An Ex for Christmas(25)

“That’s what the mistletoe test is for.”

“Uh-huh. And how are you planning to lure Chad Morrister, a fortysomething podiatrist, beneath the mistletoe over lunch.”

“Easy,” I say with a grin. “I’ve invited him over for lunch.”

“And you’ve got a bough of mistletoe?”

“Better.” I lean forward. “I’ve got three.”





Kelly Byrne’s Ex List: Version Four


Jack Chance

Joey Russo

Chad Morrister: Okay, so our breakup wasn’t quite as amicable or mutual as I thought. Turns out someone’s been holding a grudge that I “unceremoniously dumped him.” Whoops. And he has zero interest in “setting himself up for that sort of pain again.” Double whoops.

Onward.

Doug Porter, you’re up, and I’ve got a good feeling about you. . . .





December 18, Monday Afternoon


“And we need a little Christmas, right this very minute . . .”

I sing along with the song full blast, off-key and everything, as I wash the dishes and set them on the drying rack. My grandma never had a dishwasher installed, and I keep meaning to, but it just doesn’t quite seem to make sense since I don’t even live here full-time.

Plus I’m a pretty good dishwasher. The cooking, not so much, but I find cleaning sort of therapeutic.

I’m up to my elbows in suds when I hear Rigby’s happy bark and the heavy footsteps that so often follow it.

I glance over my shoulder and smile when I see Mark come through my back door. “Hey! Thought you’d be at the restaurant.”

“On my way. Just working the dinner shift today, not lunch.” He glances at my kitchen table, frowning a little when he sees the table that still has the two placemats. “I thought you and Ivy went out for coffee.”

“We did. The lunch setting was for Chad.”

“Chad?”

“Morrister,” I say, glancing over my shoulder again, as I set a serving plate on the rack and drop a pan into the water-filled sink to soak. “We dated—”

“I remember. And you . . . cooked?”

I laugh at his skeptical tone. “I made a chicken salad. Your recipe, of course, although please don’t tell my mother.”

I expect him to smile. Usually praise of his cooking at least gets me a half smile. Nothing.

“He still here?”

“Yeah. Stashed him in my bedroom,” I say, peeling off the rubber gloves I donned to protect my candy cane manicure.

Mark’s eyes flick up to the ceiling.

“I’m kidding. He went home.”

Mark moves to the counter, pulling a piece of chicken out of the Tupperware I haven’t put in the fridge yet. “Chicken’s overcooked.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how it went?” I cross my arms.

He points at the leftovers. “If you served him that, I already know how it went.” I throw the dish towel at him, and this time he does smile. “Fine. How’d it go?”

“Not great,” I say, stepping back and hoisting myself up onto the counter. “He seems to be a bit, um, bitter about the way things ended between us. I hadn’t seen that coming.”

“Really? You thought he’d be happy that you dumped him?”

“Well, no. Honestly, I didn’t think I dumped him. He was ten years older, you know? He was thirty-four and ready to settle down, I was twenty-four and still learning that shots on a Tuesday night are a bad decision. I thought I was doing him a favor when I suggested we weren’t super-compatible.”

“I take it he didn’t feel the same?”

“Well, let’s just say when he accepted my lunch invitation so readily, I thought it was because he might want to reconcile. Turns out, it was more to tell me all the ways his life has been better with me out of it.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “He was a very wounded bear, or whatever.”

“Not gonna ask what that means.” Mark walks toward the living room, pokes his head in. “No tree topper.”

“Still working on it.” I hop down from the counter and put the lid on the leftovers, even though I know I probably won’t eat them. Mark’s right, the chicken wasn’t great, and the rest of the salad’s even worse.

“You need something?” I ask, a little curious as to why he’s stopping by in the middle of the day.

Mark points at the dog. “Ate a chicken wing this morning. Right out of the garbage. Usually it just, um, moves through him. But the vet always says to keep an eye on him while it digests, and I’ve got to get to the restaurant.”

“Sure, I can stay with him for a couple of hours.” I bend down to pet Rigby. “But how long does it take? I’ve got plans tonight.”

Mark opens his mouth, and I get the feeling he wants to ask but realizes he doesn’t quite have the right. We’re close, but we don’t usually demand to know things about each other’s life that the other doesn’t volunteer.

Instead he merely nods. “Should be good by then. If not, Erika can swing by.”

I glance up. “Erika? Bartender at your restaurant Erika?”