Sunday, December 25
By the time Nicholas headed for the shower, Angelica had rolled over and gone back to sleep. Holiday or not, it was Sunday, and he had places to go and things to do. Most importantly, he had a promise to keep, an appointment he’d faithfully honored for years.
When he got back to the condo, he set the two cups of coffee and the bags of bagels and pastries on the center hall table.
He didn’t notice the burned-out bulbs on the Christmas tree or the slump of Angelica’s shoulders as his long strides carried him to the chairs with a view of the world, where she sat motionless, staring into the distance.
He dropped a peck on her head. Angelica gasped. “I’m sorry. I startled you again, sweetheart,” Nicholas said, his hands massaging her shoulders. “I picked up breakfast. Let’s go inside and eat.”
“What store is open today?”
“Because you must have fresh rolls and cake for Christmas dinner, Ray’s Bakery stays open until 11 o’clock.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Were you at your office for your usual Sunday morning routine?”
“You know me. I just can’t stay away. You wouldn’t believe how many cars we sold this week,” he cackled. “Let’s grab a quick bite. I have brunch fixings and champagne in the fridge for later. I hope you didn’t plan to rush home, darling.”
“I’m not in a rush, but I need to finish my artwork. The publisher was closed for six weeks due to a water main break. Playing catch-up, they pushed my completion date up by two weeks. Can’t argue with the hand that holds my paycheck.” She sneered.
He buried his face and fingers in her hair. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I told you I want to be independent.”
Nicholas frowned. She changed after the accident. Not only had Angelica become more stubborn, but she also wanted to pursue a career. Women and their damn careers. He stepped back, took off his suit jacket, and tossed it over the back of the sectional.
“You don’t need to be independent, my dear, but I’m not arguing. Let’s eat. Coffee’s all I had today.”
He extended his hand, helping Angelica rise from her chair.
Standing in her path, Nicholas pressed his lips to hers and recreated a kiss reminiscent of the ones they had shared last night, when moonlight shone through his bedroom window and bathed her bare body.
A kiss he hoped would lead them back to the bedroom later.
Angelica squirmed away, her fingertips touching her temple. “I’m sorry, Nicky, but I’d better eat something,” she murmured. “I’m getting lightheaded.”
His heart sank. No, his world turned upside down. Creases lined Nicholas’s forehead, and his eyebrows knitted. The doctors said to watch for headaches and dizziness. Signs of a stroke.
Taking her hands in his, he insisted, “I’m calling the neurologist right now. No, I’m taking you to the ER.”
“Please, calm down. This isn’t an emergency. It’s just low blood sugar. Can I have orange juice and whatever you picked up?”
Their leisurely breakfast turned into brunch before they moved to the couch, with Angelica curled in his arms as the sunbeams waltzed across the tiled floor, sprinkling the room with warm, radiant droplets of light.
Nicholas interrupted the silence, “You said your mother was driving you batty about being alone and you not visiting enough, right?”
“That she is …”
“You know the answer to that.” Nicholas gave her a gentle squeeze. “Once you move back here, you can see her every week, or more often. End of that discussion.”
“That’s debatable,” Angelica mumbled, picking at the yarn on her cowl-neck sweater.
It was 2 o’clock when they stood in his condo’s foyer.
“Well, Sweetheart, we just have one more thing to do before you go,” Nicholas said, sweeping her into his arms for a goodbye kiss.
A kiss he wanted her to remember all the way home, as she slipped into bed alone tonight and for a long time after.
* * *
The limousine driver, Jack, opened the door, took Angelica’s hand, and helped her out of the vehicle. The smell of burning firewood from homes nestled in the nearby woods drifted through the cold evening mist beneath the gray clouds rolling in.
Angelica stood quietly, attuned to her senses, inhaling the familiar charred scent.
This was home. The scent announced it as clearly as an apple pie baking in the oven.
It was comforting to be back at her private refuge, away from the city’s hustle and bustle.
The slam of the car trunk snapped her out of her utopian mindset.
She fumbled with her keys in the headlight beam as the chauffeur approached from behind, carrying her weekend travel bag.
“I hope you had a nice trip, Ms. Whitely. Would you like me to bring the bag inside?”
She smiled at the man in a black suit, white shirt, and tie. Of course, Jack would be dressed in an appropriate manner. Nicky demanded it. Maintain the image.
