Page 39 of Holiday at Home
Despite my very real knowledge that I need to sleep, I don’t do much of it. My mind is too busy reeling over the what ifs and now whats attached to working with Simon. Some of the scenarios it comes up with are tragic and treacherous, but not as many as I’d expect. He just makes me feel safe. There’s less to worry about when he’s around.
After my alarm goes off, I stumble through my morning, tired but wired as I dress and make coffee. Will today be hard? Fun? Easy? What will it be like, working with Simon Holiday? Will it be like living the old dream? Will it make it harder to be cool with an us that’s only short term?
Distracted by thoughts like those, I grab my keys and yank open the door, only to yelp in terror when I find Simon directly in front of me, hand lifted, poised to knock.
I jump back, dropping my keys as I press a hand to my heart.
Simon also jumps, something clutched under his arm dropping to the floor.
“Oh my goodness gracious, Simon!”
“You scared the crap out of me, Violet!”
“I thought we were meeting at the bakery.”
We both bend. Simon grabs the package he dropped and goes to hand me my keys. Our fingers brush, and I meet his eyes—beautiful, wonderful, familiar… but not. A stranger I can’t wait to get to know dressed in the smile of my first true love.
“We were,” he says, placing the keys in my hand and straightening. “But I picked up a little something for us and thought it would be better to give it to you here rather than there. Also, I was excited and didn’t want to wait.”
I stand aside, gesturing for Simon to come in. “You keep spoiling me like this and I might not let you go back to New York.”
“Careful,” he says as he steps by, “because I might not want to.”
It’s too early to know if either of us is joking, so I laugh lightly and stand awkwardly, unsure what to do. Simon places a package in my arms, wrapped in red and gold paper with the wordsMerry Christmasemblazoned across it in multiple fonts. Without much thought, I tear into the gift. Inside are two of the ugliest Christmas sweaters I’ve ever seen—one large enough for him and one small enough for me.
“What are these?” I laugh as the wrapping paper falls to my feet, hitting the ground like a whisper.
“As it is my solemn duty to brighten your life and lift your spirits, I thought, what better way than to give our customers a reason to laugh?” Simon takes the larger sweater from my hand and holds it against his chest. “I thought we’d wear them today, in honor of us working together.”
“I firmly and fully support this idea,” I say. “Come on, let’s change.”
With a smile, Simon slips his shirt over his head, exposing a surprisingly muscular chest and stomach. I try not to stare,really I do, but he’s pretty, it’s early, and I am only human. I also try not to notice the way his lips curve into a smile when he catches me staring, but then he yanks the sweater over his head and the moment’s over.
“Done.” Simon spreads his arms wide, then spins in a circle so I can take in the full glory of the sweater. It has 3D effects with knitted antlers hanging limply from his chest, an ornament dangling from one like an earring, and a big red puffball nose. Neon green geometric snowflakes traipse down the arms.
“That right there is glorious,” I say, meaning the sweater—but also just him in general. I almost excuse myself to a different room to change, but am struck by the strangest desire to tease him the same way he teased me.
And whether it’s because it’s early…
…or I’m a bigger flirt than I thought…
…or I just feel safe with Simon…
I surprise us both by yanking off my shirt and letting it fall to my feet, where it crashes into the wrapping paper like I dropped a bomb rather than a top.
Simon’s eyes go wide. His nostrils flare. He rakes his hands into his hair, then glances away.
“Violet…”
I pull my sweater over my head and hit him with my most innocent look. “What?” I ask sweetly, like something about the way he reacted didn’t make me feel wanted, desired… bold and powerful. “You seemed fine to do it. I just thought…”
I shrug, then glance down at my sweater and break into laughter. Mine has a goofy snowman with a ridiculously oversized top hat. It’s holding up its twig fingers in a peace sign with a misshapen wooden sign behind sayingMerry and Bright.
“We are quite the pair,” I say because Simon’s been too quiet for too long. When I meet his eyes, there’s something in his gaze I’m not prepared for. Longing. Heat.Want.
But then he blinks, laughs, and the moment’s over. We step into the quiet of early morning and walk to the bakery hand in hand, speaking in whispers out of respect for the newness of the day. By the time we arrive, Simon is sweating. By the time we’re done baking, he has the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows and is swiping at his glistening forehead.
“How are you not boiling?” he asks as he presses a lid onto a giant container of flour. Somehow, it slips and a puff of white floofs into the air, clinging to his damp face and hair. He stares, his oh so blue eyes wide and somehow bluer and I literally guffaw.
