Page 42 of Holiday at Home
Finally, I settle on a black sweater, black slacks, and dress shoes. I grab my peacoat just in case, though I doubt it’ll be cool enough to need it. As I’m heading for the door, my phone buzzes again.
Just a single question mark from Gavin.
I’ve been pretty much radio silent on him since the last time we talked. Considering the pace he’s used to, I’m moving glacially. He’s sure to be confused. But he’s one of my closestfriends in New York. My mentor. I briefly consider talking to him about what’s going on, because let’s face it, I desperately need to talk this out, but there’s something off-putting about that solitary question mark. Something that forces me to admit I’m further along in my decision about Holiday Jitters than I realized.
Wow.
There’s a strong chance I won’t be returning to New York in January.
I definitely need to start working toward a plan.
But not tonight. Tonight is about me and Violet.
The drive to her house is quick. I take the porch steps two at a time and knock, calmer than I’d expect. Violet answers, and my breath catches. She’s beautiful, her russet hair pulled back with soft tendrils framing her face. A fitted, emerald green sweater hugs her figure—a figure I haven’t been able to get out of my head since this morning—and tight black jeans tuck into black suede ankle boots. Silver earrings dangle next to her jaw, glinting in the light of the setting sun.
A slow smile works its way across her lips. “See? Magic. You can’t tell me you don’t time your arrivals.”
“Whatever magic is happening, Violet, it’s standing right in front of me.”
And inside me.
And all around me.
Maybe this is the reason I avoided Stillwater Bay for so long. I knew that all it would take was one look at her and I’d never want to leave again.
I take Violet’s hand, dropping a kiss on the back of her palm, then wait for her to lock up the house—she doesn’t double and triple check the lock this time, interesting—then help her into the car.
“Where are we going?” she asks as I pull out of the driveway.
“It’s a secret.”
“Judging by your clothes, I’m assuming we won’t be inside. Otherwise, sweaty, grumpy Simon will reappear in that sweater. And since you look slightly formal, I’m thinking Dana’s Diner is out of the question.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to look nice for you. That’s what you do when you have a beautiful woman on your arm. You dress up to meet her level.”
Violet blushes, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips before she turns her focus back out the window. The soft glow of the dashboard paints her face in gold, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. We drive in silence for a stretch, the kind of silence that hums with things unsaid. I navigate us out of Stillwater Bay proper and toward the old lighthouse on the bay near the palm grove.
As we turn onto the narrow coastal road, Violet swivels toward me, her eyes sparking with recognition. “We’re not going to Stillwater Point Light, are we?”
Her joy is infectious. I can’t help smiling as the road curves and the lighthouse comes into view, its white tower rising against the twilight sky. When we were younger, the place was abandoned—paint peeling, glass cracked, the kind of spot we’d sneak into when we wanted to feel dangerous. Me, Violet, Robbie, Nora. Sometimes Cal Monroe tagged along. Once, Russ Calder came, and that was a mistake. The guy could drain the joy out of a theme park. But now the lighthouse is reborn. A local family bought it, renovated the keeper’s cottage into a restaurant, and somehow turned the whole place into magic.
Or so says the quick internet search for local romantic evenings I made earlier.
“We are so going to Stillwater Point Light,” I respond with a smile.
Violet’s entire body brightens. She wiggles in her seat like a kid on Christmas morning. “I’ve heard they have the absolute best menu, and the view is spectacular. And the palm grove… they’ve decorated the whole place with lights so it’s like a magical Christmas fantasy village. Oh, Simon, I’m so excited!”
I park, and Violet slips her arm through mine as we head up the path. The tower gleams above us, string lights spiraling all the way to the beacon at the top, a golden helix against the darkening sky.
“How did they even do that?” she whispers, her head tipped back, wonder etched on her face.
Lights drape between palms, heavy with red bows and wreaths. The keeper’s cottage glows warm and welcoming, its windows fogged with condensation, while behind it, the bay stretches toward the horizon, silver and violet under the last streaks of sunset.
Violet spins in a slow circle, her boots crunching against gravel. Then she stops, her gaze landing on me. “I’ve wanted to come here ever since they renovated. And somehow you knew exactly where to take me…” Her voice dips. She shrugs, the movement small, vulnerable. “Thank you, Simon. That’s all I can say. Thank you.”
Her sincerity plants a ball of emotion in my chest. I squeeze her hand, then cup her face, before kissing her forehead and whispering, “No, Violet. Thank you.”
Inside, the restaurant smells of pine and roasted garlic. We’re led to a table by a wide window where the bay glimmers below. A candle flickers between us, reflecting in Violet’s eyes. Pine garlands drape across wooden beams, and soft Christmas music plays overhead, Nat King Cole crooning about chestnuts and holiday cheer.
