“Why are you trying to get rid of me?”
My sigh sounds more like a growl. “For the fifth time, Celia, I’m not trying 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 I did just 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 was going to 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 guy is coming 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. There is a 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 I am capable 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.”
I’m not entirely sure how to respond, so instead I ask, “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”
He looks stunned by the abrupt change of topic, but recovers quickly. “Coffee would be nice, thanks.”
The familiar routine of measuring grounds and water is comforting. When Hugh texted last night and suggested coming here today, I agreed without much thought. Then I spent all morning feeling fluttery and anxious, wondering if I should have suggested we meet in a public place. It’s not that I’m nervous about being alone with him, but I’m uncertain about my own feelings toward him.
After putting milk, sugar, and two mugs on a tray, I remember the package of fancy cookies I bought recently and hid behind the crackers Celia doesn’t like. I arrange a few on a plate, then stick a few more on for good measure. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to play hostess. The only person who visits is Bridget, and she always helps herself to stuff when she’s here. The coffee finishes percolating, so I add the pot to the tray, instantly regretting my decision not to make two trips as I heft the tray off the counter and balance it in both hands.
I’m halfway to the living room, inching along at a snail’s pace when Hugh notices me. He jumps off the couch and offers me a quick smile as he takes the tray with ease and sets it on the coffee table. Several brochures are spread out on the table; he must have been leafing through one and discarded it when he hopped up to help me.
He waits until I sit on the opposite end of the couch before returning to his seat. Perching on the edge of the cushion, he begins pouring coffee into the mugs. I watch in wonder as he adds a heaping spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk to one, stirs it, and hands it to me.
“I’m sorry if I offended you before,” he says. “As I said, it wasn’t a judgment so much as an observation. It truly is a lovely place and you seem comfortable here.” His brows draw together again. “Have I done something wrong?”
I realize he means the coffee, so I shake my head quickly. “How did you know this is how I take my coffee?”
“You had two cups with lunch yesterday,” he says. He picks up his own cup without adding milk or sugar—blech—and takes a sip. “Mmm, good and strong, just how I like it.”
“Bridget never lets me make coffee,” I tell him. “Her dad used to say I made it strong enough to put hair on your chest.”
Hugh chuckles, the rich, warm sound wrapping around me and putting me at ease. “I’ve already got that covered, so no worries.” He rubs a hand on his chest over his blue pullover.
Goodbye ease. Now I’m thinking about Hugh’s chest. Hugh’s hairy chest? I’ve never been attracted to hairy chests before, but it would suit Hugh. He’s got that sexy, rugged thing going on. Oh god, why am I thinking about Hugh’s bare chest?
“Anyway,” I say a little too forcefully. “You didn’t offend me about the apartment. I’d never really thought about it before, to be honest. To an outsider, it probably looks like I just moved in, even though I’ve been here six years.” I scan the room again; the bookcase is the only personal thing in this room, with all my books, some framed photos, and now my beautiful succulent. I’ve bought a few art prints over the years and always intended to get them framed, but haven’t got around to it.
“The minimalist look works,” Hugh says.
I laugh to myself. “It wasn’t intentional. My parents died when I was young, and my aunt and uncle took me in. My aunt is the one you could legitimately call a minimalist. She practically considers clutter a mortal sin.”
He chuckles at that. “She’d have hated my mum’s house, then. It was chock-full of bits and bobs and mismatched furniture, with artwork and framed photographs covering every square inch of the walls.” I smile, thinking how nice that sounds. At the same moment I realize he spoke of his mother in the past tense, he ducks his head so our eyes meet. “I’m sorry about your parents. I lost my mum ten years ago, and my dad passed about five years ago.”
Our gazes hold, unblinking, for several long beats. Until two years ago when Bridget’s dad died, I’d never had a friend who’d lost a parent. People have always been sympathetic, but none of them truly know what it’s like unless they’ve lived through it. People saying they’re sorry usually make me uncomfortable because I don’t know what to say in return. I often feel like I need to make it okay for the other person since I know they’re as clueless as I am when it comes to giving and receiving condolences. But Hugh gets it. I can see it in his eyes, that unique kind of pain, the grief that looms over you like a shadow. “I’m sorry for your loss too.” Without thinking, I reach out. He meets me part way, closing his large hand around mine.
We hold hands for a minute, and then he takes a deep breath and gently releases me. “Some of the best stories have orphans as their heroes. Have you ever noticed that? Harry Potter. Oliver Twist. Anne Shirley.”
“Anne Shirley?” I sputter out a surprised laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve read Anne of Green Gables?”
“Oh, aye.” He rubs the back of his neck. Is that color creeping into his cheeks? “I’m guessing you have too?”
“About a million times. One of my teachers gave it to me after my parents died, and I read it so many times it’s falling apart.” I get up from the couch and go to the bookcase, gingerly pulling the tattered copy from a shelf and motioning to the books beside it. “I have about eight other editions. I don’t remember when I started collecting them; I’d buy them here and there since there are so many different covers. Bridget even brought me one she found in a second-hand shop in Ireland.”
He joins me, leaning in to inspect my collection. “I read it in university when I was writing a paper about loss and grief in literature. It ended up becoming a favorite of mine as well.”
“University?” I’m not sure why that surprises me.
“I took psychology at St. Andrew’s in Scotland.”
“Where Prince William and Kate Middleton went?” His eyes light with laughter, so I feel compelled to add, “Bridget and her mom are obsessed with the royal family. I guess it’s kind of rubbed off over the years.”
He nods like it makes perfect sense. “Same school. I got my degree and even had a small practice in Scotland for a while. I quit when…”
“When…?” I prompt.
