Chapter 16
Violet
Despite my very real knowledge that I need to sleep, I don’t do much of it.
My mind is too busy reeling over the what ifs and now whats attached to working with Simon.
Some of the scenarios it comes up with are tragic and treacherous, but not as many as I’d expect.
He just makes me feel safe. There’s less to worry about when he’s around.
After my alarm goes off, I stumble through my morning, tired but wired as I dress and make coffee. Will today be hard? Fun? Easy? What will it be like, working with Simon Holiday? Will it be like living the old dream? Will it make it harder to be cool with an us that’s only short term?
Distracted by thoughts like those, I grab my keys and yank open the door, only to yelp in terror when I find Simon directly in front of me, hand lifted, poised to knock.
I jump back, dropping my keys as I press a hand to my heart.
Simon also jumps, something clutched under his arm dropping to the floor.
“Oh my goodness gracious, Simon!”
“You scared the crap out of me, Violet!”
“I thought we were meeting at the bakery.”
We both bend. Simon grabs the package he dropped and goes to hand me my keys. Our fingers brush, and I meet his eyes—beautiful, wonderful, familiar… but not. A stranger I can’t wait to get to know dressed in the smile of my first true love.
“We were,” he says, placing the keys in my hand and straightening. “But I picked up a little something for us and thought it would be better to give it to you here rather than there. Also, I was excited and didn’t want to wait.”
I stand aside, gesturing for Simon to come in. “You keep spoiling me like this and I might not let you go back to New York.”
“Careful,” he says as he steps by, “because I might not want to.”
It’s too early to know if either of us is joking, so I laugh lightly and stand awkwardly, unsure what to do.
Simon places a package in my arms, wrapped in red and gold paper with the words Merry Christmas emblazoned across it in multiple fonts.
Without much thought, I tear into the gift.
Inside are two of the ugliest Christmas sweaters I’ve ever seen—one large enough for him and one small enough for me.
“What are these?” I laugh as the wrapping paper falls to my feet, hitting the ground like a whisper.
“As it is my solemn duty to brighten your life and lift your spirits, I thought, what better way than to give our customers a reason to laugh?” Simon takes the larger sweater from my hand and holds it against his chest. “I thought we’d wear them today, in honor of us working together.”
“I firmly and fully support this idea,” I say. “Come on, let’s change.”
With a smile, Simon slips his shirt over his head, exposing a surprisingly muscular chest and stomach.
I try not to stare, really I do, but he’s pretty, it’s early, and I am only human.
I also try not to notice the way his lips curve into a smile when he catches me staring, but then he yanks the sweater over his head and the moment’s over.
“Done.” Simon spreads his arms wide, then spins in a circle so I can take in the full glory of the sweater.
It has 3D effects with knitted antlers hanging limply from his chest, an ornament dangling from one like an earring, and a big red puffball nose.
Neon green geometric snowflakes traipse down the arms.
“That right there is glorious,” I say, meaning the sweater—but also just him in general. I almost excuse myself to a different room to change, but am struck by the strangest desire to tease him the same way he teased me.
And whether it’s because it’s early…
…or I’m a bigger flirt than I thought…
…or I just feel safe with Simon…
I surprise us both by yanking off my shirt and letting it fall to my feet, where it crashes into the wrapping paper like I dropped a bomb rather than a top.
Simon’s eyes go wide. His nostrils flare. He rakes his hands into his hair, then glances away.
“Violet…”
I pull my sweater over my head and hit him with my most innocent look. “What?” I ask sweetly, like something about the way he reacted didn’t make me feel wanted, desired… bold and powerful. “You seemed fine to do it. I just thought…”
I shrug, then glance down at my sweater and break into laughter. Mine has a goofy snowman with a ridiculously oversized top hat. It’s holding up its twig fingers in a peace sign with a misshapen wooden sign behind saying Merry and Bright.
“We are quite the pair,” I say because Simon’s been too quiet for too long. When I meet his eyes, there’s something in his gaze I’m not prepared for. Longing. Heat. Want.
