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THE NIGHTS BEFORE CHRISTMAS
“Here we are.” Quinn turned on a lamp
on the oak desk at the back of the room and tipped the shade toward
the wall. Then sat on the bed, swung his legs up, moved over and
patted the dark blue comforter beside him. “All aboard.”
Cathy took off her shoes and sat next to him, less nervous than
she had been in his living room. He arranged the pillows comfortably
at their backs, then clinked her glass with his again and they both
drank. The brandy burned less going down now, and fortified her
more. The seduction pressure was off. She was going to spend intimate
time with her fantasy man.
This could be totally fun.
“Question and answer time.” Her fantasy man settled
himself against the pillow. “Tell me, Cathy . . .”
“Yes?”
“What’s your favorite food when you’re sad?”
She shot him a sideways look, equal parts surprised and charmed
by the question. “You’ll laugh.”
“Try me.”
“Okay.” A deep dramatic breath as if she needed it
for courage. “Oreos.”
“That’s funny?”
“Dipped in peanut butter.”
“Still not funny.”
“Then rainbow sprinkles.”
“Hmm . . .”
“And mayonnaise.”
He pressed his hand to his mouth as if to stop himself spewing
brandy. “Please say you’re kidding.”
“I am.” She giggled. “About the mayo.”
“Good.” He drained his glass and leaned over to put
it on the floor. “Oreos with peanut butter and sprinkles is
a perfect sad food, why did you think I’d laugh?”
Cathy shrugged. “I don’t know. Yours is probably loin
of venison with juniper berry reduction.”
“Ha! Now I’m laughing. Why would you think that?”
“Because . . .” She examined her glass, feeling foolish.
“You’re so . . .”
“Stuffy?”
“No, not at all.” She turned toward him and her heart
lurched again when she met those deep perfect eyes that turned down
slightly at the corners and made her—
“Okay, not stuffy, then what?”
She forced her gaze to her own feet so she could follow the conversation.
“Experienced and . . . sophisticated and smooth, and—”
“Macaroni and cheese. From a box. With a side of Ho-Hos.”
“Yeah?” She turned to him again, wondering what it
was about being here on his bed that made him seem less intimidating,
less fantasy-like, in spite of the jolt she got from eye contact.
Maybe it was the idea of him eating macaroni and cheese and Ho-Hos
to make himself feel better. Or even the idea that a man like Quinn
had anything to be that upset about.
“Yeah. Now ask me one.”
“Okay.” She took another sip and moved to a more comfortable
position, giddy at their unexpected camaraderie. “What’s
your favorite country to visit?”
“Since I’m going there next week, England.”
“And if you weren’t going there next week?”
“England.”
“Why?”
“No language barriers, good restaurants in London, great
pub culture. Short distances to Scotland, Wales, Ireland, the continent.
I lived outside London as an exchange student when I was a boy,
and went back to spend a couple of summers after that. So it’s
a little like a second home.”
“And what made you want to spend a year there now?”
“That’s two questions, Cathy.”
She grimaced, squashing a cheap thrill at the sound of his deep
voice saying her name. “I cheated.”
“Full pardon.” He sent a contemplative stare out into
the room. “I’m going because I’ve started feeling
restless and dissatisfied, though I love my job at Connoisseur.
But even though individual assignments still fascinate me, every
year it feels like more of the same. I’m traveling to places
only long enough to capture a surface portrait, then back home only
long enough to reconnect with my life before I have to leave again.
I want to delve more deeply into photography, academically speaking.
And try my hand at some of my own artistic work. Not to mention
just be in one place for a while.”
“Wow.” God, he had depth, too. More than that, she
could relate to his feelings of restless dissatisfaction, only instead
of traveling abroad and seeking new enriching challenges, she took
up knitting again.
She dared a glance at him again. Who could resist? But just a
glance, or she’d start staring again like an adoring puppy.
“That sounds incredible.”
“It is what it is.”
“I’ve never been anywhere.”
“Nowhere?” He was clearly skeptical.
“Well, Canada, and summers in Vermont. And on a Caribbean
cruise. And my family took a road trip out west, and—”
“That’s not anywhere?”
“Well it’s not . . . exotic and—”
“The Caribbean isn’t exotic?”
“I mean it’s . . .” She gestured impatiently
toward the window with her glass. “Mostly I’m here.”
“In the most culturally rich, dynamic, sophisticated city
in the world. Yeah, I’d say you’ve barely lived.”
“No, but . . .”
He reached over and, oh heaven, laid his hand on her thigh. “Why
are you putting yourself down? You do that at the office, too.”
“I do?” She stared at the long, strong fingers spanning
her leg, feeling his warmth seeping through to her skin, and she
started to think that maybe talking wasn’t going to be quite
enough to see her through the evening.
“You told me you always eat boring food for lunch and—”
“I do eat boring food for lunch.”
“—and you aren’t as sexy as Gwyneth in editorial,
and—”
“She used to be a model! She’s unbelievable.”
“—Gerard Butler wouldn’t look at you twice,
and—”
“He wouldn’t.”
“What makes you so sure?” He gestured, which meant
he had to take his hand off her thigh, which she thought should
be made illegal in all fifty states.
“Well, come on.” She finished her brandy, happy and
glowing, and put the glass on his bedside table. “He’s
. . . have you seen this man?”
“Yes. But he hasn’t seen you, so you don’t know.”
“Oh, for—” She rolled her eyes in pretend exasperation.
“I’m not the kind who turns heads. It’s not a
big deal, I’m not making myself out to be some gruesome Griselda,
it’s just the truth.”
He turned toward her, head still resting against the wall. “You
turned mine.”
She caught her breath and gave in to the adoring puppy stare thing,
because there was nothing else she could do. “Oh . . . but
. . .”
“But what? Would I have invited you into bed if I wasn’t
attracted to you?”
“That was the sexy underwear.” She was moving her
mouth, words were coming out, but all she was aware of was blue,
blue eyes that were looking at her with heat which reflected itself
in some of her body’s very favorite places.
“Even if you’d shown up without the sexy underwear.”
“Really?” She felt as if she were at the top of a
high, very slippery slope, peering down and wondering how that first
step would feel.
“Especially if you’d shown up without it.” He
gave a Groucho Marx waggle to his eyebrows and she burst out laughing.
Saved from herself, thank goodness. Saved by this totally unexpected
side of him that she was loving. At the office he was smooth, sexy,
über-masculine, charming, sometimes flirty, but not like this—casual
and boyish and just . . . fun.
“My turn to ask you something, Cathy Ann Johnson.”
She managed to stop laughing, but giggles stayed at the ready.
“Okay.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the ugliest building in Brooklyn, Fifth Avenue and Eighth
Street.”
“Eighth Street? I know that address. I love that building.
It looks like some fabulous futuristic castle.”
“Uh . . . it looks like someone ripped up the blueprints,
taped them randomly back together and said, ‘Okay, build this.’”
“When you get home, look again.”
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