And we talked.
Either he’s forgotten me since then or he didn’t remember who I was when we discussed the merits of bratwursts versus regular ballpark dogs.
You know what? I’m overthinking this. I’m going to just go forth as though I’m getting a glorious fresh start, a chance to put my best foot forward.
And lure him beneath the mistletoe.
“Oh right, Kelly. Hey,” he says, already looking bored with the conversation.
Hmm, this won’t do.
Maybe he’s more of a touch guy and needs a tangible reminder of, oh, say the time I let him get to second base after junior year homecoming.
“It’s sooooo good to see you,” I enthuse, going in for one of my trademark hugs.
And now you’re like, What the heck is a trademark hug?
Just take my word for it, I’m a really good hugger. Not one of those people who clings too long, but I give a good squeeze, and I’m not afraid to put my whole body into it.
I note Joey’s look of surprise as I wrap my arms around him. After a second—a long second—his arms wrap around me, but . . . well, let’s just say he doesn’t have a trademark hug, because I’m underwhelmed.
And when I pull back, I can tell that he is, too.
I catch sight of Mark over Joey’s shoulder, talking to a cute blonde. He catches my eye for the briefest of moments, lifts his eyebrows as though to say, How’s it going?, then turns his attention back to blondie.
Joey shuffles his feet awkwardly. Sensing he’s about to polite-excuse his way right out of this conversation, I turn a big smile on him.
“So, what have you been up to? How are your parents?”
True story: I adored Joey’s parents back in the day. Perhaps even more than Joey, if I’m being super-honest. His mom always had something delicious on the stove, and his dad was short, sarcastic, but really sweet.
“They’re good, really good. They’re, uh . . .” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Excited about their first grandbaby.”
“Oh, I didn’t know Sienna and George were expecting!” I say, referring to Joey’s older sister and her husband. I don’t know them well, but I see them at the restaurant on date nights quite a bit, and they always seem so happy. They’ll make fantastic parents.
Joey has a weird expression on his face. “No, ah . . . you remember Raina Joyner? A few years behind us in school? Like, six years? She went to Washington High?”
I blink. Ignoring, for a second, that if Raina is six years behind me in school, we didn’t attend high school at the same time, so um, no, doesn’t ring a bell.
Add in the fact that Joey and I went to Lincoln High, and that Washington High is thirty minutes away in another town . . .
“Hmm, I’m struggling to put a face with the name,” I say politely.
“Right. Anyway, she, uh . . . we, uh . . . we’re having a baby.”
It takes me an embarrassingly long time to understand what he’s so plainly telling me.
Joey Russo’s about to be a dad.
“I mean, my parents were kind of mad we weren’t married, but I’m getting to that. It’s why I’ve taken up a few extra shifts here at the tree farm . . .”