His shoulders shake with a silent chuckle. “I said I did this before, I never claimed to be da Vinci.”
“Whatever you do for work, I hope they keep you gainfully employed because this is not a viable backup plan for you,” I snort a laugh.
The corners of his mouth turn up in a heartwarming smile. I turn my gaze down to the mug in my hand, focus on my snowflakes.
“I guess it’s a good thing I employ myself then.”
His voice sounds like it’s always hiding laughter between the notes. It pulls a smile from the deep trenches of my heart, and because I understand what a feat that is these days, I let him have its full brilliance.
His mouth slackens as he watches me, his eyes bouncing between mine and my mouth.
Shaking himself out of it, he concentrates on his reindeer turd. “What about you? What does the ice princess do for work?”
All the blood drains from my face at his use of my old nickname. I feel ashamed for having such a visceral reaction. ‘Princess’ isn’t even a unique name to me. Men call women that all the time; there are women whose legal first names are that, too. But Nicholas is doing such a great job of distracting me, of helping me to forget that I’m supposed to hate Christmas now, so I politely instruct him. “Please do not call me that.”
He looks back and forth between the cup and me. “Oh-kay?” He finally acknowledges. I’m grateful for the lack of follow-up despite his obvious curiosity. “Well,” he clears his throat, thesmile in his voice returning. “You gonna tell me what your name is or give me something to call you by?”
I throw my head back with laughter, swiping loose blonde tendrils out of my face when I settle. I feel like I know so much about him already, and he knows nothing about me. Maybe it’s best if I keep it that way.
My mouth twists as I try to keep my budding grin at bay. He cocks an impatient brow at me. Considering how much fun I’m having, I decide to throw caution to the wind. I’m making a friend, and what’s twelve days anyway?
“Krystal Evergreen.”
He chuckles. “Okay,Krystal Evergreen,”he scoffs. “Come on, what’s your real name?”
I gawk at him. “I knowSanta Clausdoesn’t have something to say aboutmyname.”
His laughter is so hearty, so rich.
“So you’ve been spying on me? I don’t remember telling you what my name is.” He breathes.
Suddenly, it feels too hot in here. I slip out of my jacket and rest it on an empty shelf behind me. “It’s cute you think you’re interesting enough to spy on,” I say, returning to my mug and refusing to look at him.
“Maybe just interesting enough foryouto spy on,” he says, his voice subtle now. What he’s saying is just for me.
I swallow, knowing I’ll give myself away if I look up even half an inch, and then I’d have to admit to myself, and possibly to him, that I don’t want this moment to end.
“Not many men hold my attention these days,” I reply, hoping he’ll take it in jest — laugh his jolly laugh and crack a joke right back at me.
Instead, he says, “I’d be proud to hold your interest for even a minute.”
My eyes blink up to meet his, shining under the soft rays of sunlight filtering in through the window. My skin buzzes. My blood turns to static as my brain scrambles for something to say.
I’m tempted to throw cold water on this growing tension, to stop it before it can ignite into something glowing and hot. But how long has it been since someone made me feel this way? Grown and sexy and giddy and girly all at the same time? What exactly am I protecting myself from? A good time?
I smile at him, slow and sultry. “My God,” I say on a released breath. “I think you’ve done it.”
Finnlay’s voice cracks through the air, letting us know where we can put our finished pieces. “Well, Nicholas, I guess you’re minute’s up,” I say, resting my masterpiece of a mug on the table before me.
His smile is bright as he does the same, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Turd looking very much like it belongs next to my snowflakes.
“You never told me why you chose toattemptto paint Rudolph,” I say, unable to keep my eyes off his face. His presence is so vivid, almost tangible.
“He was my son’s favorite,” he says, the shine in his eyes dulling just a bit. I pick up on his use of the past tense immediately. He’s probably heard it a million times by now, apologies for his loss — and I know how superficial they can feel. You can’t be sorry for someone else’s loss, it’stheir’sto feel sorry for. What you’re really saying is that you’re sorry for them. I’m familiar enough with pity that I know I don’t want to give any to him.
I place my hand over his. I don’t squeeze or try to nestle my fingers between his; I just rest it there. He flips it over, squeezing softly and grazing his fingers against the softness of my palm when he lets me go.
“Thank you,” he says, barely audible.
