Chapter 13
Violet
“One peppermint mocha. A pair of fuzzy socks. A holiday candle. A bag of those nummy peppermint candies that melt in your mouth…” I trail off, looking at the row of hand-drawn cards lined up on my mantle.
“Every morning for the last week and a half, there’s something new, Nora.
I don’t think he means anything by it. It’s just Simon being sweet.
But every time I see another card, I can’t help but hear the lyrics he didn’t write in my head.
‘On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…’”
“True love, huh?” Nora teases. Her tone is gentle, but I can tell her inner guard dog is bristling.
“Like I said, I don’t think he means anything by it.”
Except every time we’re together, that feels less and less true. And Simon doesn’t do anything without thinking it through from every angle at least twice.
At least, that used to be true.
This new version of Simon does seem a tad more impulsive.
“Then why did he kiss you?”
Good question.
“Old habits?”
“Maybe I can give you that one, but I still get hung up on why he suddenly delayed the ski trip with his family.”
“That I can’t tell you. He said it had something to do with business.” But something about that answer, while perfectly plausible, rings false. He also said he was only waiting a couple days to join them… those couple days have passed several times over now.
“You know I’m glad you’re not alone,” Nora says. “But please be careful.”
“I will be. We both know he’s leaving again. I’m not setting myself up for anything. It’s just… nice having him around. After how hard everything’s been lately, I decided to be okay with that.”
“I can’t argue with you there. I mean, I didn’t think you’d ever get the tree up. And I can hear life in your voice again. I just don’t want to see you hurt again.” She muffles the phone, then: “What’s that, Nash? You want to say hi? Okay, go ahead.”
A little voice comes on. “Has Santa Claus come back to the bakery?”
I laugh. “You mean Roger?”
“Sure,” Nash says, drawing out the word with a six-year-old’s skepticism. “Let’s call him Roger.”
“He has. I actually see Roger every day. He said to tell you hi.”
“Mommy, did you hear that?” Nash’s voice is muffled but excited. “Santa said hi to me!”
Nora comes back on the line, laughing. “You just made his decade.”
“That’s fine because he definitely made mine. That’s hilarious. I’ll tease him about it when he’s all grown up.”
I end the call and glance around my festive living room, suddenly hyper-aware I don’t want to be alone. I pick up my phone, pull up Simon’s contact, and hit send.
“Well, if it isn’t Violet Sterling,” he says when he answers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have a mantle full of cards and gifts that need repaying.” I pick one up, cradle the phone with my shoulder, and trace the lyrics with my finger.
…my true love gave to me…
“That’s the funny thing about gifts, Vi. They don’t require reciprocation.”
“Maybe if the person you’re giving to is an asshole.
” I set the card back in its place and pick up an old family picture, wiping the dust off the glass and smiling at the memory.
Nora and I were twelve, all gangly legs and goofy grins.
Mom and Dad took us to the pier for a music festival and we spent the whole day in the sun, eating greasy food and giggling over boys.
A stranger offered to take this for us at the end of the day, Mom’s head on Dad’s shoulder, Nora and I in front of them, grinning. Happy.
“You’ve apparently never given gifts in New York,” Simon says, snapping me back to the present.
“And thank goodness for that, if that’s how it works.
” I set the picture down and adjust the phone to my other ear, prepping myself for my next question.
“I wondered if you’d want to come over, so I could repay you with baked goods.
Sugar cookies this time. One catch though, we’d have to bake them together. ”
My heart pounds as I wait for his answer. You’d think my life hangs in the balance instead of just a quiet evening in with an old friend.
What if I pushed too hard too fast?
What if he misunderstood my motives?
What if he doesn’t consider me an old friend?
What if I’m an inconvenience instead?
What if…?
What if…?
What if…?
“You know what, Violet?” Simon sighs heavily. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Well, hell. The anxiety was right for once.
“Oh yeah, of course.” I go for breezy and fail miserably. “I totally understand. Yeah, it was just a thought but—”
“I’m kidding. Just kidding,” Simon cuts in. “I’d love to come over and bake cookies with you. I mean, what man wouldn’t jump at the chance? It’s a very masculine way to spend the evening.”
