“Very much.” He grinned again, looking light and happy. “Now, here. Try that perfectly non-emotional roasted chestnut you’re holding by way of reward, and tell me what you think.”

He indicated the roasted chestnut. I resumed peeling it then took a bite. To my surprise, the texture reminded me of a mushroom and it had a buttery flavor.

“And?” he asked, curious.

I made a face as I tried to determine what this reminded me of. “It tastes like . . . a sweet potato? Which wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Not as good as the Jammie Dodgers you left for me.”

“You got them!” He nodded and I felt a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “They were going to be my Christmas present to you, but you were leaving . . .”

“It was a bit of an eye-opener when I saw them. Astrid would never have thought of something like that, found something I liked, and brought it to me.” He watched me closely.

“I guess we Brown women like to use food as bait,” I said lightly, but almost at once realized that it was pretty forward and not at all like me.

I looked away from him, registering the blanket of snow around the courtyard. Which reminded me. “Why ‘almost’?”

He frowned. “Is this a Finley-ism? Where you start in the middle of a subject and expect others to understand?”

“Yep.” I nodded. “On your Instagram last night, you wrote ‘Almost perfect’ about the snow. Why ‘almost’? How isn’t this the perfect white Christmas you requested?” I indicated our surroundings.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. I shook my head. “Because I wasn’t with you.”

My eyes grew wide. For a moment I didn’t know what to say, I was too surprised, too happy. Then I told him the first thing in my heart. “I missed you last night. When it started snowing, I wished I could be with you, see your reaction, talk with you . . .” I bit my lip.

He relaxed and smiled and I wondered how I could have ever thought of him as anything other than the cutest boy I’d ever seen. “Then we are of the same mind,” he said. “Because I missed you, too.”

I leaned in closer. “I’m glad you came here, to Christmas for your terrible Christmas.” I said softly. Sincerely. “It turned out to be my favorite Christmas.”

“I have to confess something,” he said quietly, but with a hint of nervousness just below the surface. “I . . . I didn’t want to come here to Christmas merely because the website made it look impossibly charming.”

“You didn’t?” My voice was barely above a whisper.