9. Willow
9
WILLOW
I stop drinking, although I didn't dream up Dimitri. Somehow, something tells me that being imbibed around him would be the next terrible idea in a long list of bad ones associated with him. They say alcohol makes people honest, and the last thing I need is a loose tongue around him.
But he truly does keep his distance, which should make me feel...nothing. I should be indifferent to anything regarding the guy. He's indifferent to me. He's married, for Christ’s sake. That makes him officially not my problem. Still, I can't deny I'm disappointed. It seems like I'll always be fucking stupid when it comes to him, doesn't it?
But he doesn't speak to me again that night, although he certainly watches me.
I can't quite make sense of the looks. It's different from the way he used to look at me, like he didn't quite know what to do with me—send me to an asylum or spank me again. Clearly, I would have preferred option two. Now, it's more intense. Decisive. Although I have no clue what he's decided, really. Given the fact that he leaves me alone, he probably chose to have nothing to do with me.
The next morning, I'm still pondering all of it when someone rings the doorbell.
As a self-employed person, Anne's already out the door, working at her bookshop, and Lucy's hungover—judging by the way I saw her drag her feet to grab a water and Tylenol an hour ago—so although I'm not waiting for anything, it's up to me to get up. I sigh as I throw a robe over my PJs and drag my ass off the sofa. My company, like Lucy's, is shut down today to give us all a long weekend, so I intended to lie down for as long as possible.
It's a food delivery, and it smells fucking delicious.
"Thank you," I mutter, palming my pockets for change, but I'm not wearing normal pants.
"The tip's been taken care of, miss," he assures me with a smile.
I note that he's not wearing any of the usual bright jackets with logos delivery guys tend to done. In fact, he's incredibly well-dressed for a takeout dude.
The smell of baked something and bacon hits my nostrils as I accept the large, warm brown parcel.
I'm green with envy as I shout, "Lucy? Your food's here."
I'm not nearly as bad as her; each of the tiny flutes was about a third of a regular wine glass, so I had less than three glasses. I don't think Lucy ever stopped, taking another sip every time the admin director glared at her, or one of her colleagues came to compliment her, with well-meaning "barely recognized yous" like they’ve never heard of dresses or make up.
I was vaguely considering making some greasy food for both of us. It looks like she acted on the idea before I could bring myself to start moving. At least the package is quite hefty. There's likely enough for both of us.
I don't take it for granted that my roommates share their food with me, but we do tend to eat together when we're all around at the same time. If I'm making something, I make enough for the three of us. Still, I wouldn't just assume I can help myself.
Lucy's hair's all over the place as she peeks from her door. "Food? I didn't order any food."
I blink, redirecting my eyes to the package. Could the delivery guy have the wrong address? Unless Anne sent us something. She's certainly kind enough to want us fed, but if I'm honest, I wouldn't think Anne would be the kind of person to send breakfast. She just doesn't tend to think much, her head generally in the clouds, either still on a book she's read, or thinking about ways to improve her bookstore.
Once I pay attention, I see there's a card stapled to the brown paper bag. I flip it, wondering if it'll have the name of Mrs. Maple from next door or Mr. Perkins downstairs.
There isn't.
Instead, in a rushed but handsome cursive—controlled, each letter the same width and length, the Ts and the Qs exactly as long—are the words:
Willow,
We never finished our conversation. If what it takes for you to spend the holidays with your family is me being gone, just say the word. I don't have to be there. You do.
I'm guessing you're a little worse for wear this morning, so here's a pick me up.
- Dima
PS:You looked like you thought I'd tell you off for drinking. I was sipping vodka at eight years old, petal. Relax.
I blink several times, my eyes zeroing in on the signature—a large D, and a few letters scrunched together. Dima. That's what Cam calls him sometimes. When he slips. I can't imagine ever calling him that. Dima sounds cute. Young. Safe. All the things Dimitri Volkov isn't.
In the kitchen, I open the package and hear Lucy gasp behind me.
Calling this breakfast would be an insult.
On a three-tiered tower made of cardboard, but just as fancy as a real one, is a veritable feast. Pancakes with fruit and cream on the first shelf, bite-size sandwiches on the second, then cakes. The bag also contains a mix of herbs in an unlabeled tin, with the words detox herbal tea handwritten in marker.
"Tell me you're sharing. Please?" Lucy shamelessly begs.
I snort. "There's enough food for five. Of course I'm sharing."
In truth, I loathe parting with a single bite. It's that good. A simple breakfast shouldn't taste this amazing. I have to ask where he had it made.
"Note that I am politely refraining from asking who sent you all that, and instead waiting for you to fess up," Lucy tells me, when we've finished the warm pancakes and moved on to the sandwiches.
Honestly, despite the curse of being a redhead, I don't blush much. Not a lot of things embarrass or shock me, so as a general rule, I make other people blush. Or at least that was the case for the last couple of years. Now, Dimitri's back in my life for twelve hours, and I've blushed at least as many times. Ugh.
"The guy you met yesterday," I say. "Dimitri. He's a friend of my sister's."
That's accurate enough. A guy my sister tends to fuck with her husband isn't acceptable in polite company.
"But he knows our address?"
I shrug. "Cam must have given it to him. You know how they stress out about me being alone in New York, even though the Campbells are close by if I need anything. They saddled Dimitri with my protection back when I first moved to the city years ago."
"Does he send breakfast often?" Lucy pushes.
"This is a first."I don't really want to get into the whole history between Dimitri and I, given how fucking embarrassing it is. "I think he mostly wanted to tell me off some more about not spending enough time with my sister."
I frown, thinking back to the note. I'm not about to ask him not to attend Christmas at the Hunts’. He's been part of that family for longer than I've been alive, from what I've learned. He's Adrian Hunt's honorary little brother, Cam's honorary big brother, and Valentina adores him.
But if he's right, if my absence has really been an issue—which I assumed it wasn't…sure, Morgan asks me, but no one really cares if I'm there or not, right?—maybe I can go next year. I survived one evening in the periphery of Dimitri without anything mortifying occurring. What's another?
“I see,” Lucy replies, sounding like she doesn’t really see anything.
Welcome to the club.
“But you’re seeing your sister this weekend, right?”
I grin. “Yeah, I fly out tonight. It’s gonna be fun. I haven’t seen them since summer.”
We eat until we can’t swallow another morsel, set aside the rest for lunch, then I head out to shop some more.
There’s always a post-Christmas discount, so because I wasn’t seeing any of my family before the 25th, it made sense to wait to shop. My flight isn’t until seven, so I have plenty of time.
Buying Christmas presents for the wife of a man richer than Midas is a nightmare. Anything Morgan stares at for a second too long, Cam buys for her before she can even open her mouth to protest she doesn’t need it.
I ended up walking into a handmade pottery studio and making a wonky flower pot that I painted green and purple a few days ago. It’s seriously not nearly as nice as something I could have bought from the home decor section of Saks, but I know Morgan will value it a lot more. Today it’s fired and dry, I can pick it up.
Cameron is delighted by just about anything, and Cam, surprisingly, is much easier to buy for than my sister. The guy loves socks. I get an extra pair for his father, too, while I’m in the shop. Spotting a burgundy red pair, I can’t help getting a flash of the color of the pocket square in Dimitri’s jacket pocket the other night. It was the exact same red, wasn’t it?
Before I can question myself, I add it to my pile of items. Next Christmas is in a whole year, but at least, if I decide to go, I’ll have a present for one of the guests.
If I haven’t talked myself out of it in the next twelve months.