It’ll be a good holiday. It usually is. Simple, nothing fancy.

Me: I have no plans.

She responds almost immediately.

Amelia: Good. You should come over to my house.

I consider it. Will I be too exhausted? Grumpy company? By Christmas Eve I’m practically a zombie, and there’s something about the let down from all that pre-Christmas hype that leaves me in a near coma. Sometimes I even end up with a headache that only disappears after a good night’s sleep.

Me: What do you have in mind?

Amelia: I’ll make you dinner.

Me: Aren’t you at work right now? Won’t you be too tired to cook?

Amelia: I get off at three. We close early on Christmas Eve. And I would love to cook for you. Think of it as my Christmas gift to you.

Huh. Well, that sounds nice. And who am I to turn down a homecooked meal by a beautiful woman?

Me: Sounds good. I’ll come over later.

Amelia: What time are you off?

Me: Five.

Amelia: Perfect. Get here around 6:30 or so. I’ll try to have dinner ready by 7.

Me: I’ll be there.

I barely knock on the door and Amelia has it open, a smile on her pretty face as she takes me in. “You made it.”

“I said I would.” I hand over a bottle of wine as I enter her apartment. “For you.”

She examines the label as she shuts the door behind me. “Nice choice. Thank you.”

I don’t bother telling her I received the wine as a Christmas gift from a client of Sullivan’s. They handed out bottles to all of us employees as a gift. “I know you like your wine.”

“I do.” She heads for the kitchen and I follow her, inhaling when I catch a whiff of the delicious scent.

“What are you making?”

“Roast chicken and homemade mashed potatoes. Plus a salad and rolls,” she says, going to the oven and opening the door a crack so she can peek inside. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m starving,” I answer truthfully, enjoying watching her move about the small space with efficiency. I’ve never had her cook for me before, and she looks like she knows what she’s doing. Girls I’ve dated in the past weren’t that great in the kitchen. They’d rather go out all the time. Not that I need a little woman in the kitchen taking care of me, but it’s nice to have her fussing around the kitchen and making me a meal. Just like I’m sure she’d appreciate it if she needed my help with anything.

“You’re watching me like you can’t believe I can cook.”

I glance up to find her smiling at me. “I’m impressed.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, then make my way toward her. “I feel like you doing this is your way of showing you want to take care of me.”

She goes still the moment my hands land on her waist. “Maybe it is,” she admits.