Chapter 9
Violet
Simon’s parents’ place is decorated from the top of the house to the edge of the yard—lights twinkling, glittered snowflakes dangling. Santa’s reindeer are up on the roof, electric candles glow in the windows, and a giant wreath made of frosted pine branches welcomes people home.
We head up the steps to the porch and through the front door, and it’s like stepping out of one reality into a completely different dimension.
My life has been quiet lately. The chaos of opening the bakery highlighted exactly how quiet, but even that doesn’t compare to what waits for me on the other side of the Holiday’s front door.
A kid zooms past, zipping down the hallway with a dog and two more kids hot on his heels. Every room is filled with laughter or conversation. Someone’s arguing further into the house. Christmas carols are playing, and the smell of dinner and cocoa and wine...
It all slams into me like I ran into a literal wall.
I freeze just inside the door, causing Simon to bump into me.
He puts a hand on my lower back—a gesture both familiar and strange, welcome and unwelcome.
It grounds me and sends my pulse skittering through my veins at the same time.
He drops his hand to deliberately step in front of me, almost as if shielding me from the blast of sound and energy.
“Definitely a bad idea,” I whisper with a small shake of my head.
“I got you, Vi. Don’t you trust me?”
“I used to,” I manage. “Not so sure anymore.”
He bobs his head in resigned acceptance. “Consider this a rebuilding exercise.”
With a twinkle in those baby blues, Simon takes my hand, threading his fingers with mine, and leads me toward the kitchen. Memories flood through me as I remember years of Christmases here, in this house almost as familiar as my own.
Simon’s mom, grandma, and a couple women I don’t immediately recognize are bustling around the stove—stirring pots, setting out plates, all talking at once but miraculously following the conversational threads anyway.
“Mom?”
Without turning away from the pot, Daphne Holiday lifts a hand over her shoulder, waving her manicured fingers. “Could you hand me that can of tomatoes, Si-Guy?”
“You got it, Mom.” Simon drops me a conspiratorial wink, gives me the can, then places his hands on my shoulders and physically guides me to stand beside his mother.
I hold out the tomatoes and she takes them without so much as a glance my way. “Thank you.”
Incredulous, Simon looks at me and shakes his head. The glint in those familiar blue eyes resurrects feelings of playfulness and belonging. They flare to life in my belly.
Warm.
Welcome.
And oh, so needed.
“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Holiday,” I say, sweetly.
Daphne bobs her head, keeps stirring, and then—like she’s just now processed her son’s oddly feminine voice—turns to me with a question in her eyes that shifts into wide, open excitement. “Violet?”
She looks to her son, then to me, then to his hands on my shoulders. A knowing, meddling-mother smile spreads across her face. “It is incredibly good to see you.”
So much hides under those words I don’t even know where to begin, but I hug her because I love her and I’ve missed her dearly. When she releases me, Simon’s grandmother watches with the same meddling expression.
“When I said I didn’t think you could do much better than Violet,” Nana Holiday says, “I didn’t mean you needed to go out and fetch the young lady.”
Go out and fetch…? I cock my head at Simon, and he waves his hands as if to erase the moment, an adorable look of embarrassment pinking his cheeks. It reminds me of the day he asked me out, this kid who was always calm and in control a literal nervous mess, blushing and stammering.
The memory softens my heart.
A flurry of activity sounds in the other room—one group cheering, another exclaiming in aggressive disappointment. The women in the kitchen all shake their heads in unison, like they’re hooked into the same thought waves.
“Steve always did take Pictionary one step too far, didn’t he?”
“That he did,” Daphne says. She glances at Simon. “Why don’t you take Violet around and reintroduce her to everybody? Dinner will be ready when it’s ready.” She turns back to stirring her pot.
Simon dutifully introduces me to the relatives who remember me—each greeting a mix of nostalgia and warmth—before we end with his dad, who pulls me into a hug that nearly lifts me off my feet.
Afterward, Simon finds a quiet corner for us to escape the bustle.
