Chapter 34
Olivia
I have to pull one of the counter stools from the kitchen in order to reach the top of most of the doorways in the penthouse.
Between the garlands I’ve strung over the kitchen entrance, the wreaths I’ve put on the doors, and the string lights on the walls, this place is holiday-ready just in time for Christmas Eve.
I make sure to set up a little tree in the corner of the living room, complete with ornaments, tinsel, and a star. I hang up stockings over the fireplace, which, of course, is electric. But still, it adds a bit of a festive air.
I’ve been decorating all day. The moment Reed left this morning, Riley met me at the store and helped me pick up some last-minute supplies. For the first hour or two, she helped me with the preliminary stuff: getting the tree back to the penthouse, stringing the lights, all the basics.
Of course, she had to leave after a little while to go prepare for her own Christmas with Cole and Archie, which meant that I had to do the bulk of the decorating on my own. It took several hours, but it was totally worth it; by the time I’m done, the place looks straight out of a holiday card.
I also take the time to prep a classic Christmas dinner. While I was out shopping, I picked up a plump turkey, potatoes, gravy, and an acorn squash, and in between trimming the tree and putting up lights, I get the food roasting in the oven.
Soon, it starts to smell delicious in the apartment, which only adds to the homey, comfortable atmosphere I’m trying to cultivate. I’m trying to imitate the cozy, pleasant Christmases I used to celebrate with my family.
I climb down off of the kitchen stool, brushing my hands together and looking around in satisfaction. It looks perfect—as cozy and homey as a top-floor penthouse can get. Before I can forget, I switch on the electric fire to make the room feel as warm as possible.
I take a seat on the couch and pull my latest knitting project—a tasseled hat, designed to keep the biting chills of New York winters at bay.
As I’m unraveling some tangled yarn, small flurries start to drift past the windows as the gray sky, which had been threatening snow for days, finally opens up.
I only knit for five minutes before I get a text from Reed—he’s in the lobby, on his way up. Excitement shoots through me, and I drop the knitting in favor of making a couple of last minute adjustments. I turn up the fire, then run over to even out the garland over the kitchen doorway.
At last, the elevator chimes softly, and Reed steps out. I run straight over to him and wrap my arms around his torso, pressing my face into his chest.
He tips me back over his arm, and I yelp in delight at the sudden feeling of weightlessness—and then his lips meet mine, and the entire world fades into a blissful blur of lights, the scents of pine and cooked turkey mingling with the fresh smell of his cologne.
“I missed you,” he breathes in my ear, and I laugh, feeling giddy.
“I missed you, too,” I say. Then I grin and add, “Merry Christmas.”
As I say that, he looks up and seems to notice, for the first time, the state of his apartment. “What the—”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I explain, as he blinks in surprise and begins to wander into the open space of the living room.
He turns slowly in a half-circle, taking in the lights and ornaments. “Did… did you do all of this by yourself?”
“Well, Riley helped a little, but for the most part, yeah.”
“This is…” He shakes his head, as if he still can’t believe his eyes. His jaw hangs open, almost comically. “This is unreal.”
“Do you like it?” I ask, suddenly worried.
“Are you kidding?” He turns to me, warmth in his gaze. “I love it. It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” He tilts his head up, inhaling deeply through his nose. “And… what is that smell?”
“Oh, that? I might have cooked us dinner.”
He looks astounded. “You didn’t have to do that!”
“I know I didn’t,” I say. “But I wanted to.”
His gaze sweeps the apartment—the boughs of pine, the glittering tinsel on the tree, the multicolored baubles—and then lands on me. “It’s beautiful,” he says.
“You once told me that your family never really celebrated holidays or birthdays properly. If we’re going to be together, I want to make sure that they mean something special to you. It’s not just another day.”
He reaches for me, his hands resting on my hips, and smiles down at me, his eyes soft. The brown irises reflect the string lights, sparkling.
Then he pulls me in and kisses me.
“Thank you,” he says, as soon as our lips part. “This is wonderful.”
My phone’s timer goes off, startling me. I fish it out of my pocket to silence it, then say, “It looks like the turkey’s done. You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Okay. Let me just get everything finished up, and we can eat.”
He heads off to grab a wine bottle from the cabinet, and I go into the kitchen to pull the turkey from the oven. A few minutes later, we’re seated at the table, and he carves up the turkey carefully.
