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“You don’t do a lot of cooking for yourself?”
“Nope, I’m not good at it. I leave it to the professionals.”
“Everybody has their own strengths. Would you mind opening that bottle of wine for me? The corkscrew is—” Before I can point him to the correct drawer, he opens it and pulls out the corkscrew without saying a word.Weird.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you.” The idea that he’s been curious about me leaves me blushing again. “What’s with the Christmas obsession?”
He doesn’t exactly sound complimentary, but I laugh it off, anyway. “I mean, it’s right there in my name. Noelle. It would be a shame if I didn’t love Christmas.”
“There’s loving Christmas, and there’s…you.”
I almost choke on my saliva. “Are you offended?”
“No, don’t get me wrong. I was just curious.”
“When I was younger, I always dreamed about having big, splashy holidays.”
“That wasn’t possible when you were younger?” After pouring two glasses of wine, he takes a seat at the table while I pull out the bread from the oven and slice it.
“I grew up in foster homes. There was never a lot of money—even when there was, I wasn’t one of the family’s real kids, you know? The nicer couples would make sure I had a few things under the tree, but it was never the same as it was when there were biological kids in the picture.”
“So you decided you would do it right when you got old enough?”
“Exactly.” I plate us both up some salad, then add a big serving spoon worth of ziti to both our plates. “I look forward to it all year long.”
“Hmm.” That’s his only reaction as I slide the plate in front of him. I wish I could read this guy. I want to ask why he doesn’t seem to care about the holiday, but I don’t want to offend him. There’s a strange energy about him. I can’t put my finger on why he comes off so forbidding.
“How is it?” I can’t help asking.
“It’s… very good.” He offers a brief but promising grin before taking a huge bite of ziti. What’s the old saying? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Even though I’m not trying to find my way to his heart, it’s nice to be appreciated.
That tiny grin gives me courage—or it’s the wine. “So, how about you?”
Mistake. Big one.“Me?” There’s that sour look I’ve come to recognize.
But screw it. We’re in my kitchen, and he’s eating my food, and I’m curious. “You’ve lived next door for months, and I don’t know anything about you.”
“I prefer it that way.” He glances up from his plate to find me staring. “I like my privacy.”
“I like privacy, too. But there’s a difference between privacy and being deliberately evasive when somebody’s only trying to be your friend.”
He sets down his silverware, his jaw twitching. “Did I say I wanted a friend?”
I feel the heat in my cheeks. ”Who doesn’t want friends?”
“Me, clearly.”
“Why? What’s so bad about having a friend?”
“Are you always this disgustingly pushy?” He stands, his palms on the table.
I stand, too, shaking with disappointment that’s turning to anger. “Are you always this rude?”
“Yeah, I am. Now you know something about me.” He shoves his chair back. “Thanks for the ziti; it was good until you decided to stick your nose in my business.”
“No way.” I throw myself in front of the door. “You don’t get to come to my house and be a rude dickhead.” The air around us sizzles with angry energy.
“I’m rude?” He sounds shocked. “When you insist on ignoring boundaries?” He folds his arms, nostrils flaring. “Get out of my way.”
