Nickolai's Noel (7 page)

He took a second look at the mirrors. He should have looked in them while he was making love to Noel. Maybe next time.

Next time.
Though he could hardly believe it, he smiled at the thought. And he couldn’t imagine a time when there wouldn’t be a next time with this woman. But why was he sitting here naked in her soft, warm bed with its good-smelling sheets when she was down the hall? He could be with her—as soon as he found his clothes and cleaned up.

He looked up at the sparkly little light fixture. What were the odds that Noel might want a big mirror on her ceiling—and where did you buy such a thing?

• • •

Noel added the grated cheese and a little heavy cream to the grits and gave them a stir. Since she had expected to be in Louisville, she hadn’t done much to decorate the apartment, but she’d salvaged a few things from the shop to try to make a pretty table. After all, it was Christmas, Nickolai was a guest, and she had promised him breakfast. She’d spread the table with the length of red and green plaid she’d cut from a bolt downstairs. Then she’d thrown some cedar, pinecones, and berry-studded holly into a copper bowl and mixed in the antique glass ornaments she’d pulled off the tree. There had been no time to hem the makeshift tablecloth, but she’d clipped the edges with pinking shears. With her plain white dishes and hunter green linen napkins on the plates, it was good enough. At the last minute, she placed candy canes—also stolen from the shop tree—on top of the napkins.

Not great, but not bad, considering. If she’d known about this, she would have driven out to Sassy Cow Farm and bought some smoked white cheddar for the grits. Of course, if she had known about this, maybe she would have thought it through and not done it.

But this was just busy work and busy worrying; no perfect centerpiece and no amount of artisanal cheese could make things different. Facts were facts. Nickolai was a handsome, rich, wildly successful hockey player accustomed to sophisticated, glamorous women who had more skill with a mascara wand than a needle. Noel might be good for a little homespun holiday fun, but there was no way she could compete with that in the light of day. And, frankly, unless it was a quilt contest, she wasn’t interesting in competing.

Ah, from the sound of things, he was awake and had found his way to the shower—to wash the smell of her off him. She shook her head and laughed a little at her drama queen thoughts. After all, she’d taken a shower, too. There was hardly any choice after that marathon workout. But she hadn’t dressed up. Far from it. The black leggings and matching tunic might not be her best look, but on an icy-cold day at home, anything better would have been ridiculous and sad.

She put the biscuits in the oven and was removing the eggs from the refrigerator when Nickolai padded into the kitchen in his sock feet, all damp curls and shining eyes. He stretched his arms high over his head and yawned, with his mouth settling into a big smile.

“Still sleepy?” she asked.

He tossed his head back and forth. “I can sleep when I’m dead—or not with Noel.” He crossed the room with open arms and a mouth setting up for a kiss.

If she were smart, she’d head for the hills before she got in deeper. But on the other hand, why run? It wasn’t possible to be in deeper. There were things that were absolutes—like pregnancy and death. Likewise, longing for Nickolai wasn’t going to come in degrees. Once he was gone, it wouldn’t matter if she had kissed him again or not, because another kiss couldn’t make her want him more.

He gathered her to him with one arm, cupped her bottom with his other hand, and hugged her long and hard before settling his mouth against hers. He tasted like mint toothpaste and smelled like her apple vanilla soap and shampoo.

Her naughty bits sat up and begged for attention.

“
Haven’t you had enough?”
she scolded them.

“No!”
they screamed.
“There’s no such thing as enough!”

“Get used to it.”

“Boo, hiss! You’re no fun!”

She pulled out of his arms, went to the refrigerator, and retrieved the pitcher of sparkling orange juice she’d made earlier.

“I found the toothbrush you left for me. Do you always think of everything?”

Yes, Nickolai, I do. I am a master of thinking of everything, except I didn’t think of how to guard my heart against you.

She shrugged and filled a waiting Champagne flute and handed it to him. “For all that the other women in my family aren’t much good at the practicalities of life, they’re impeccable hostesses. I’ve picked up few things.”

He took the juice from her, sipped, and then laughed. “Bubbly!”

