If I’m completely honest, the cupcakes are the clincher. They’re dangerously addictive. Like nicotine, or heroin, or cocaine—none of which has ever been an addiction of mine. Hence the reason I hastily agreed to spend an entire day with Blaire and her family when I know very little about her.

If nothing else, this should prove to be an entertaining day. Blaire is…a lot of personality. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. I’m still trying to figure her out and I guess now I’ll have the opportunity to do that.

I put a note on the front door of The Knight Cap apologizing for the closure today, and indicating we’ll be open again tomorrow, which is when I notice a sign on the empty building across the street. “Is that new?” I ask Blaire. She’s busy inspecting all the framed photos of my grandparents that line the wall opposite the booths. I’m sure they have new meaning for her now that she knows the story behind them.

“Hmm?” She drags her gaze away from a black-and-white photo of Gramps and Grams when they were young—younger than I am now.

I point across the street. “Looks like someone finally leased that place. I wonder what’s opening there.”

She crosses over to where I’m standing. “It’s a big building. Wasn’t it a law office before or something?”

“I think so, yeah?” It’s changed hands a number of times over the years.

“So it’s probably something similar, which will be good for both of us.” She tips her chin up and looks at me. “More business professionals to cater to.”

“Let’s hope that’s what it is, then.” More patrons means The Knight Cap has even greater potential to do well.

“Should I follow you back to your place so you can change, and then we can head to my parents’ place?”

I look down at my old white T-shirt and my sweats. “Probably a good idea. Not sure sweats are appropriate for much other than the gym and lazy days at home.”

Blaire takes down my address so she can follow me to my place. It’s not far from the pub. Making her wait in the car is rude, so I invite her up to my apartment.

It feels weird to have her in my personal space. Although, honestly, the only thing I do here lately is sleep.

“Wow. I don’t think it gets more man cave than this,” Blaire says as she takes in my loft apartment. It’s not huge, but it’s comfortable.

“It’s just me.” I’m not sure if I should be defensive about her assessment or not.

“I can see that.” She runs her fingertips along the edge of the distressed wood table I rarely use. I’m not here enough to entertain, and eating dinner alone at a table meant for six is kind of depressing. Mostly I eat at the bar, or on rare occasions when I’m not in a rush, in front of the TV.

“Let me guess: Your place looks like a unicorn vomited a rainbow of happiness all over it?” Mostly I’m poking fun at her.

She laughs. “You would be guessing wrong.”

“So you don’t have eleven million throw cushions with inspirational phrases on them?” I toe off my shoes and toss them by the door.

“Ahh, just ten million or so, and only a few have cute unicorns farting inspirational phrases.” The way she rolls her shoulder back and her narrow-eyed glare tells me everything I need to know.

I’ve totally hit a nerve. I don’t know why I enjoy needling her as much as I do. Maybe because she’s so prone to reacting. “I bet your place is decorated for the holiday. All sorts of cute pumpkin stuff everywhere, a papier-mâché turkey centerpiece that you made at some workshop on your dining room table.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “I don’t have a dining room table.”

“But you have a papier-mâché turkey?”

“I had several construction paper ones when I was a child. I probably would have kept them for all eternity if my parents hadn’t thrown out my box of homemade crafts when I was a teenager in the name of decluttering.”

I file that little piece of information away, feeling like she’s told me a secret she didn’t intend to. “Pumpkin, then?” I press.

I can tell it irritates her that I can read her so easily, but all anyone has to do is step foot inside Buttercream and Booze to see how much she loves the holidays. “Ceramic, not papier-mâché.”

“And you painted it yourself?”

“Maybe.” She pokes me in the shoulder. “Enough with all the questions. It’s an hour and a half drive; you’ll have loads of time trapped in a car to make fun of me.”

“Right. Yeah.” I’m not sure what a long ride in a car together is going to be like. “I’ll just change real quick. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I leave her to wander around my apartment while I change. She doesn’t seem the type to snoop, but you never know. Considering Blaire is wearing one of her dresses complete with festive holiday print, I decide a pair of black casual pants, dress shirt, and plaid tie are appropriate. I don’t bother with contacts since my eyes already feel gritty from lack of sleep.

I find her in my living room, staring up at a collage of family photos. “Ready to roll?”

She turns her head slowly, her expression soft. “I’m so sorry.” She reaches up and adjusts the wooden picture frame, and suddenly her apology makes sense. That was the last family photo we took, and the phrase “In loving memory” is etched into the matte in silver letters.

It’s never level, always listing to the right because the frame itself is unbalanced. I refuse to change it, though, because it was one of my first woodshop projects, and my dad and I worked on it together. It’s old and cracked and a whole lot ugly, but it’s a memory I can’t let go of. I nod and swallow around the lump in my throat. “Oh, uh, thanks. It was a long time ago.” But on days like this it feels like it was yesterday, not a decade ago, that they passed.

“How old were you when you lost them?” She presses her hand to her chest. “You don’t have to answer that if it’s not something you want to talk about.”

“It’s okay.” I jam my hands in my pockets and clear my throat again as I step up beside her. “I was twenty.”

She blows out a slow, tremulous breath, her smile sad. “That must have been so hard. It looks like you were close.”