“When my dad died and I decided to leave Scotland.” He runs a hand down his face, the friction over his stubble making a quiet scratching sound. “I enjoyed the work, but I didn’t love it. Oddly enough, it comes in handy as Santa Claus. You know how the elves have a special time to see me on Monday nights? It started as a bit of fun and ended up being something that stuck. They tell me whatever’s on their mind. I listen, give advice, or sometimes just lend an ear or a shoulder, depending on what they need. They joke about there being some magic to it because they always feel better afterward, but it’s basic psychology, really. People want to be heard. They want to know they matter. That their feelings and opinions are valid.”
I nod slowly. Makes sense. I can also understand the feeling of there being some magic to it. There’s something about Hugh that makes me want to drop my guard and spill all my thoughts and feelings.
“It must feel good knowing you’re still helping people,” I say. “You bring a lot of joy to the kids as Santa Claus, and the staff seem to love you. Plus there’s all you do for children’s literacy.”
“Ah, speaking of which.” It’s not a dismissal, yet I get the sense he wants to change the subject. He reaches for the brochures on the coffee table and hands one to me, along with a red pen. They remind me of the booklets I used to get from Scholastic in elementary school; my mom always joked we should own shares in the publishing company because she and my dad bought so many books from them between the catalogues and the yearly book fair at my school.
“These are all new and upcoming releases,” he says. “There’s a short synopsis for each book under the cover, plus a bit about the author. I always aim for books with wide appeal that won’t offend or alienate people, which means nothing that focuses on parents or nuclear families, religion, et cetera. We want books about friendship, life lessons, animals, that sort of thing.”
We start going through the brochures. For several minutes, the only sounds are the flipping of pages and the scratching of pens. After awhile, I say, “Maybe I should make it a New Year’s resolution to give this place a more personal feel.”
Hugh taps his pen against his bottom lip. The motion hypnotizes me for a moment—or more accurately, his full, biteable lip hypnotizes me. “You could, if that’s something you really want.”
“I do. You know those well-meaning acquaintances who tell you things about your life and how you should live it based on how they would live their life?”
Hugh arches a brow. “Like someone telling you your place lacks personal touches?”
“Yes. No! I wasn’t talking about you,” I say quickly.
Hugh bows his head. He presses his lips together, which does nothing to hide the telltale crinkles around his eyes. “I was kidding, Ivy. Go on.”
“Okay, well, those type of people have been telling me for a few years that I’m wasting money on my apartment and I should buy a place. I’m almost thirty, it’s time to be an adult, it would be a good investment, yada yada. But the thing is, I like this apartment. I like the neighborhood, I like the fact things are taken care of for me, the super is nice, the rent is reasonable. I like that it’s mine, but I never thought too much about making it feel like mine. I always spent a lot of time at Bridget’s apartment, and then when she moved in with her mom after her dad died, I was there so much I practically lived with them.”
His smile is soft and almost wistful. “You two are like sisters.” It’s a statement rather than a question, and it makes my heart squeeze. Hugh spent less than an hour with us yesterday and already understands that. Then there’s Celia, who can’t seem to grasp my bond with Bridget, and is often petty and hurtful about how close we are.
“We are. I’d do anything for her and she feels the same.” I clear my throat, feeling suddenly emotional and missing Bridget even though I just spent the day with her yesterday. “Anyway, I’m used to this place being how it is and never thought much about doing anything else with it. And now with Celia living here indefinitely…”
“It’s still your place, though,” Hugh says. “She’ll eventually move on, and you’ll likely stay, at least for a time. You should be able to do whatever you please, whether that’s painting the walls bright blue, hanging art, bringing in new furniture, or getting a pet. Whatever makes it feel like home.”
I chuckle at his suggestions. “I don’t know about the bright blue or the pet. I’ve actually never had a pet. I’ve always thought I’d be a dog person, and I don’t think it’s fair for a dog to be cooped up in here. I’ll give serious thought to the art and maybe even the new furniture, though. Or at least a few throw pillows or something for the couch.”
We return to our task. It’s not long before Hugh glances at his watch and says, “Would you like to go out for dinner?”
“Oh. Umm.” Surprise leaves me speechless. My mind scrambles for a response—or more accurately, an excuse, although I’m not completely sure why I’d turn him down.
Hugh angles his body toward me, putting himself a few inches closer to me. “Ivy, I’ll be honest. I know we just met, but I like you. You’re smart and funny and interesting. I don’t know if you’re looking for something casual, serious, or even if you’re looking at all. Things are a bit up in the air for me right now. If the city doesn’t come through and renew their contract for next year, I might be returning to Scotland until next winter. I’m not normally the sort for casual, but maybe, if you’re agreeable, we could hang out, see how it goes. Nothing official, no labels, no strings. Would you be open to seeing where things might lead between us, even if that just means friendship?”
Oh, he’s good. He’s covered all his bases without seeming pushy or demanding. If any other guy had said something like that to me, I’d probably think he was trying to get into my good graces—or into my pants. But from what I’ve seen, Hugh doesn’t seem to have an insincere bone in his body. And I do hate dating; there’s so much pressure and uncertainty. I’ve always secretly hoped I’d just fall into a relationship and skip the whole awkward dating phase. It might seem ridiculous and unrealistic, but that’s basically what happened with Bridget and David, so I know it does happen.
And the truth is, I like Hugh. Bridget says I’m a romantic and there’s nothing wrong with holding out for Mr. Right instead of settling for Mr. Right Now. But who’s to say if Hugh starts out as the latter, he can’t turn into the former? Maybe it’s time to start making some changes in my life—get my apartment whipped into shape, usher Celia along with her own life plans, and perhaps work on my lackluster love life. It’s been way too long since I’ve taken a chance and gone outside my comfort zone.
“Dinner sounds good. Do you like Greek?”