The fur-trimmed Santa nightie.
The crotchless thong and peek-a-boo bra with little candy canes on them.
His face is motionless. Voice is flat. “Those aren’t warm enough. The wind chill is knocking down the centigrade like Lennox Lewis in the third.”
“Right. I... Uh... I have some cute plaid ones for Christmas morning,” I mumble, cheeks on fire.
“You sort that out. I’ll go to my van. Got a first aid kit in it and think I have some bandages to wrap your ankle.”
He smiles and walks away, pulling on a scuffed corduroy coat, hooves clip-clopping on hardwood.
“Do centaurs have carpet?” I shout after.
“Only in the lounge!” he shouts back. “For company!”
As I rummage for the right jammies and consider throwing the others in the fireplace, I think of dozens of other questions.
How did he get over here from England? Do centaurs fly on planes? How do people at airport security not notice them?Dothey know about them, and they just act like it’s normal?
Wait, he has a van? How does he drive it?
Does he sleep in a bed?
Why is he so nice to me? Why are strangers like Joe, and Chuck (the guy from Cavalier Chicken), and even a half-man, half-horse, nicer than Josh?
“All right. Found it!” Nigel returns with a small metal box and snow in his dark hair and all over his—what do we call that? Hindquarters?
“Is it snowing harder?”
“Bucketing down,” he shakes himself, and I stare.
Just curious. Just searching for a distraction.
“Let’s take care of you.” He kicks the door shut, and folds his front legs down, then the back set goes to the side, and his human half is now just about my height.
“Do you sit on the floor at home?” I blurt.
“Actually, a queen mattress that I upholstered.”
“You upholster? And cook? And repair houses?”
Nigel pulls my foot into his hand and starts wrapping it with a stretchy bandage. “And build rocking chairs, but that’s not much use unless you’re a pregnant elf whose feet can’t reach the floor in a normal-sized one.”
“It sounds pretty useful to me.”
“I like to be useful. Stay busy. Build things. How about you?” His head stays bent while his hands move around my ankle, cupping my heel gently when he’s done.
“Me?”
“What do you do? As a job? I figure I’ve seen your knickers, so I can ask about your career. I also think I shouldn’t have said knickers, but there you have it. I’m not clever with words. Just my hands.”
He’s excellent with his hands. Not shabby with his words, either.
“I’m a manager at a big discount department store. I manage ninety people—and I love the hustle and bustle, but hate the hiring and firing, the slackers, the folks who don’t need sick days and call off anyway, the ones who have buried six grandmothers in two years... I’m oversharing. I overshare. Josh started telling me I talked too much. Should be quiet. To be ‘one with nature.’” I make air quotes with a sneer.
Nigel grunts. “Idiot, isn’t he? Couldn’t stand one woman talking, and he suddenly wants a bloody harem? Not overbright, is he?” He tapped his head.
“He didn’t want to talk to the people as much as—you know. Sleep with them,” I say with a little cough. I try to sound at least slightly polite, even though I believe I’ve already cursed, sobbed, and snotted on this man.
