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W ith her injured right leg resting on the booth seat and her ankle supported by a pillow, Ginny had no choice but to appreciate the intricacies of Nico making them coffee.

His rolled-up sleeves and unbuttoned collar gave her the best view yet of the muscles in his arms and neck, which flexed, loosened, and flexed again as he opened cupboards, searching for her mugs and French press.

She was having such a good time, she “accidentally” told him the wrong location for the French press, forcing him to bend down and reach inside a lower cupboard that faced away from her.

The pièce de résistance was the cute face of concentration he made while pressing the grounds through the hot water.

He glanced over at her, and she averted her eyes. It wasn’t her fault there was a Chippendale dancer performing as a barista in her kitchen!

“How do you take it?” he asked.

She fake grimaced in embarrassment. “Oddly.”

He shifted his feet, jutting out a sexy hip. “I figured that .”

After providing him a detailed set of instructions, he brought her a half-filled mug, a cup of ice, and a spoon. Then he joined her at the opposite side of the table with his own mug.

Dumping in her ice and stirring, Ginny gestured toward his mug of plain black coffee. “That’s the way Monique drinks it.”

He took a sip. “This is probably the way half the population drinks it.”

Ginny nodded. “Half the population is like you and Monique.”

He set his mug down lightly. “And .000001 percent of the population is like you, which is why civilization, as we know it, exists. Now, you have some deep revelation to tell me about myself?”

Ginny downed half her cooled coffee in one gulp. With luck, the caffeine jolt would help her navigate the tricky conversation she’d initiated. “I’ll put it bluntly, because that’s what I do, but I don’t mean it bluntly, okay?”

He squirmed a little in the booth seat. “Okay.”

“I think you have shame connected to this house, either shame or a deep, deep sadness, or both. Some part of you, most likely an unconscious part, thinks you can erase it by erasing the house.”

Ginny waited for a reply, but Nico sat staring at her, unblinking. A range of emotions seemed to cross his features as his eyebrows lifted in surprise then lowered in anger, then relaxed.

Finally, he spoke. “Do you remember the photo where we’re all on the front porch, including my dad?

It’s the only family photo in existence where he doesn’t look like a trapped and miserable tiger.

That’s why I wanted the album so badly. I figure there had to have been a good side to him somewhere. That photo is the only proof.”

She could hear the long-ago heartbreak still reverberating in his voice. “What happened to him?”

He shook his head resignedly. “I’ve no idea. A few days after that photo was taken—Christmas day to be exact—he walked out for the last time.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He stared unblinking out the window as if he were once again watching his father walk away from the family down that very front path. She half expected to see his father’s receding form reflected in Nico’s black-glass pupils.

“I wasn’t sorry,” he said finally. “Him leaving was at the top of my Christmas wish list that year. That sealed Santa for me. I’ll always be a believer.”

“I see,” Ginny said, nodding slowly as she took this in. “But you’re not your father.”

“Aren’t I? All my life people told me I was ‘just like my dad.’ They never told my brother that.”

She shrugged. “Maybe you look more like him?”

He laughed ruefully. “We’re identical twins.

And anyway, they’re right. Vince is happily married, but I get bored easily in relationships, and I end up hurting people.

When I do date, I'm up front that it’s only for fun and won’t be long-term.

For my honesty, I’m labeled a player, which is exactly what he was. But that’s not what it is for me.”

Ginny let out a sharp little laugh. “Ha! I’m never more than two seconds from being bored out of my skull, so I can respect that. Was it hard on your mom when your dad left, or was she glad too?”

“It was hard. If she hadn’t had Vince and me, his leaving would have killed her. She tried not to show it, but we all knew, especially around Christmas. That was the worst time of year for her. All my young life, I thought it was all my fault for making my wish.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Yeah. I'm still not a big fan of the season. I try to travel overseas to some country where there isn’t fake snow and reindeer in every shop window.”

He sipped at his coffee, not looking at her, and Ginny sensed he’d come to the end of whatever it was he felt prepared to tell her. She finished off her mug and set it down with a clink. “About you borrowing the album?—"

His eyes re-animated as he caught her gaze. “I wouldn’t need it for long. A few hours.”

She shook her head. “No, of course you can take it. It’s yours. Heck, burn that photo of your dad if you want. Burn the whole album. No, I was just wondering—are you planning to show it to someone? Your brother?”

His face flushed, though she couldn’t tell if it was out of embarrassment or sadness. “My mother. She has dementia. I read that seeing old possessions can help a person to remember things. It’s been several visits since she recognized me and…”

Ginny reached over the table to touch his hand briefly. “I understand. But if you think seeing old fuzzy pictures of her house could jog her memory, how about bringing her to the real thing?”

“What?”

“I mean, I’ve already gone and decorated her house like a Ye Olde Placard Homestead re-enactment. Why not immerse her in the very past you want her to remember?”