“We’re going to have leftovers for days,” he says, grinning. “This is way too much food for two people.”
“That’s what holidays are all about,” I reply. “Making way too much food, and then having so many days of leftovers that you start to get sick of it. Then you don’t eat turkey for a whole year, and by the time the holidays roll around again…”
“You’re not sick of it anymore?”
“Exactly!”
He laughs, serving me a steaming cut of turkey. I grab a spoon and ladle out some mashed potatoes, smothering them in gravy.
“Don’t tell me you never had a turkey dinner on Christmas,” I say. “It’s traditional.”
“Well, I went to Christmas parties that had turkey at them,” he admits. “But it was never really a holiday to me, if that makes sense. It wasn’t a home-cooked meal, and I didn’t share it with my family. In fact, it was almost always just a business thing for my father.”
“Even when you were a kid?”
He shrugs. “Even when I was a kid.”
“But… didn’t you get gifts from your parents?”
“Sure,” he acknowledges, “but… well, coming up, we weren’t exactly wanting for anything. There wasn’t anything particularly special about Christmas or birthdays.”
“No stockings? No tree?”
“There was a tree.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste at the memory. “It was, like, an avant-garde art piece my mother had commissioned for the foyer of the Hamptons house. And we weren’t allowed to touch it, because it was worth a fortune.”
I gape at him. “So, let me get this straight… you never decorated a Christmas tree, because your mom… hired an artist to make one?”
“It was glass,” he says, carving one of the drumsticks from the turkey, “and it was two stories tall.”
“So you never even had a real tree? Did she at least put presents under it?”
He gives me an amused look. “Absolutely not.”
I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this. It seems so sad to me, to raise kids in a place that’s more like an art museum than a house. “But… what did you guys even do on Christmas, then? Did you stay up late waiting for Santa Claus, or…”
“I tried to, once.”
“What happened?”
He sighs, then smirks. “I’d heard a few classmates in my elementary school talking about Santa Claus, and getting into debates over whether or not he was real.
I’d never heard of Santa before, so I decided to figure it out for myself.
I stayed up until midnight, hiding behind the curtains and watching the fireplace. ”
“And?” I grin. “Did you catch him?”
“Not even close, I’m afraid. My father found me there while he was having his evening brandy, and when I explained what I was doing, he just said, ‘Son, there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.’” He rolls his eyes as he imitates his father’s stern voice.
“Are you kidding me? How old were you?”
“Six, I think. Somewhere around there.”
“That’s crazy! Who would say that to a six-year-old?”
“Lionel Eastwood,” he says drily. “Have you met him?”
As he serves both of us spoonfuls of roasted Brussels sprouts, I stare at him, thinking. I can’t fathom what kind of parent would deny their child the whimsy and wonder of simple superstitions. But he’s right. I have met Lionel Eastwood. And I know exactly what kind of man he is.
Fortunately, his son is nothing like him.
The real Reed—the one I’ve gotten to know—is so much better than the version of himself that his parents want him to be, the idea of him that only exists in their heads. He puts on a performance around them, but never stacks up to their expectations—and quite frankly, that’s a good thing.
“So what did the Quinns do for Christmas?” he asks, digging the corkscrew into the top of the wine bottle he selected, an aged red. “What can I expect when I join your family for the holidays?”
The subtle insinuation of our future—that he’ll be with me this time next year, and that he’s willing to spend Christmas with my family—makes me feel warm inside, as if I’ve already downed a glass of wine.
“Well… it’s always a pretty understated thing,” I say. “Since I was a kid, they’ve celebrated it at their house in Queens.”
“That would be the perfect place for Christmas.” He pours each of us a glass of cabernet. “It’s so cozy. Do they light a fire?”
“They sure do. A real one, that actually crackles and smells smoky.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is.” I take a bite of the mashed potatoes, then swallow and say, “My family would always make the most of Christmas, even when my parents didn’t have much money.”
“Well, money can’t buy a good Christmas,” he points out.
“Definitely.” I nod, gesturing around at the decorations. “They made it special. That was what inspired me to do this tonight.”
He takes a sip of wine, then smiles. “I hope I get to see their decorations next year.”
“See them?” I tease. “You’re gonna be the one putting them up!”
He pulls a face. “Really?”
“You bet. Outside and inside.”
“Only if there’s hot chocolate in it for me.”