“Laugh all you want, but at the end we get to eat sugar cookies.”
“Plus, the company is good.”
And suddenly I’m smiling again. “There is that. So… is that a yes?”
“That, my dear, is a hell yes.”
I end the call and stand there, grinning to myself in the living room.
Nora’s right. Getting involved romantically with Simon is a bad idea.
He has to go back to his big, fancy life in New York at the end of the month.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.
Just because our relationship didn’t work the first time doesn’t mean a friendship is impossible.
We’ve grown. We’ve aged. We can keep in touch.
In fact, it’s healthy, right? We meant a lot to each other, once upon a time. Having him in my life again feels like something important has clicked back into place, like I’m whole again.
That can’t be a bad thing.
It just can’t.
I won’t let it.
I race upstairs, fuss with my hair and makeup, then—on a whim—yank off the black T-shirt I’ve been wearing and slide into the red and white Christmas tree sweater Mom bought me last Christmas. Simon wants color and bright. He’ll get color and bright.
A knock sounds at the door, and I bound downstairs, almost tripping over myself in my enthusiasm. When I throw open the door, Simon’s standing there with a wide grin on his face, holding up a plastic bag with takeout containers.
His hair looks tousled, like he just ran his fingers through it. A blue henley stretches tight across his chest and pops the colors in his eyes. The sunset gleams behind him, casting long glorious shadows, and I swear I hear a choir of angels singing.
“If I didn’t know better,” I say, leaning against the doorframe to appreciate his beauty, “I’d think you did it on purpose.”
Simon cocks his head, dark hair falling playfully into his eyes. “Did what on purpose?”
“Every time you’ve come over here, you’re standing there with the sun behind you, perfect magic hour lighting, smiling, confident, handsome. I think you time it that way.”
He puts a hand to his chest. “Aww. You think I’m handsome?”
“That shouldn’t surprise you. I’ve always thought you were handsome.”
“You thought young Simon was handsome. Don’t know what you think about old Simon.”
“Let’s just say the years have been kind and leave it at that. Now come on in and show me whatever’s in the bag because it smells delicious.”
We wander into the kitchen and Simon unpacks several generic Styrofoam containers, then opens one of the lids to reveal a patty melt and fries.
“I took a chance here. But after stopping at the Dana’s Diner truck at the tree-lighting ceremony, I’ve been craving one of these. Remember? We spent so many nights there, I think they considered creating a plaque with our names on it for our table.”
Those nights are emblazoned into my heart.
Core memories. Simon and I discovered Dana’s Diner the summer before he left for college.
We were both eighteen, flexing our new adult boundaries, and spent almost every night there.
We’d eat sandwiches and cheesecake, drink coffee and talk into the wee hours of the morning about all the magic our future would bring.
“Hmmm,” I say, drawing my brows together and chewing on my bottom lip. “I actually don’t remember that.”
“You are so full of it, Violet Sterling.” Simon widens his eyes and shakes his head, looking so much like the young man I used to know that I can’t help but laugh.
“Hey, that’s what you get for your little joke on the phone.”
I almost say all’s fair in love and war, but catch myself in time. I wouldn’t have meant anything by it…
…but still.
We eat, talking about everything and nothing—the past, the present, while carefully avoiding the future.
“By the way, digging the sweater.” Simon crams a giant bite into his mouth and chews around a smile.
“Yes, someone really smart told me once that inviting color and energy into my life could be a good thing. Turns out, he was onto something.”
“Bet he likes hearing that.”
“Shame I’ll never tell him, though. His ego is way too fond of being right.”
We finish dinner and open a bottle of wine.
Simon cleans up while I set out ingredients for cookies.
I move quickly and efficiently, using a recipe that’s been in the Sterling family for as long as anyone can remember.
Simon leans against the counter, arms folded, chin in hands while he watches.
Normally, I’d feel uncomfortable under so much scrutiny. But with Simon? It feels natural.
