I glance at him, half-ready to make a joke about it, but he’s watching me in that quiet, all-in way of his.
“Eat,” he encourages. “I always want you satisfied around me. Never hungry, never pretending you don’t want something. And I never want you to feel ashamed of your appetite, Teresa. Not for food, nor for anything else.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice quiet.
Suddenly, a weird swoop of nausea flips my stomach, and I set down my fork, swaying a little. It leaves as quickly as it arrives, but still, it’s strange. I wave off his concern, even though his frown says he’s filing it away for later.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Too much sugar too fast,” I say, though I’m not sure that’s it.
He gives me a look, like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he drops it.
After breakfast, Vlad gestures to the tree. Gifts tower under the branches, every package wrapped to perfection. The tags are written in his crisp, fountain-pen handwriting.
Package one contains a soft, leather travel notebook with my initials in rose gold. I stroke the cover like it might purr. Package two is square and flat. It’s a vinyl copy of Fleetwood MacRumours,the 1977 original in mint condition.
“How did you know I love this album?” I ask with a big grin.
“You sang half ofDreamsin the shower on Tuesday,” he replies with a shrug.
My turn. I hand him a slim velvet box. Inside is a vintage silver tie clip engraved with the Angeloff crest. He smirks. “You planning my brand guidelines?”
“Just accessorizing the boss,” I answer with a wink.
My second gift to him is a first-edition Pushkin, spine delicate, ink faded. His eyes soften upon opening it.
“For reading on quiet days,” I say quietly, suddenly shy. He leans in and presses a kiss to my temple—tiny and perfect.
Bublé’s voice drifts from the speaker system, crooning about chestnuts. Vlad tops off my gingernog, then says, “Stay in all day or we could brave Rockefeller Center. Your choice.”
I visualize shoulder-to-shoulder tourists and the eight-foot inflatable Olaf they stuck in the plaza this year. “I’d prefer PJs, board games, and terrible holiday movies.”
He grins, rips off the Santa hat, and tosses it at the couch. “That sounds like a great plan.”
Another nausea flutter rolls through. I turn and take a sip of water, hoping he didn’t notice.
The afternoon drifts by in a blissful, carb-heavy haze. We commandeer the sectional and binge a Hallmark marathon full of titles likeA Puppy for ChristmasandSnowed in Sweethearts.
Lunch is a charcuterie Vlad has somehow arranged into a perfect wreath—prosciutto ribbons, caper “berries,” mozzarella “snowballs.” After we demolish it, he clears his throat, expression suddenly shy.
“There’s one more gift,” he says. “Well, technically, it’s a present for me.” He produces a matte-black bag stuffed with crimson tissue.
I dig through shredded silk paper pulling out an emerald-and-black lace corset, garter belt, and stockings so sheer they shimmer.Agent Provocateurglints on the tag.
I arch a brow. “Somebody’s feeling naughty.” I turn the corset over in my hands, hesitating. “I don’t exactly have the body for this.”
The shift in his eyes is immediate. Heat and certainty flash like I’ve just spoken blasphemy. He takes the corset from my hands, letting the lace spill between his fingers before pressing it back into my palms.
“Teresa,” he says, “if you ever insult my taste like that again, I’ll put you over my knee.” My pulse kicks up a notch. “You think I don’t know exactly what I’m doing? You’re going to look gorgeous in this. I want to see your cleavage spilling out of thesecups, see the way the garters bite into your thighs when you’re straddling me. I want the curve of your hips, the weight of your ass in my hands, the way this—” he flicks the corset ribbon slowly “—frames what’s mine. If you think for a second I’d prefer bones to this,” his hands skim my waist, claiming, reverent, “you’re out of your mind.”
The warmth in my cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment. The way the other night’s gown hugged every curve, the way his eyes devoured me without apology, the words he just spoke, shove the body-image gremlins back into their box.
“Well, when you put it like that…”
He grins. “Upstairs. Now. Or I’ll peel you out of those pajama pants right here.”
I stand slowly, twirling the corset’s satin ribbon around a finger. “Patience, Mr. Claus.”