“It’s a fake mimosa made with ginger ale. I would have made real ones, but I don’t have any Champagne.”

“I like this.” He sipped again. “The pretty towels you left for me? With the ruffles and the letters of your name? I didn’t want to muss them, so I looked in the closet and found another towel.”

“If you aren’t good enough for my best things, then who?” Noel said almost as if by rote. Her grandmother always said that when someone remarked that she shouldn’t have gone to the trouble to bring out the silver tea service or the linen cocktail napkins. It was a phrase Noel had used many times, but, this time, she realized she really meant it.

And the words won her a sweet smile. He cocked his head to the side. “The towel I used—it had the symbol of the University of Tennessee, the college team of Gabe Beauford. Are you fond of Gabe Beauford? Is that why you have his towel?”

She burst out laughing. “That’s not Gabe’s towel. It’s a beach towel, and I have it because I’m a UT football fan. And no, I’m not fond of Gabe. That is, it’s not that I’m
not
fond of him. I barely know him.”

He nodded, it seemed, with satisfaction. “I’ve never been to the beach.”

“Never?”

“No.” He smiled and shook his head. “Maybe we will go to the beach this summer? You and me?”

“Sure.” Another flirty, empty promise, just a game they were playing—she as much as he. What else could she expect after sleeping with the man the second time she’d laid eyes on him?

“I wonder if there are Nashville Sound beach towels. I’ll ask Chris in the office. She knows everything. I probably can get some for free. She once gave me a little water bottle that keeps the water cold for a long time. You might need one of those for our beach trip.”

“I might.” She opened the egg carton. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Hmm.” He sat down at the table and rubbed his chin, considering. “At Cracker Barrel I get them soft-boiled if I am feeling fat, scrambled if I’m not, and fried with a runny center if I don’t care.”

Did he have to be so charming about every damned thing, even how he wanted his eggs?

“Do you care today?”

“I care,” he said. “A fat hockey player is a slow hockey player and, very soon, an out-of-work hockey player. But is Christmas and I had a big workout.” He leered at her. “So fried, I think. Is that okay?”

“Coming up.” She cracked the eggs in the skillet. “Do you often eat breakfast at Cracker Barrel?”

“Every day before practice. Sometimes I eat there again after. Grilled chicken, baby carrots, and green beans if I feel fat. Country fried steak and chicken and dumplings if I feel fit or I don’t care. If I am really bad, I like those frozen mug sundaes. Strawberry or caramel.” He picked up the candy cane from his plate. “Is it an American custom to eat candy canes for breakfast on Christmas?”

“Not that I know of.” Noel spooned strawberry jam into a little crystal dish and set it on the table. “It’s a decoration, but you can eat it if you like.”

“Maybe I’ll keep it for a decoration.” He hung the cane from the neck of his shirt. “There. I’m a gift.” He spread his arms wide, as if he were presenting himself to the world.

“Yes, you are.” A fleeting gift, but a gift. “If you’ll hand me your plate, I’ll fill it.”

He stood and handed her both plates. “Can I help?”

“Pour us some coffee, please.” She gestured to the pot on the counter. “Or would you rather have tea?”

“I like both.” He filled the mugs she’d left ready. “Mugs with Christmas trees. Americans love Christmas. So do Canadians.”

Noel refilled their juice glasses and set the plates on the table. “Do Russians not?”

Nickolai waited until Noel picked up her fork to pick up his. “They do. Sure. But not so much as here. Everything is bigger here, you know? More. But I like it here. I like your little house here more than my condominium. Too fancy for me and more than I wanted to pay. But good resale value is important.”

“What were your Christmases like as a child?”

“Hard to remember.” He frowned. “Some special food, I think. Cakes. We would get a shoebox filled with things—little toys, socks, maybe soap. Things for school. Once I got a Game Boy. That was the main thing I remember. It was the best thing anyone got that year. I shared.”

Of course he had shared. He was a pleaser. She felt humbled and sad when she compared his scanty memories to her lavish Christmases—perhaps not quite as lavish after her father died, but still plenty lavish. And she’d been with family. Even though they were exasperating, she loved them. And he had no one. He must have sensed how she felt because he covered her hand with his and smiled.

