CHAPTER TEN
“Why are you trying to get rid of me?”
My sigh sounds more like a growl. “For the fifth time, Celia, I’mnottrying to get rid of you. Stay, go, do whatever you want. I just thought it’d be nice for you to do something fun since you’ve been working the last six days.” I swallow the itty bitty bubble of guilt rising up my throat. I am, in fact, hoping to get rid of her. Hugh is set to arrive within the next half hour. I can only imagine the questions and snide comments I’d be forced to deal with if Celia were still here.
“Something’s up,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “Is Bridget coming over? Didn’t you just spend the day with her yesterday?”
“No, Bridget isn’t coming over. And what does it matter if she was or if Ididjust spend yesterday with her? She’s my best friend. I used to spend nearly every day with her before…”
“Before what?” Celia snaps. “Before I moved in and spoiled your life?”
She’s in fine form today. Until now, it seemed playing the Grooge at Santa’s Village had begun to mellow her, as if the costume and character allowed her to get out all her aggression during the day. I wouldn’t exactly say I’d been experiencing a kinder, gentler version of Celia, but there’s definitely been less snark and demands, and she’s left my stuff alone all week. Today, though, she’s been a total sourpuss from the moment she rolled out of bed.
“I wasgoingto say before Bridget and David got together. Bridge spends a lot of her free time with him now,” I say. Celia starts to speak, and I can almost hear the nasty remark rising in her throat, so I cut her off. “Naturally. They’re in a relationship. People tend to spend a lot of time with the person they’re in a committed relationship with. And besides, it’s not like we don’t still see each other plenty.” I stop and shake my head. Why am I defending my friendship with Bridget yet again? I don’t have time for Celia’s petty jealousy.
“Is a guy coming over?” Celia asks. I open my mouth to deny it, but the words won’t come. Her eyes light with triumph. “A guyiscoming over! Oh this is too good. Why didn’t you just say so? Someone’s getting laid.” She says the last in a singsong voice that makes me cringe.
“It’s not like that. Thereisa guy coming over, but it’s for work.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” She looks around for her purse, finding it where she dropped it last night beside one of the living room chairs. “I guess I’ll clear out. A new boutique opened downtown yesterday and Peri mentioned checking it out today. I’ll see if she wants company.”
“It’s great you’re making friends at work, Ce.” I head for the kitchen, wondering absentmindedly if I should start a pot of coffee.
A stomping sound behind me draws my attention. Celia has pulled her boots on and is glaring at me. “I know it may be hard for you to believe, but Iamcapable of making friends, Ivy.”
Holy shit, I can’t say anything right today. I close my eyes and rub my temples in an attempt to stave off the stress headache that’s building. I never used to get tension headaches before Celia moved in.
She stuffs her arms into her coat and snatches her purse up again. Without a word, she spins toward the door and flings it open. She lets out a little cry of surprise when she sees Hugh standing on the other side, his fist raised as if to knock.
“Hello.” The short word is laced with uncertainty as he drops his hand and glances between Celia and me. “I was going to buzz, but someone let me in downstairs.”
“No worries!” My voice is overly breezy. I hurry forward, gently nudging Celia aside so Hugh can come in. I avoid looking at her for as long as possible. When I do finally meet her gaze, I’m greeted by exactly what I expected: smugness. “Come on in and make yourself comfortable. Celia was just leaving.”
“Not on my account I hope,” Hugh says.
“No, no, I have places to go and people to see. You two kids have fun.” She motions for me to join her in the hall, so I shoot Hugh an apologetic look and follow her out. Her eyes dance with barely contained laughter as she asks, “Should I find someplace else to stay tonight?”
Instead of answering, I roll my eyes and step back inside. “Bye, Celia. Have fun.” I close and lock the door. I should have told her yes, just so I’d have the apartment to myself for a night.
When I turn around, Hugh has just kicked off his boots and is arranging them neatly beside mine. He picks up a small parcel from the floor and straightens. “I heard her sniping at you and was unsure whether to knock or go hide in the stairwell until she left.”
“Option B is always a good one where Celia’s concerned.”
“I’ll remember that.” His eyes twinkle with mirth, thawing some of my irritation and nerves. I look at the parcel in his hands—a notebook with something in a plastic bag balanced on top. “My mum instilled in me the importance of bringing a gift when someone invites you to their home,” he says, pulling a tiny flower pot from the plastic bag. “Since fresh flowers are lacking this time of year and I don’t know if you drink wine or have food allergies, I thought a succulent might be nice. They’re pretty and they don’t require much work. I hope it’s all right.”
I accept the pot from him and examine the pale purple plant inside. I’ve always been intrigued by the unfurled-artichoke appearance of succulents, but I never got around to buying one. “How incredibly thoughtful,” I tell him. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
His smile is a mixture of relief and pleasure. I usher him further into the apartment, motioning for him to have a seat while I find a spot on my bookcase for the plant. I place it where it’ll be easy to see, then turn back to find Hugh occupying one corner of my couch. My small couch suddenly looks tiny with this big beautiful man sitting on it. His gaze sweeps the room, his expression unreadable.
“This place is nice,” he says finally.
“But?”
“Hmm?” His eyes land on mine, brows pulling together slightly. “But nothing.”
My eyes trail around the same path his did, trying to see the familiar space through his perspective. Three-seater couch flanked by two comfy chairs; sturdy wooden coffee table and matching end tables on either side of the couch; entertainment unit with my TV and various DVDs; and my chock-full bookcase, which takes up almost an entire wall.
Hugh clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. “I don’t know you well enough yet to know your style or tastes. I suppose I was expecting something a bit…different.” I raise my eyebrows in question, so he continues. “The books make sense. They fit with my mental picture of you. I thought maybe you’d have some art on the walls. More homey touches. It’s not a judgment at all,” he rushes to say when I simply watch him without speaking. “Just an observation.”