We sink into a pair of armchairs near a TV flickering with the image of a crackling fire, the room filled with the scent of roast beef, sugar, and cinnamon.
Plates of food balance on our knees, wine glasses within reach, laughter rising and falling around us.
It’s cozy and chaotic in that distinctly Holiday family way—people shouting across the room, kids darting between legs, someone starting a carol in the wrong key—and yet, somehow, with Simon beside me, it feels like the most peaceful place in the world.
I turn to him, intent on thanking him for inviting me, but the words die on my lips.
His gaze is locked on mine, his lips pulled into a soft smile, but it’s his eyes that catch me… blue and wistful and glimmering with all the goodness I used to adore.
After a heartbeat, he breaks eye contact to take a long drink of wine.
“So, uh, the bakery looked good,” he says, like this isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened to either of us in some time.
I begin to thank him, but then he scooches to the edge of his chair and hits me with his “serious discussion” face. It’s endearing and familiar and somehow thaws a bit of the frostiness I feel towards him even as I brace for whatever comes next.
“Okay, so don’t hate me here,” he says, elbows on knees, brows furrowed, head tilted…
And then he just trails off, staring into space while his lips move ever so slightly like he’s practice-whispering what comes next.
“Simon?”
He blinks, his eyes focusing on mine, inhaling deeply before, “What was with those awful industrial drip coffee monstrosities?”
He looks completely taken by surprise by what he said.
And I get that.
Given the buildup, I thought we were headed into dangerous territory.
“You know coffee was Mom’s thing. Or yours. I’m just lucky to be serving the stuff.”
“I’m not sure ‘lucky’ is the word I’d use.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me, then. What word would you use?”
“You don’t want to know.” His eyes twinkle and his smile is playful and it feels so easy to be around him, like falling into old patterns, like finally something is easy after months of everything being hard.
“I’d blame New York, but you always were a coffee snob.”
A strange look passes over Simon’s face, but his mom arrives with a wine refill and another meddling smile, and the moment passes. A week ago, if someone had said I’d be eating dinner here, I would have laughed in their face. Today? I’m oddly grateful.
“Not to get all weird or anything,” I say, sitting back in the armchair and swirling the wine in my glass, “but it kind of feels like my guardian angel sent you to me tonight.”
“How so?”
The lights from the tree glitter in his eyes. His dark hair slips onto his forehead, and he rakes his hands through it in a way that sends my heart racing. Simon was always good-looking, but the years have sharpened his features. Strong jaw, long straight nose, full lips, high cheekbones…
My pulse kicks up in betrayal.
He shouldn’t still affect me like this.
“The thought of sitting in my house one more night was heavy on my shoulders. I didn’t realize it, though. It’s just the way my life’s been lately. But being here tonight, surrounded by all these people, and with you… it’s been good, Si. I think I’ve spent too much time alone. So, thank you.”
“Something told me you needed it.” His eyes hit mine and it’s like I’m seventeen again, falling into my forever. “It wasn’t even why I came over in the first place,” he finishes and I break eye contact by taking a long swig of wine, while my stomach flutters to life with butterflies.
Freaking.
Butterflies.
I want to hate it, but I can’t. Part of me will always feel this way about the man sitting across from me.
“Why did you come over tonight?” I ask, tucking my legs underneath me, more comfortable with every passing second.
Simon’s brow creases. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly serious again as he rubs a hand over his mouth. “You know—”
A herd of children races through the door, screaming and laughing as parents yell after them to stop.
Someone knocks into the tree, someone else catches it before it falls, and another voice shouts, “If you kids don’t calm down, there will be a serious discussion over who is and isn’t going on the ski trip! ”
“Ski trip?” I ask among a chorus of disappointed groans and promises of better behavior.
“Yeah,” Simon says. “That’s why everyone’s here. We’re all going to a resort in Colorado until after Christmas. Leaving tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
The word lands like a sucker punch. I sit back, bobbing my head, pretending it’s no big deal while every ounce of comfort drains out of me.