“You make it look so easy,” he says as I bring the dough together.
“It’s just sugar, flour, and butter. Literally anyone can do it.”
“Yeah, but not like you.”
Something in his voice has me blushing.
“I’ll show you how easy it is. I told you on the phone; we’re making these together.” I shove the bowl toward him and set out a sheet pan. “So, what are they gonna be? Snowmen? Christmas trees?”
“What about smiley faces? Those are basically just circles right?”
“Oh, come on, you can do so much more than circles.”
I show him my stash of cookie cutters, but Simon goes his own way, claiming freeform is the best form as he shapes the dough like it’s modeling clay.
We pop the cookies into the oven, laughing as I prep icing.
When we pull the first batch out, his cookies have melted into blobs, truly showing us the meaning of freeform.
Once cooled, we start decorating and Simon narrates his attempts like a slightly drunk Bob Ross.
Icing goes everywhere as he gestures wildly and I can’t stop laughing as a slash of red icing lands on his nose.
“Simon,” I say, breathless. “Hold still. Let me help.”
He cocks his head. “Help? My masterpieces don’t need help.”
I swipe the icing off his nose with my finger.
He catches me by the wrist, eyes glimmering—warm and safe.
There’s a moment of silence, of breath held, of both yes please and please don’t.
Then he slips the tip of my finger into his mouth and sucks off the icing.
In that moment, every promise we made, every butterfly in my stomach, every reason I ever loved Simon Holiday floods through me. My resistance softens.
His arm slides around my waist. He pulls me close and I melt into him, our faces just inches apart in this moment outside of time, of past and present colliding, swirling together like a baker dragging a toothpick through icing.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with want.
I shake my head, chest heaving, eyes closing. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The space between us shrinks. His lips find mine, and his hand slides into my hair as our bodies press together.
Fabric rustling, breath hitching. I part my lips so our tongues can dance and it is everything it’s always been and so much more.
A new twist on a favorite melody. There’s a yearning and knowing and completing and the ache in my heart is soothed.
Instead of crying, why?
It simply sighs, yes.
I slide my hands under his shirt, fingers kneading the strong cords of muscle along his back.
A soft moan rumbles from his chest. His hands grip my hips, lifting me onto the counter.
There’s the clatter of glass against metal as baking utensils collide.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more.
He feels like the answer to every question, the solution to every problem. He always was, he always will be.
And then—
The oven timer blares, shrill and insistent.
We both jerk, startled, then laugh breathlessly. Simon presses his forehead to mine, our mingled breaths still ragged, but the spell is broken.
“Guess the cookies are ready,” he murmurs, voice low, wry.
I slide down from the counter, smoothing my sweater, trying to gather myself. “Saved by the bell.”
But the warmth in his eyes makes it clear—we’re not out of danger. Not even close. I pull the cookies out of the oven and set the tray on the rack to begin to cool, buying myself time to cool down as well.
Simon wraps an arm around my waist, his front to my back, kissing the top of my head. I lean into him, closing my eyes, enjoying the closeness and contact.
“Go out with me?” he murmurs. “Tomorrow. I can meet you when the bakery closes and we’ll walk to Town Square. They have their Christmas Market Fair. We can wander around and window shop like we used to.”
I wait for the litany of anxiety to go off with a thousand ways that idea could go wrong and am greeted only by silence. So I nod, smiling softly to myself.
“I’d love that.”
I lean back into him. He feels warm and strong and solid, like everything that’s been missing in my life. What’s wrong with letting myself enjoy it while I have it?
Simon steps away and I turn to face him and when my eyes meet his, storm-thrashed gray meeting calm clear blue, my heart twists over what I see there.
A tantalizing blend of affection and desire.
“It’s late,” he finally says.
“It’s not that late,” I counter.
“You have an early morning. It’s important you get enough sleep.” He cups my cheek, his thumb caressing my cheekbone. “I’ll meet you outside the bakery after close.”
I nod, leaning into his touch like frost giving way to the first touch of dawn.