Page 28 of Moody's Grumpy Holiday

Right.

No, thank you. December was about survival…not coaxing a lover into my boudoir.

Besides, Hudson obviously had his own issues, and I suspected those issues were what made our unlikely “friendship” possible. I was a seasonal sad sack, and Hudson was, well…undetermined.

At the very least, he was a glutton for punishment.

Knock knock.

I opened the door and gulped at the sight of the sexy beast in a cowboy hat who was bearing the usual gift of soup. “I’m not sick anymore,” I announced.

He squinted, tipping his hat as he leaned closer. “Hey, what do you know? You look good.”

I blushed under the scrutiny of Hudson’s shameless once-over. “Thanks.”

“Vicki’s special today is butternut squash with rosemary bread. I had a bowl earlier and man, it’s delicious.”

“Well, okay. I’ll save it for later.” I ushered him inside and took the container as I pointed toward the living room. “You don’t have to stay, but if you do, don’t change the channel.”

This was where he’d politely bow out. He was too much of a gentleman to admit he’d reached his quota and someone else’s of classic game shows, but no…

“Hollywood Squares? I love this show,” Hudson announced, reclaiming his usual spot in the armchair next to the sofa.

We watched an episode ofHollywood Squarescirca 1975, chuckling at the blatant innuendo and Paul Lynde’s comedic genius.Family Feudwas next. As with every day this week, I figured the first notes of the theme songs would be his cue to bolt, but Hudson grabbed water bottles for both of us, crossed his legs, and settled in for a rip-roarin’ good time of guessing possible answers to questions like “Name a place with reserved seats,” and “Name something you put mustard on.”

“Hot dog,” I shouted at the television. “That’s the only possible response. Oh, and hamburger.”

“Bologna,” Hudson offered.

I wrinkled my nose. “Gross.”

“What’s so gross about bologna?”

“Everything. It’s a substandard lunch meat choice.”

“I know a lunch meat snob when I see one,” he teased.

“Guilty. I’m not a picky eater, but some things are off-limits. Like bologna.”

“Hmm.” He twisted toward me, setting his hat on the coffee table. “What’s your favorite food?”

“A warm poppy seed bagel with plain cream cheese. You?”

“Steak. Porterhouse, medium rare.”

I raised a brow. “How very caveman of you.”

“Guilty.” He waggled his eyebrows. It wasn’t particularly humorous, but I giggled. It was such an odd sound that I coughed around it and quickly wracked my brain for another topic to cover my curious behavior.

The first thing that popped to mind was…cheese.

“I’m partial to an English cheddar, and I will never, ever touch blue cheese.”

Hudson scoffed. “You’re nuts. Blue cheese is awesome. In fact, all cheese is awesome.”

I explained all the ways that his argument was subjective. Hudson staunchly disagreed. We were both intrigued by the popularity of charcuterie boards, and neither of us was fond of olives.

“They’re very…”