The Christmas Crush

Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Elena had a talent for making ninety percent feel like one hundred and ten percent. She slept with her head rested on his chest, arms and legs tangled with his. Morning light, veiled by sheer curtains, showed off the contours of Elena’s body. Accustomed to waking early for the bakery, he didn’t think he could fall back to sleep at this point. It was fine by him if they lay here all day, because the longer they did, the longer he could suspend time, pretend the outside world didn’t exist. Who cared about rent or competitors when Elena’s breath tickled his skin, when she let him hold her all night? The cold outside might as well be a thousand miles away, this place their hot, hidden refuge.

He lifted his free arm, turned it until he found the red marks where her nails had pressed. He smiled, the memory of her touch electric. She stirred, sighing, and he craved another kiss, a fresh chance to touch her, to watch her eyelids flutter and her lips part. His hand dove under the sheet to touch her.

Then he stopped himself an inch away.

What if, instead, he did something for her, to show her how much he … what, cared for her? Could take care of her?

He couldn’t identify why he hesitated. A half-buried suspicion it would be hard to leave this bed not just now, but ever, added to his sudden confusion. Then a reluctance to admit that as much as he enjoyed her body, he also enjoyed her concern, how she’d worried about his safety in the blizzard. Hinted he mattered to her on a deeper level.

He shut his eyes to quiet his mind.

A plan formed, but what would she make of it? What if she thought he was overstepping, or got annoyed, or felt differently than she had in last night’s dizzy passion? On the other hand, what if he ignored those persistent uncertainties and did what he wanted? What he hoped was right?

Moving as gently as possible, he unwound their bodies. Elena mumbled his name; he kissed her cheek to reassure her. “I’ll be back, darling,” he promised quietly. “You rest.”

She pulled the sheet around herself, nestled into her pillow as he stood. He located his jeans on the floor, next to her red sweatpants. Pulled them on, the belt buckle rattling.

He slipped through the bathroom door and found an unopened toothbrush. Brushed his teeth and washed his face, hoped he didn’t look too scruffy with his stubble. Walking back through the bedroom, he saw one of her long legs escape the sheet as she rolled to her side. All the sensations from the night before returned at once, sent his blood racing, warmed his cheeks. Getting back in bed would be the easy way to show her affection, but he was determined to level up and show her in other ways too.

In the kitchen, he took stock of her refrigerator’s and cabinets’ contents. Ramen, a half-eaten bag of granola, baby carrots. Not an egg in sight, and they’d used all his last night. The cookies still sat on the baking pans. He clicked one against the aluminum. Yep, it could substitute for a hockey puck. Back at the cabinets he found a major chocolate stash but nothing else valuable. Maybe he should take her grocery shopping.

Behind an oak milk—ew—carton, he found a few vanilla yogurts. Unexpired by one day. Promising. He thought the freezer might be even worse until he uncovered frozen mixed berries under several sad microwave entrees.

This task would require all his culinary creativity. From these ashes would rise a respectable breakfast.

Start with coffee. She loves coffee.

He shook grounds into the filter—she had plenty—and pressed the brew button. While he pondered the food situation, he texted Carm to tell her Sweet L’s would be closed today. Most of Main Street would do the same, he’d bet.

Although Elena’s ingredients left much to be desired, she had decent cookware. He cleared off the cookies, washed the tray, then spread it with granola. He mixed some of the pasty-smelling oat milk with the ground cinnamon he’d brought, poured it over the granola. Once that was toasting in the oven, he heated the frozen berries in a pot, used some of his leftover flour to thicken the juices. Of course Elena didn’t have cornstarch, but the flour would do.

From the bedroom he heard an alarm’s strident beeps. Elena groaned, knocked something off her nightstand that landed with a crack, and then swore with remarkable creativity. He took two footed bowls from the drying rack, put down a layer of berry compote, then a layer of yogurt, alternating the two until the bowls were full.

Another alarm, another shocking expletive that made him laugh under his breath. The sound of feet retreating to the bathroom.

He grabbed the granola from the oven, sprinkled it on the parfaits.

“Why does it smell heavenly in here?” Elena asked, coming into the room. She wore a dark-green satin robe that stole his ability to respond. “And you made coffee! Oh, I hope it snows all day so I can keep you.”