“This Christmas, I won’t forget. It’s the best ever.” More sweet lies. He took another bite of grits. “And your grits are much better than Cracker Barrel’s.” That was probably the truth.

“You never get tired of Cracker Barrel?”

“No. They have lots of things on the menu. You can get breakfast food at night. That comes in handy if you get hit in the mouth and you need to eat scrambled eggs and grits. My favorite waitress, Dede, gives me biscuits
and
cornbread if I want it. I give her tickets so she can bring her little grandson to see the Sound, and she helps me with my Southern English.”

“How’s that going?”

He smiled and took a sip of his coffee. “
Bless your heart, don’t you try to make out like this likker’s not yours. That dog won’t hunt. Y’all are drunker than Cooter Brown.
And that would be if you’re talking to more than one person.
Y’all
is only for plural.”

“That’s right.” Noel laughed. “Good job, Dede.”

“Dede also says I should try harder not to leave out the word
it.”

“Bad job, Dede. I think that’s charming.”

“Do you? Is more important to please Noel than Dede.”

“But I only gave you biscuits.” She held up the breadbasket.

“No,
lyubimaya.
You gave me more than biscuits.”

“Grits?”

“The best grits I’ve ever had. But there’s something I must know.” He rose and came toward her with an impish little smile. He ran his hand down her neck and hooked his fingers in the neck of her shirt. “I am wondering what naughty underthings Noel wears today.”

“Yes, yes!”
her naughty bits cheered.

“Pipe down!”
she yelled at them.

“Hypocrite! You’re letting him look!”

And she was.

“Ah, Noel does not disappoint.”

Had she chosen her most provocative set today—the cropped bustier and matching boy shorts—hoping this would happen? She’d told herself it was because her clothes were black and she needed black underwear, but what a lie. It’s a thousand wonders she hadn’t put on a garter belt and stockings.

He started to pull her to her feet, but she stopped him. “Wait.”

He opened his eyes wide and tilted his head, waiting.

“I should tell you I heard on the news that the salt trucks are out and the interstate should be passable by noon. That’s in about an hour.” After all, if he weren’t trapped here in this snow globe, he would probably want to leave.

He shrugged and pulled her to him. “No difference to me. I have to be at practice tomorrow at eleven-thirty. Unless you want me to go”—he kissed her until her bones disappeared into nothing—“I like it here until then. Especially, if you will let me wash my clothes tonight while we
sleep.
” He laughed a little around the word
sleep.

What the hell? What difference did it make if she stayed in this snow globe just a little longer?

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.”

He ran his hand underneath her shirt and worked his fingers under the lace of her bra.

“Good. I think your naughty lace sent a text message to my penis, inviting him to a Christmas party. He would be very disappointed.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,”
Noel’s naughty bits said.

“Shut up!”
she commanded.

But she let him chase her into the bedroom.

The dogs got the turkey, and Nickolai laughed out loud again. He liked that movie,
A Christmas Story
, especially the parts about the leg lamp and where Ralphie’s friend gets his tongue stuck to the flagpole. Nickolai could see why they ran it for twenty-four hours, and that was working out especially well for him since he kept dozing off. He might manage to see the whole thing by the time the day was over. Ralphie and his family were in the Chinese restaurant again. He’d seen that part several times, so he took the opportunity to look to the other end of the couch where Noel sat sewing with his feet in her lap. He’d started out with his head in her lap, and he’d liked that better except she had kept covering his face up with her little quilt thing.

“How are you doing down there?” he asked.

She glanced at him. “I’m doing okay. Did you decide to wake up again?”

He yawned.
“Da.
You wore me out.” Not far from the truth. If possible, the second time had been even better than the first. Every time he thought he couldn’t like her more, she surprised him with something else. Who could have guessed she would be wearing the underwear of a high-price call girl under her prim little clothes? Or that she would be so bold in bed?

“I think you’re worn out because you sat up all night with a Yule log.”

“I don’t want to displease you because I keep sleeping.”

She looked up surprised. “Why would that displease me?”