Just For The Holidays (Home for the Holidays)

3. Nichol

Chapter 3

Nichol

Peep Show

N ichol stares at the storefront window, turned into a wall of monitor screens—against the night outside—broadcasting a riveting peep-show of the beefy ginger, scurrying out of the washroom and across the shop. His thick belly and furry mounded chest bounce with his stride, as he clutches the thin bath towel wrapped around his waist, leaving little to the imagination under bright spotlights.

What a shame it would be if that towel fell loose.

Nichol can’t quite figure out how the bearded stranger might know his name. Clearing the thickness in his throat, he spins on his heels—once the hunky baker is safely tucked away—and takes a seat on one of five chrome barstools with pink-vinyl cushions, lined up to the counter.

The little bakery hasn’t changed either; nothing in this town ever does. He recalls his mother telling him about Gertie Monroe’s passing, during one of her bi-monthly telephone check-ins, while he was busy with a task and only half listening—as usual. He hasn’t thought about any of these people in years.

“Are you the new owner?” Nichol calls to the back room, finger-flipping through sugar packets lined up in a small porcelain dish on the counter.

“Yep,’’ a gruff voice calls back.

The latch of a short metal gate clinks as he reappears from his dressing room, wearing a green plaid flannel, over a white tee and snug jeans, supporting all those scrumptious curves.

His cheeks are peachy and his eyes briefly meet Nichol’s, before he trots to the counter, searching and crouching to collect a cordless phone.

“Here you go.” He practically tosses the device into Nichol’s hand.

“Thanks.” Nichol taps the "on" button, holding the phone to his ear, but there’s no dial tone. “I think it’s dead?”

“Shit.” The bearded hunk flushes with panic. “I forget to put it back on the charger all the time.” His cheeks glow over a nervous smile. “Sorry, Nichol.”

Electronics are the bane of his existence at the moment.

“Sorry, but do we know each other?” Nichol narrows his eyes.

The shop owner’s jaw hangs slack for a moment. “Teddy… Monroe. Gertie was my grandmother... I was in your sister’s class,” he says.

“Oh! Right.” Nichol still has no recollection.

“You said your car broke down?” Teddy scoops coffee grounds into a large silver brewer and carries a clear plastic pitcher to the sink at the back of the room.

Nichol’s eyes wander down to Teddy’s plump denim rump, “Yeah. My rental quit on me,” he swallows.

Teddy strolls back to the coffeemaker and fills its reservoir. “Visiting for the holiday?” He flips a switch, igniting gurgles and hissing from the machine.

The tantalizing scent of fresh brew fills the air and Teddy’s paprika-sprinkled firearms flex out of rolled sleeves, as he hurls a bin of mugs from a wire rack at the center of the kitchen, and plops them onto the counter next to the coffee maker.

“Coffee?”

Nichol’s eyes are fixed on pillowy pec-cleavage peeking through thin white cotton. “No thank you. I haven’t got cash on me.”

“I take cards.” Teddy rattles two mugs, placing them both under the spout.

Nichol’s jaw hangs while he searches for any excuse that isn’t; I’m broke.

“I’m kidding.” Teddy smirks, “Coffee is free.”

“Then absolutely, yes please?” Nichol smiles.

“Hungry?”

Nichol pensively shakes his head “No.”

“I have bagels left over from yesterday’s batch that I need to donate to the food pantry.” His sea-blue eyes meet Nichol’s. “I’m going to have one before I go. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

Nichol chews his lip.

“No charge.” Teddy spins on his heel and collects a sack of bagels from a wicker basket on the wire shelf.

“Oh, okay.” Nichol is starved.

“Cream cheese?” Teddy offers.

“Please.” Nichol accepts.

“That’s three dollars.”

Nichol’s brows pinch and his upper lip curls.

“Just kidding.” Teddy chuckles, bracing the bagels under his palm, slicing both in one sawing sweep with a long bread knife and popping them into a toaster oven. He turns back to the coffeepot and fills the mugs, handing one off to Nichol. “Cream? —Sugar is right there,” he nods at Nichol’s fingers fidgetly flipping the packets.

“Oat milk?” Nichol requests.

“Coming up.” Teddy’s ass cheeks totter back to the fridge.

Nichol savors a good long gaze at the baker’s backside before Teddy returns with a carton in hand.

“Thanks, Teddy?” Nichol hopes he got that right.

“Where’s your car?” The hunk doesn’t correct him.

Phew! Nichol twists on the stool and points at their reflections in the black window glass. “It’s dead, in the middle of the street,” he turns back.

Teddy stares with wide eyes at his reflection, red-faced, obviously realizing his half-naked body had been on full display minutes ago.

Nichol smirks when their eyes meet again.

“My assistant will be in soon,” Teddy swigs from his steaming mug, wincing and sucking air through his teeth. “I’ll give you a ride,” he mutters, “on my way to drop by the pantry.”

The entry bell chimes on cue, and a short woman with shaggy dyed-black hair falling over darkly smudged eyes, dressed in a faded band t-shirt and shredded skinny jeans, stomps through with chunky soled boots.

“Speak of the devil.” Teddy’s eyes follow her. “Hey, Loren.”

She circles past him, dropping a backpack on the floor next to the sink, and grunts a morning greeting, as she tugs a comically frilly pink apron off the wall and angrily knots it around her waist.

The toaster oven dings.

Teddy collects the golden rings, slathering the bagel halves with generous layers of cream cheese, and sandwiches each into folded wax paper. “I’ll be back. I’m going over to the pantry and dropping Nichol off.”

Loren snarls and grunts in recognition.

“Let’s go,” Teddy whispers, handing Nichol his crinkly hot bundle, scooping up his mug of coffee with the bag of day-old bounty tucked under an arm, and traipses toward the door.

Nichol follows, past the jingling bell, out the door, and into the alley between the little bakery and Eye See You Optometry .