Page 40 of Holiday at Home
This giant horse laugh lurches out of my mouth before I clap a hand over it.
“Does this amuse you, Violet?” Simon dips his hand into the flour. “I amuse you?”
“Very much,” I respond and grab a towel to help clean him off when a floof of white hits me in the face. I blink in shock. “Did you just throw flour at me?”
Simon smirks, laughing. “Actually, I do see why that’s amusing. You look very funny.”
“Be careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.” I reach into the flour for a fistful and Simon grabs my wrist, slowly working it behind my back, stepping into my space.
His eyes are on mine, then his gaze drops to my lips. My body riots to life, aching and yearning and begging for him to kiss me, touch me, take me, but then he giggles.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You have flour in your eyelashes.”
And then I’m giggling too. “You have flour in your… everywhere. Simon, it’s everywhere.”
We clean up and get back to the task at hand. Work passes quickly and easily. He’s a perfect assistant in the kitchen and runs the front end with that same soothing efficiency he bringsto everything—composed, grounded, decisive. Being able to relax into his strength is… peaceful.
We move as if we’ve worked together forever. There’s ease and efficiency, dancing around each other like we choreographed our battle plan the night before. When Roger Clementine stops in—looking more like Santa than ever in a bright red sweater with jeans tucked into black boots—he pulls up short.
“I heard the rumors you two were working together again,” he says, then trails off as he takes in our sweaters. He throws his head back in laughter, actually clutching his belly, which dutifully shakes like a bowl full of jelly. If little Nash could see what was happening, he’d believe Roger was Santa for the rest of his life. Because let’s be real, even I’m starting to have questions.
“That’s great,” he says, still shaking his head. “Those sweaters, man. The two of you make quite the pair. Hoo!”
Simon meets my eyes with a wry smile that says,He’s not wrong.
I flare my hands in total agreement.
By the time we close, rather than being exhausted and ready to crawl into bed, I feel energized and enthused. I find myself wishing every day could be like this. We step out into a chilly evening, and Simon actually shivers.
“I knew my Simon was in there somewhere!” I cry and he frowns.
“I’m still your Simon.”
“But you’re not. Years have passed since you were mine. You have stories I haven’t heard and know people I haven’t met.” I shrug sadly. “You sweat because you’re wearing a sweater in December. My Simon thought a Florida winter was cold.”
There’s a moment of quiet as he processes my words and I turn my back to him to lock the door, my mind serving up a series of disastrous responses to my sudden burst of honesty.
He’ll realize we were never meant to be and book his flight to Colorado.
I’ll never see him again.
He’ll go back to New York, to his real life, and all the color will bleed out of my mine.Again.
I huff a sigh and try to put the anxiety away, but one last voice speaks up, louder than the rest:
Those thingswillhappen. That isn’t fear speaking. It’s reality.
“Violet,” Simon says, his voice serious and soft.
I turn slowly and don’t understand the intensity in his eyes. “Let me take you to dinner tonight.”
“After all you did for me today, I owe you dinner, not the other way around. Since your car’s at my place, we can just order in?—”
He places his finger to my lips. “I’m taking you out, so you can hear all my stories and I can hear yours. Then there will never be any doubt that I’m still your Simon.”
Something in the way he’s looking at me has my breath hitching.
Something has hope springing to life that maybe, our reality isn’t carved into stone.