“You don’t mind I made myself at home in your kitchen?”

Elena narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t look in the cabinet above the stove, did you?”

“Sorry? Um, no, I don’t think so.” This had been a bad idea; he should’ve asked first. He knew this would happen.

“Whew. What a relief. I wouldn’t want to lose your good opinion.”

“Huh?”

“People—well, not people, but men—get disturbed by what’s in there.”

She held a serious expression long enough his nerves started jumping, and then she smiled. He swung open the cabinet door. Two cracker boxes, a bag of chips, and some paper plates.

“I had you going, didn’t I?” she asked, rocking back and forth from her heels to the balls of her feet.

“Man, you start early with your shenanigans.”

“You make it so appealing when you stare at me with those startled eyes.” Unblinking, she widened her own in imitation.

He took hold of her robe tie and yanked her to him, kissed her to stop her giggling. “You play nice.”

“Or what?”

“I won’t share my parfaits.”

“Fine, then I’ll be good.” She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his chest. Not putting on a shirt had seemed like the right idea; now, as she looked him over, he wondered what flaws she found. Without comment, she walked away, taking her parfait to a table with the sides folded down to make it fit in the small space. She ate a bite, took a spiral notebook from a stack on the floor. “Sit down. And bring the coffee, please.”

At the table he sat straight, then made himself lean back in the chair while holding his abs tight, hyperaware of his body. His appearance had always helped his confidence, but being vulnerable enough to let beautiful Elena stare at him unfiltered had him repositioning himself, hoping she’d still like what she saw.

She shook a pencil jar, searched until she found the one she required. “There’s oat milk for the coffee if you want some.”

“I’d rather add dish soap.”

“A discerning gentleman.” She turned the book to a fresh page, tipped it toward her so he couldn’t see. The pencil scratched. She studied the page, then looked back at him. “The parfait is delectable. Thank you.”

He nodded, but her attention was back on the notebook. She dropped the pencil on the table, rooted through the cup for another. He sipped his coffee self-consciously, aware of every movement he made. This morning light was pretty harsh. He shifted, knocked his elbow on the wall.

Not looking up, she said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He wanted to ask her what she was doing but didn’t want to interrupt. Her forehead crinkled, she tipped her head this way and that. Concentration like the kind he needed when baking.

“You’re hard to draw,” she said.

“Really? Sorry.”

“It’s a compliment.” She used her forefinger to blend the lead, unbothered by the stain it left on her. Finger dancing and dragging. “Very symmetrical, classically attractive people can be harder because they come out looking too perfect. It’s more challenging to capture their essence because they lack the irregularities that make depicting character easier.”

“Well, thank you. I’m sure I have plenty of … irregularities.”

“No. You look like someone a Renaissance master would paint.” Her pencil raced over the paper, quick as his heart.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Defined musculature, beautiful bones. A face close to the golden ratio.”

“Does that mean you can’t do a self-portrait? You’re perfect.”

“Nah. My eyes are too big, one eyebrow is a fraction higher than the other.” She used the pencil tip to point out this small abnormality. “My cheeks are on the full side. I could go on.”

All those traits made her flawless in his opinion.

She tapped her pencil on the table, regarded him. “I know the secret to make this sketch look like you. It’s in the eyes. They don’t have the haughtiness you’d expect to find in someone so attractive. They’re sympathetic.”

After a few more strokes, she turned the notebook around and there he was, looking more like himself than in any photo he’d ever seen. Leaning in the chair, strong, definitely a flattering angle but with his eyes a little downcast, looking to the side. Awe expanded in his chest with his inhalation. How could she already see to the core of him? Not only see it but replicate it.

“Elena, you are beyond talented. This is incredible.”

“No.” She set the notebook down, took his hand. “ You are incredible. I just managed to show you.”

And there it was, the reason why he’d wanted to make her breakfast, to feed her and see her happy when she smelled the coffee. Or one of the many reasons. Because she saw him. The real him. Not the towering guy everyone made assumptions about or the shy kid who got teased for baking, but the real him. How those things about him combined and competed inside him.

And because behind the sarcasm and the jokes, the poise and corporate polish, he could see the real her too.