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Brooklyn is understandably puzzled.

“He mentioned he was going to see you the day after Christmas. I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.” I open the door that goes from Dixon’s kitchen into the garage. Brooklyn’s present is on the workbench. I hand it to her. “It’s heavy.”

“What is this?”

“Open it,” I tell her.

Brooklyn places it back on the workbench and wastes no time tearing the paper off the box. When she reaches inside, she falls silent.

“I saw you looking at one when we were shopping,” I explain.

“Carter—"

“Every writer needs an old-fashioned typewriter.” I believe this to be true. I have several vintage typewriters. I often sit down at one when I have writer’s block. “There’s something about the clicking of the keys and the ink on the page,” I tell her.

Brooklyn pulls me into a hug. “It’s too much.”

“It’s hardly as inventive as the birthday gift you gave me.”

“It’s amazing.”

I clear my throat. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it. I’m glad you gave it to me. It wouldn’t be the same accepting it from Jack.” She places a sweet kiss on my lips. It isn’t romantic—exactly. It isn’t chaste either. “Thank you.”

“You should probably get going.” I reach for the button that opens Dixon’s garage door. It occurs to me that for a place I like to avoid, I spend a lot of time at this house. Ali is always coercing me into helping Dixon fix something. I chuckle at the thought.

“Care to share what’s funny?” Brooklyn asks.

“I was thinking I spend way too many hours in Dixon’s garage.”

“I sense a story you haven’t told me.”

“More than one,” I tell her as the garage door opens. I hand her the gift. “Merry Christmas, Brooklyn.” I look down the driveway to see Drew strolling toward us. “You’d better go.”

Brooklyn hesitates. “I’ll call you,” she promises. “Merry Christmas, Carter.”

I watch as she reaches Drew. Brooklyn looks back at me. I can barely see her smile. My heart lurches. I take a deep breath. The cold air burns my lungs. Fitting. At least I know there is whiskey waiting for me in the house. I watch as the garage door rolls to a close. I’m not sure whiskey will be enough to warm me this time. “Merry Christmas, Brooklyn,” I say before stepping back inside the house. “At least one of us will be warm tonight.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

January 6th

It shouldn’t have surprised me when Brooklyn called to suggest we meet for dinner. She said she was tired of talking over text. Brooklyn spent the day babysitting. I guess she felt the evening called for some adult conversation. I admit, the thought crossed my mind that she might prefer to call Drew. I didn’t make that suggestion. Instead, I suggested a local British pub for dinner. It’s a bit selfish. I love to stroll down Main Street at holiday time. I also love a pint of Smithwicks and a plate of bangers and mash. Classy, I know. I also know Brooklyn will love the place. A bit of live music, a few pints, and the pub atmosphere might help keep my feelings in check. It also should prevent any suggestion of romance.

“I love this place,” Brooklyn says.

“Me too.”

“You love the beer,” Brooklyn surmises.

“Yes, I do.”

“I always thought you were more of a whiskey girl.”

“I am. Unless the beer is Irish, red, and on tap.”

Brooklyn raises her glass. “It is so much better on tap,” she agrees.