The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(24)

“Linzer tortes,” Crew says, examining one with a tree in the middle. “They were incredibly delicate and difficult to make. Lots of steps, and Pops was all about perfection. Not only did his cookies taste good, but they had to look good as well. He never allowed for a burnt edge or a cracked corner.”

“It’s why they were so popular on the farm. Tasty and pretty. Some might say they resemble me.”

Crew sets the ornament back down and chuckles. “The pretty is obvious, the tasty—well, I can’t comment.”

“Such a shame,” I playfully say, moving to the next stall, which is decorated in intricately carved pieces of wood. “Oh, wow, look at these.” I run my hands over handcrafted cheese boards. “The wood grain is positively beautiful.”

“I recall you making a cheese board for Pops once and him using it every day as a plate, not quite sure what it was.”

I laugh out loud and nod. “It went over his head. Not much of a charcuterie man, but he sure did love using that board as a lunch plate. Fit his sandwich perfectly.”

“Remember when he used to grumble about his grapes falling everywhere and he finally stopped taking them off the vine and instead would put the bundle on the board so they didn’t roll?”

“So many presidential swear words thrown around during the grape-rolling days,” I say.

We keep moving along, and the farther we walk, the more I see Crew’s shoulders creep up to his ears.

“Where’s your scarf?” I ask him.

“Didn’t bring one.”

“That wasn’t very smart, was it?”

“I’m lucky I remembered a winter coat,” he says.

Just then, I spot a stall selling hand-knitted items. I grab him by the hand and stand him in front of the stall. “I think it’s time we buy our first souvenir.” I pull down a gray knitted scarf and hold it up to him. “What do you think?”

Talking quietly, he asks, “Is it scratchy?”

I chuckle and remove one of my gloves so I can feel the yarn. “Yeah, a little.”

“I’d rather be cold.”

I hang it back up and pull down another gray one. This time, it feels extra soft. “Oh, this is nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. Very soft, and, hey, look, matching gloves. Hold up your hand.” He removes his large hand from his pocket and I fit the glove over it. “Shocking. They fit.”

He clutches his hand, testing out the glove, and slowly nods. “Yeah, this is nice.”

“You know why booths like this exist?”

“For suckers like me?” he asks.

“Precisely.” We turn toward the shop owner and hold up the scarf and gloves. “We’d like to purchase these, please,” I say.

“Twenty euros,” the man shouts over the noise of the crowd. What a deal. I reach into my purse, grab a twenty, and hand it over to the man.

“We don’t need a bag,” I say when the owner goes to hand us one. “Thank you.” I give him a wave before pulling Crew to the side and putting the remaining glove on his other hand.

“You know, I’m capable of putting on my own gloves.”

“Yeah, but I’m being a good friend.” I place the scarf over his head and around his neck. I tuck it into the collar of his coat and then take a step back to look up at him. “Ugh.”

“What?”

“Most everyone else when they wear winter gear look like puffed-up marshmallows walking around, but not you. You make winter look good.”

“You flirting with me, Haze?”

“Ha, you wish. Your chance at all this is gone,” I say, motioning up and down my body.

“Damn. Now I’m really regretting my choice to run away like a giant dick.” He pulls on his bottom lip with his teeth, and I swear a wave of butterflies hits me hard.

It’s hard not to be affected by anything Crew Smith does. He’s the epitome of an All-American boy. Tall, devastatingly handsome, athletic, funny, and has no problem with being affectionate. He’s been my rock for so long. He’s been the boy I’ve measured every other man against. No one will ever be as good as Crew Smith in my eyes and my heart. And even though he puts butterflies in my stomach, it’s his heart and friendship that matter more to me. Would I want to be with someone like him? Yes. But be with Crew? No. Our lives don’t intersect naturally, and I’d hate to lose his friendship again by pushing for something that can’t evolve. He was my solace. My safe haven. And I’m okay with that going forward. Even if he’s hot.

Turning a corner, I see the base of the large Christmas tree in the middle of the market. Towering over the stalls, it reminds me of the tree in Rockefeller Plaza, minus the skating rink below. Beautifully colored in white lights, its height almost seems impossible to capture in one picture, and the soft pine branches are a wonderful contrast against the ornate architecture of the Neues Rathaus Courtyard, which is Munich’s New Town Hall.

“Crew, we need to take a picture in front of the tree. Just like Pops and Gloria.” From my pocket, I take out the picture Pops included in the package and show it to him. “Same backdrop, different tree. It would almost be as if we’re taking the picture with him—just many, many years later.”

“Let’s do it.”