“Thanks, but I can take it from here. Please be careful on the drive back. The roads are tricky at night. And Merry Christmas to you and your wife, Jack.”
“Thank you, Ms. Whitely. Merry Christmas to you as well. Have a good night. I hope to see you again real soon.”
Soon? She must sleep on it. By herself! The driver would always be available, but did she want to be available to Nicky?
Locking the door behind her, Angelica set down her suitcase and, with two quick steps, turned the three-way switch on the desk lamp to the next setting, increasing the light in the room.
The calm she experienced from the smoky, pungent air and the fragrant evergreens faded as soon as she stepped inside.
The dimness of the night created an uneasy feeling.
She had never feared the dark or her cabin’s isolated location until the break-in.
Her home felt violated and frightening, just as it had when she walked in after the robbery.
A dreadful sensation to have in her own house.
Even the walls seemed to echo it, conveying a sense of foreboding.
Although still wearing her coat, she shivered.
How long would it take for the cabin to feel like home again?
Angelica scanned the room. The snowmen on the mantel, once a cheerful group, weren’t smiling anymore. Loud meows broke through her anxious, silent rambling. She tossed her coat over the chair and picked up her furry friend.
“Hello, my little girl. Mommy missed you, Daisy. Did you miss me?” she said, dropping kisses on the cat’s head.
When she reached the kitchen, she grabbed the bag of dry cat food.
As she set the bowl on the floor, she snickered.
How easily Nicky bought the nonsense about her low blood sugar, which ended his romantic advances.
If she told him she was unwell, he’d, if possible, stop the world from spinning.
His dedication to her welfare earned him a point.
Counting to one was as far as she wanted to go right now.
The heck with that for now—she should eat something.
Because her appetite vanished in Mr. Ponte’s presence, she picked at her food during their cozy champagne brunch.
Now it was dinnertime, and nothing appealed to her except a glass of wine.
But she couldn’t drink on an empty stomach.
She opened a cabinet and pulled out a protein bar.
It didn’t taste like the appetizing picture on the wrapper.
It tasted like the wrapper itself. Angelica started to cough.
As she headed to the fridge for a cold drink, hacking, she noticed the boarded-up kitchen door.
Garrett must have done that, which was very considerate and thoughtful of the detective.
She should have canceled her trip and handled it herself instead of leaving it to law enforcement to patch her battered door.
If she had stayed home, things would have remained the same—lukewarm—between her and Casanova.
Angelica filled her wine goblet, took a quick sip, and cleared her throat.
She’ll call a handyman tomorrow to have it repaired and to install a new lock. She hadn’t spent a night alone in her house since the robbery and wasn’t looking forward to it tonight, given the door’s condition. This time, she took more than a sip of her white wine.
Angelica set the drink on the living room coffee table, kicked off her shoes, and headed to the fireplace. She arranged a few logs in the hearth, added some kindling, and junk mail. A click of the lighter ignited the paper and slivers on the splintered timbers.
Retrieving her cup of nerve stabilizer, she sank onto the sofa and gazed into the flames, ravenously searching for tasty, dry bark. Angelica had plenty to think about and plenty to question.
Nicky was the one. The first one. Contrary to her good little church-going girl fantasy and her complete na?veté, she did it before her wedding night. It was a surprising, frenzied magic trick. Now you see it, now you don’t, as her clothes took flight.
“This is what love is,” he told her. Boy, did she love him—loved him too much. That marked the start of many mistakes she made with Nicholas Ponte, the guy with dashing, movie-star looks.
Is it possible to walk hand-in-hand into a bedroom with one man and, once the lights go out, not recognize who you’re in bed with?
It was unthinkable that she had slept with her old lover last night.
Nothing that happened between them, or on the sheets, resembled the guy she vividly remembered from her youth.
The “old” Nicky was driven by overwhelming lust, focused on his needs, not on what she might desire.
Like a relay race, he got his key in the door, pushed his way in, grabbed the case of beer, and rushed out with a wham, bam, bang, slam of the door.
But at seventeen, what did she know beyond this experience?
Last night, the man in the king-sized bed was a stranger—a new man. That man was patient, caring, and gentle. As his lips tenderly traced her face, neck, and shoulder, he ever so slowly unzipped her dress, unwrapping her as if she were a fragile, hand-blown piece of glass. It felt erotic.