Free Christmas in Bruges by Meadow Taylor Page B

on the lasagna, Paula could see the woman was completely charmed.
    â€œWe’re open Christmas Day,” she said. “I’m cooking a traditional English Christmas dinner with turkey and all the trimmings. If I have to cook for the family, I might as well cook for my customers.”
    â€œPerfect!” James answered for them both.
    Would they really be celebrating Christmas together? She chided herself.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just enjoy this moment.
    â€œThis is amazing,” James said, taking a bite of his dessert. “We’re going to have to walk it off after.”
    â€œSure,” she said. She needed to walk off the alcohol too. The brandy was definitely tipping her over the edge.
    The owner turned up the music, and the group around the bar joined Dan Fogelberg in singing “Same Old Lang Syne.” James joined in singing too. She knew the song, of course. Old lovers meeting on Christmas Eve, only to find themselves unable to get past what had separated them in the first place. A preview of the evening ahead? She hoped not.
    â€œDo you still play your guitar?” she asked.
    â€œI still fool around on it sometimes. It kept me sane in Afghanistan.”
    â€œI always loved listening to you play. You have such a great voice too.”
    â€œYou always were my biggest fan,” he said, his smile going straight to her heart.
    James insisted on picking up the tab, and with everyone around the bar wishing them a Merry Christmas, she followed him into the snowy night.
    â€œWhich way?” he asked, his breath coming out in white puffs.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. It’s all wonderful.”
    â€œThen let’s start with that bridge,” he said.
    No one had been that way for a while, and the snow on the bridge was postcard perfect. She was admiring it when James suddenly leapt onto the parapet, where he took a couple of steps along the narrow snowy surface. “Dare me?”
    â€œOh my God, James!” Paula shouted. “Get down!”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou’ll slip and fall! Don’t you remember when you tried to walk across the parapet of the Gapstow Bridge in Central Park?”
    He jumped down with a laugh. “Of course I do! I just wanted to see if you remembered.”
    â€œYou’re terrible,” she said, hitting him playfully on the shoulder with her mittened hand. “You were lucky the pond was frozen that day.”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t,” he protested. “I hit my head on the ice and had to go to the ER. I had a concussion.”
    â€œYou did not have a concussion. You didn’t even see a doctor. We waited for three hours before you decided we should go for beer instead.”
    â€œAnd it cured me instantly, as I recall.” He grabbed her mittens and pulled them off.
    â€œNow what are you doing?” she protested.
    He dangled her mittens over the side of the bridge. “What was his name?” he demanded playfully.
    â€œWhose name?”
    â€œYour boyfriend’s name, of course. The one who dumped you this spring.”
    â€œHe didn’t dump me. I dumped him. Though that sounds so adolescent—”
    â€œOkay. But what was his name!”
    â€œJimarco.”
    â€œJimarco? What kind of a name is that?!”
    â€œIt’s Jamaican. I called him Jim.”
    â€œJim, huh? From a James to a Jim. Sounds like you traded down. Like from a Mercedes to a Honda. No, not a Mercedes. I think I’m more in the Lamborghini league of men. Or is it like switching to light beer? Beer but without any flavour. James Light. Jim, the flat, boring version of James.”
    â€œStop!” she said, laughing. “That’s not fair. And give me back my mittens!” She grabbed the end of his scarf, and he grasped his throat and pretended he was being strangled. They were drunken college kids all over again. They were going to wake the whole city. So much for
Silent night,