Page 37 of Naughty-ish

I knock a second time. “If he doesn’t answer in sixty seconds, I’ll go back home.” I’ll pop this bottle of wine, retrieve my generous gift from Nick and take care of myself. I might even let that damn elf watch. Give him something to report to the man in red.

My breath mists in the cold night as I exhale and hang my head. Thoughts of Nick inside with someone else cross my mind. It’s possible and it hurts to consider.

Magical garden lights and a fundraising party do not make us a couple. We aren’t dating or officially anything other than neighbors.

The truth stings more than I like.

This is ridiculous. Turning on my heels, I prepare to leave his stoop when the front door flings open. Nick stands just inside. His feet bare. His hair damp. A tight tee covers his abs, but his jeans are low-slung and not completely buttoned as if he just tugged them on.

“Holliday?” His voice registers surprise while his eyes roam down my body, taking in my long jacket, my bare legs, and the impractical heels on my feet.

“You once mentioned your fireplace. I thought I’d have a look at how cozy it is.” My head is held high as one of the worst pickup lines tumbles from my mouth.

Nick’s lips slowly curl, and he steps back. “Yes. Let’s check out my fireplace.”

Once I step over the threshold, he closes the door behind me. “Can I take your jacket?”

“Not yet,” I say, using my coat as a shield. What am I even doing? “It’s chilly out there. Let me warm up a bit.”

Nick watches me, almost silently questioning: isn’t that what the fireplace will be for?

Still, he points me toward his living room. His home mirrors mine. The entry leads down a hallway to the kitchen. A partial wall offers the living room privacy from the hall. The fireplace is a focal point. Nick has a leather couch facing the open hearth with a flat screen over the mantel. A wooden chair sits in the corner near the front window, like a punishment seat or a place someone might read a book to children sitting on the floor. The furnishings are completely opposite from one another.

A Christmas tree fills another corner. Colorful lights illuminate the fresh evergreen, and ornaments in various shapes and sizes hang from what looks like a professionally decorated tree.

“Your tree is so beautiful.” The balsam fragrance is nearly intoxicating.

Nick steps toward the fireplace and flicks a switch, igniting a low flame. Soft flames crackle over the logs inside his fireplace. With the muted lights of his tree and the warm blaze, the room is cozy, romantic even.

And the hum beneath my skin won’t seem to settle, neither will the nervous chill running over my flesh.

Nick gestures to the couch, before saying, “I’ll be right back with some glasses.”

When he disappears into his kitchen, I step toward the built-in bookcases on either side of his fireplace, admiring a collection of well-worn hardcover spines. One shelf is an assortment of bright red bindings, the other a collection in green.

Concentrating on further investigating his bookshelves, pictures in silver frames line one shelf. Narrowing my gaze, I notice a man who—

“That’s my family,” Nick says behind me, and I jump, as if I was caught snooping. Which I was. “The man with the thick white beard is my father. My mother beside him. My older brother Saint, and my younger sister Kaye.”

“You don’t talk much about your family.”

Nick shrugs. “Not much to say. I’m kind of the black sheep as I didn’t stick around to work in the family business.”

He mentioned this once before, but he hadn’t told me what the business was. And it didn’t seem like he was willing to volunteer the information now.

In the picture, Nick and his brother are bundled up in heavy winter coats. His brother looks like him but with a beard that’s full of more fluff than black hair. The fur-lined hood over his head gives the brother a modern-day Santa look. Nick is wearing the same bright red cap he wore while putting up lights on my home. His younger sister is dressed in a slim-fitting ski outfit like she’s a professional skier or perhaps a model.

“You mentioned you grew up someplace very cold. Where exactly was that?”

“Up North.” The vague response has me turning toward him, and he offers me a wineglass. He taps his to mine. “Happy Holiday.”

Typically, I hate the sweeping generalization, especially as my name is in the wish. But the way Nick says the phrase, it’s as if he’s expressing two words, not a single phrase.

Happy. Holliday.

“Merry Christmas,” I respond in a voice ripe with anxiety.

Nick lowers to the wooden chair that looks too small for his broad frame. He sips his wine, peering over the rim at me then he sets his glass on the tile flooring before his fireplace.