But then he blinks, laughs, and the moment’s over.
We step into the quiet of early morning and walk to the bakery hand in hand, speaking in whispers out of respect for the newness of the day.
By the time we arrive, Simon is sweating.
By the time we’re done baking, he has the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows and is swiping at his glistening forehead.
“How are you not boiling?” he asks as he presses a lid onto a giant container of flour. Somehow, it slips and a puff of white floofs into the air, clinging to his damp face and hair. He stares, his oh so blue eyes wide and somehow bluer and I literally guffaw.
This giant horse laugh lurches out of my mouth before I clap a hand over it.
“Does this amuse you, Violet?” Simon dips his hand into the flour. “I amuse you?”
“Very much,” I respond and grab a towel to help clean him off when a floof of white hits me in the face. I blink in shock. “Did you just throw flour at me?”
Simon smirks, laughing. “Actually, I do see why that’s amusing. You look very funny.”
“Be careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.” I reach into the flour for a fistful and Simon grabs my wrist, slowly working it behind my back, stepping into my space.
His eyes are on mine, then his gaze drops to my lips. My body riots to life, aching and yearning and begging for him to kiss me, touch me, take me, but then he giggles.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You have flour in your eyelashes.”
And then I’m giggling too. “You have flour in your… everywhere. Simon, it’s everywhere.”
We clean up and get back to the task at hand. Work passes quickly and easily. He’s a perfect assistant in the kitchen and runs the front end with that same soothing efficiency he brings to everything—composed, grounded, decisive. Being able to relax into his strength is… peaceful.
We move as if we’ve worked together forever. There’s ease and efficiency, dancing around each other like we choreographed our battle plan the night before. When Roger Clementine stops in—looking more like Santa than ever in a bright red sweater with jeans tucked into black boots—he pulls up short.
“I heard the rumors you two were working together again,” he says, then trails off as he takes in our sweaters.
He throws his head back in laughter, actually clutching his belly, which dutifully shakes like a bowl full of jelly.
If little Nash could see what was happening, he’d believe Roger was Santa for the rest of his life.
Because let’s be real, even I’m starting to have questions.
“That’s great,” he says, still shaking his head. “Those sweaters, man. The two of you make quite the pair. Hoo!”
Simon meets my eyes with a wry smile that says, He’s not wrong.
I flare my hands in total agreement.
By the time we close, rather than being exhausted and ready to crawl into bed, I feel energized and enthused. I find myself wishing every day could be like this. We step out into a chilly evening, and Simon actually shivers.
“I knew my Simon was in there somewhere!” I cry and he frowns.
“I’m still your Simon.”
“But you’re not. Years have passed since you were mine. You have stories I haven’t heard and know people I haven’t met.” I shrug sadly. “You sweat because you’re wearing a sweater in December. My Simon thought a Florida winter was cold.”
There’s a moment of quiet as he processes my words and I turn my back to him to lock the door, my mind serving up a series of disastrous responses to my sudden burst of honesty.
He’ll realize we were never meant to be and book his flight to Colorado.
I’ll never see him again.
He’ll go back to New York, to his real life, and all the color will bleed out of my mine. Again.
I huff a sigh and try to put the anxiety away, but one last voice speaks up, louder than the rest:
Those things will happen. That isn’t fear speaking. It’s reality.
“Violet,” Simon says, his voice serious and soft.
I turn slowly and don’t understand the intensity in his eyes. “Let me take you to dinner tonight.”
“After all you did for me today, I owe you dinner, not the other way around. Since your car’s at my place, we can just order in—”
He places his finger to my lips. “I’m taking you out, so you can hear all my stories and I can hear yours. Then there will never be any doubt that I’m still your Simon.”
Something in the way he’s looking at me has my breath hitching.
Something has hope springing to life that maybe, our reality isn’t carved into stone.
Somehow, I manage a quiet, “I’d like that.”