“Well, darn.” I paste on a smile that feels brittle even to me. “And here I was actually starting to enjoy having you around again.”
I’m aiming for playful, but my voice wavers just enough to give me away. Because the truth is, tonight was nice. Too nice. The kind of nice that almost made me forget that the last time we spoke, Simon walked away without looking back.
I shouldn’t be laughing with him. I shouldn’t be letting my guard down like this. The man broke my heart clean in half and left me to glue the pieces together on my own. And now here he is, sitting across from me like no time has passed, like he didn’t turn my whole world upside down.
So, I remind myself that, like Nora, Robbie, and Nash, Simon Holiday is a visitor, just passing through my quiet life.
I know that intellectually.
But the heaviness creeping back into my chest tells me how tired I am of pretending that goodbyes don’t hurt.
“Well, no, umm… They’re leaving tomorrow,” Simon clarifies, waving a hand to indicate the rest of his family. “I’m flying out to meet them… uh, later. I have some… things… to, uh… to take care of.”
Simon is a terrible liar. Always has been. When he gets caught up in something without a plan, everything in his brain goes haywire and nonsense comes out. He avoided the problem by telling the truth as a rule when we were younger.
Looks like that’s changed, because the man across from me?
Lying through his teeth.
His tells are all the same—biting his lip, tapping his knee, avoiding my eyes. The sight makes something inside me ache, because for all the years that have passed, he’s still him.
“Oh. Cool,” I say, then just because I want to watch him squirm, add, “What kind of things are you taking care of?”
“Business.”
And there it is. He bites his bottom lip. Crosses his ankle over his knee. Tries to take a drink from his empty glass, looks into it in shock, then at the bottom for who knows why, then offers a nervous smile. “I’m working on something.”
“Why did you fly down here in the first place then? Why not finish your work in New York, then meet your family in Colorado?”
Total panic flits across Simon’s face. His eyes dart back and forth, like he’s reading stage directions from a script, then a big, goofy, hard-not-to-love grin slides across his face. He leans forward and beckons me close. I mimic his posture.
“It’s a surprise,” he whispers. His grin is so boyish, so Simon, that my defenses crack. I want to stay mad. I do. But he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the world, and suddenly the air feels charged again.
“A surprise?”
Simon bobs his head and presses a finger to his lips. “A secret surprise.”
“For who?”
“Can’t say. You do know what ‘secret’ means don’t you?” His eyes twinkle, his smile grows, and while I swear he’s still lying through his teeth, I’m suddenly less sure. He seems cool, calm, pleased with himself even.
Looking at him, I can’t help but smile, which only makes him smile more.
He leans closer and I catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, warm, familiar. His hand finds my cheek, and I shouldn’t let it. I should pull back. But I don’t.
Because it feels too easy. Too right. Too much like home.
His eyes meet mine and he cups my cheek, thumb blazing a trail across my cheekbone. It’s a gesture so familiar, so comforting, I lean into him, the part of me that will forever love Simon Holiday suddenly aching.
The distance between us closes and his lips press to mine. I inhale sharply, surrounded by the scent of him, warmed by the feel of him, melting closer, lips parting. He tastes of wine and feels like a thousand perfect memories and… and one awful one.
Suddenly my throat is thick and tears prick at my eyes.
I pull back, blinking quickly, hoping he can’t see. But of course he does. I could never hide anything from him.
“Simon…” I manage.
“I know, Vi. I shouldn’t have done that. I was just…”
“Caught up in the moment,” I finish for him. “Me too.”
“But it’s not a moment we should let happen again.” Simon’s statement sounds more like a question.
He’s still cupping my cheek, still so close and so familiar and suddenly it’s not just the part of me that still loves him that’s feeling butterflies in the stomach.
It’s all of me.
“Probably not,” I whisper. “Too many goodbyes already.”
Understanding dawns on Simon’s face and he presses a kiss to my forehead before sitting back and poking the air like he’s pushing in a pin.