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By the time the last of the women tried and failed to get a date with him, they all wrote him off as either oblivious or gay. Either way, not somebody they were going to be successful with.
I don’t really care about that. Well, maybe I do since he’s gorgeous, and it feels like there are butterflies in my stomach whenever he looks at me. But more than anything, he seems sad. Lonely. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. I should know since I’ve been alone for a long time. But I’m not lonely, and I’m not unhappy. It makes me sad to think he might be.
I was extra careful with my hair and makeup tonight, but that’s just because I want to make a good impression. Not because I hope anything else will happen, even if there’s a big part of me that is kinda-sorta hoping it does. At least, I wouldn’t exactly be unhappy if it did.
A knock sounds at the back door at precisely seven o’clock, and I rush to answer it like he might disappear if I don’t get there right this second. “You didn’t have far to go,” I point out with a laugh, stepping aside to let him in.Seriously, that’s what you say?I give him a once over, trying my best not to stare. He looks good, more than good, in a gray turtleneck that sets off his thick biceps and barrel chest.
“It smells good in here.” I catch him eyeing the tree and can’t tell if he’s scowling because it’s in the way or because he thinks it’s stupid to have a Christmas tree in the kitchen. I guess it’ll be better for me not to ask since I’m not trying to start a fight and already feel myself bristling against what looks like disapproval at first glance.
“I told you, I’m not a bad cook.” I pull back the foil covering the ziti, and he whistles, which leaves me flushing with happiness.
“I haven’t taken a bite yet, but I’m pretty sure it beats a frozen meal any day of the week.”
“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?”
