“Asian Star,” he said. “And it was nothing. If I’d known you were such a good cook, I would have added a clause in the contract requiring you to cook for me.”

“You didn’t have to,” I said. “I’m happy to cook for you whenever you want.”

“There’s an open-ended commitment,” he said. “Speaking of commitments, how is the contract going?”

“Our contract?”

“The Mistletoe Promise,” he said.

I wondered why he was asking. “I think it’s going very well.”

“So you’re glad you signed?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said.

We decided to watch television as we waited for the last of the pies to bake. I turned the lights out, and we sat next to each other on the couch. I handed Nicholas the remote, and he channel-surfed for a few minutes until we came to It’s a Wonderful Life on PBS.

“Let’s watch this,” I said. “I love Jimmy Stewart.”

“And that Donna Reed,” Nicholas said. “That is one low-maintenance woman.”

“Like me,” I said.

He smiled. “Just like you.”

I must have been exhausted, because I don’t remember falling asleep next to him. Actually, on him. I woke with my head on his shoulder. I jumped up.

“You’re okay,” he said.

“The pies?” I said. “I didn’t hear the buzzer.”

“I got them out. They look perfect. Marie Callender herself would be proud.”

He turned off the television, then walked me to my bedroom. I sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing my forehead and yawning. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll just let myself out.”

“Nicholas,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Are you glad you signed the contract?”

He smiled, then came up next to me and kissed me on the forehead. “I’d do it again.”

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER

Thirteen

It seems a long time since I remembered all I have to be grateful for. Perhaps that’s why it’s been such a long time since I’ve been really happy.

Elise Dutton’s Diary

Thanksgiving arrived with a heavy snowfall, and I woke to the sound of plows scraping the road. Around nine the snow stopped, and the roads were clear by the time Nicholas arrived at two. Traversing a slippery sidewalk, we carried the pies out to his car, laid them on lipped cookie sheets on his backseat, and drove off to Thanksgiving dinner.

“Tell me about the Hitesmans,” I said as we drove.

“You’ll like them. Good people. Scott is one of those small-town boys who made good.” He turned to me. “He grew up in Burley, Idaho, working the potato fields. Went to Yale for law. The firm picked him up out of college.”

“What’s his wife’s name?”

“Sharon. You’ll love her. She’s one of those people who’s always baking bread for the neighbors or visiting people in the hospital.”