Just For The Holidays (Home for the Holidays)

11. Nichol

Chapter 11

Nichol

Full Bellies and Butterful Glutes

N ichol perches on the stool, facing the kitchen, propped on his elbows at the counter. The barefoot baker slips a frilly pink apron over his unkempt bed hair, knotting it around his waist using thick freckled forearms. He rolls the sleeves of the thin white t-shirt, offering a delicious view of biceps, flexing and softening as he works, scrambling the eggs and buttering toast. His fingers pinch seasonings and scatter them over the pan with elegant flair. Snug denim hugs the curvature of his sculpted glutes, down to his bulging calves and his short wide-set toes wriggle as his feet sweep about the kitchen floor.

Frying eggs and toasting bread have never smelt more enticing. Men who cook, are so fucking sexy. New kink, unlocked.

Nichol licks the edge of his lips, swallowing the gathering pool under his tongue, chasing it with a swig of coffee.

Teddy glides around the kitchen, occasionally glancing over at Nichol, patiently waiting. The baker softly blushes and chews his cheek each time their eyes meet, then returns his focus to the task at hand.

Nichol’s pupils dilate with a resurgent intoxication, lingering from last night's unfinished business. The pulsing vascular map in his body swells the temperature at his core, tightening the crotch of his jeans. He grabs another cardstock menu, waving it in front of his face, to dismiss the heat radiating through his chest and head.

Teddy carries two mounded plates to the counter, setting one in front of Nichol. “Breakfast is served.” He smiles proudly at his work.

The egg scramble, sprinkled with gooey melted cheddar, glistens like it's fresh off a magazine page, with two slices of thick sliced sourdough bread toast, evenly golden from crust to crust, sopping up generous dollops of creamy hand-whipped butter.

The baker pulls two forks from the pocket of his candy-hearts apron and sets one next to Nichol’s plate before stabbing a helping of cheddar eggs and popping it into his mouth.

Nichol follows suit, pressing a forkful to his tongue, closing his eyes dreamily as the salty cloud melts in his mouth. The moan that rumbles his greasy lips refuses to be controlled.

He opens his eyes to Teddy, chewing through a wide grin, and proudly winging a delighted eyebrow.

Teddy piles a mound of egg onto the corner of his toast and bites the chunk away, without breaking eye contact or his pleased grin.

Nichol fills his mouth with another forkful, staring into Teddy’s sea-blue eyes, “This is delicious… Thank you,” he says, chewing the cheesy mush.

They finish breakfast quietly, each averting their eyes from a churning awkwardness, until the phone, next to the register, begins to ring.

“Buttercup Confections,” Teddy answers, swallowing his last bit of breakfast. “Hello Mrs. Macavoy, how are you?” He searches behind the counter, collecting a pen and notepad, and leans down on an elbow ready to take the caller’s order.

Nichol rises off the stool and twirls his coat around his body, gracefully slipping arms into its sleeves and tugging it closed around his full belly. He mouths the words “Thank you,” and waves, stepping toward the door.

“One second, Mrs. Macavoy,” Teddy pauses the call. “See you later?” he asks, trying to mask the pout on his face with a crooked smile.

“Sure,” Nichol responds in unison with the jingling bell, announcing his exit.

Teddy returns to the call and Nichol makes his way out to the sidewalk, rounding the Tesla, which welcomes him with slow-strobing headlights, as its Blue-tooth radar recognizes the fob in his pocket. He drops into the cockpit, greeted by a pixelated smiling face blipping onto the tablet screen and blasting rapidly warming air from its vents, like a timid hug. The hi-tech chariot’s apologies don’t sway his bitterness for being left stranded at 3 am, until his eyes float back to the bakery window, gazing through flickering rainbow-refracted panes, at the hunky baker huddled over the counter, chatting joyfully with the customer on the phone. Maybe the magnificent piece of futuristic technology had an insightful plan after all.

Nichol pulls his phone from his coat pocket, taps it awake and searches for the rental company’s contact info he had saved, but realizes there are no service bars lit up. The stupid device is still useless.

A few finger taps on the car’s tablet power it down. He climbs back out of the cockpit, tossing the fob onto the seat, and walks toward Buttercup Confections’ front door, pausing to fill his lungs with chilly winter air and clear his mind, before continuing to twist the knob and jingle the bell.

Teddy is finished with his call, lifts his eyes from the notepad, and smiles. “Hey . . .”

“Hey . . .” Nichol responds, “Can I use the phone… Stupid car is dead,” he lies.

“Of course.” Teddy stands upright, passing the telephone receiver to Nichol.

Nichol leans his elbows on the counter, holding the mobile phone with the rental company’s number on the screen, toward Teddy. “Dial that up for me?”

The baker holds eye contact as his fingers tap buttons on the phone's receiver and passes it over.

“Thank you,” Nichol whispers, sitting down on a stool and making arrangements with the customer service rep to come collect the car, here on Main Street.