The Baby Made at Christmas. Lilian Darcy
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other speak. They were comfortable with one another, instantly familiar.
He was the one to say it, finally, muttering just inches from her mouth, “So shall we get out of here?”
“Let’s.”
“Where?” he asked, as they threaded their way between the crowded tables. He was behind her, not touching her to claim possession the way some men did. She liked that he could keep his hands to himself, in his jacket pockets, and didn’t feel the need to signal the kind of look-what-I’ve-got message that she’d seen played out in this very bar by countless couples.
Once in the snowy dark, she suggested, “My place?” and he nodded.
“Has to be better than mine. Haven’t had a chance to find anything decent, yet. I’m sleeping on a friend’s couch.”
“Boy, you really did come here in a hurry.”
He shook his head, looking angry. “I don’t handle unjustified accusations well.”
“No?”
“Boss thought I was coming on to his wife. I wasn’t.”
“Did she think you were?”
“No. And she told him he was wrong, but that was after he’d tried to punch me, so as far as I was concerned, it was too late. He drinks too much. He’s a disaster. He wasn’t going to let it go. He would have been watching me every moment from then on. He was on a hair trigger about it.” Mac shook his head again. “Better for all three of us if I took myself out of the equation.”
“But it’s mucked up your life, somewhat.”
“My life will get back on track.” He sounded very confident, and she believed him. He was the kind of man who exuded a quiet certainty about his own identity and strength.
Maybe that’s why...
Why she was inviting a near-stranger back to her apartment. Why she had no doubts about it at all. Why she wanted him in the first place.
They walked, the soles of their boots crunching on ice and gritty road. He took note of the direction they were going, and said, “You must be in a pretty nice part of town.”
And just at that moment they came around a bend and there was the Narmans’ place, all lit up, looking like the eleven-million-dollar property that it was. He stopped short. “This?”
“Yes, but—”
He was looking at her, appalled, as if she’d grown three heads. “I thought you were an instructor.”
“I am. I live here, but it’s not mine. Lordy, no! I wouldn’t even want a place like this. I’m the janitor, part-time.”
“The janitor.”
“Caretaker. House sitter. Housekeeper. Person who calls repairmen. Jill-of-all-trades. I have a tiny apartment under the floor, where I am intimately acquainted with the flow of water in the pipes, as you soon will be, also.” She gave him a jaunty grin, because, really, the pipes weren’t that bad.
He burst out laughing. “You are my kind of woman, Lee.”
Chapter Three
Upstairs, the Narmans’ party was still in full swing.
Lee and Mac crept around the side of the house to her little side entrance, where the snow she’d had to dig out from the steps three days ago made gleaming blue-white walls on either side. Nobody saw them. All the drapes were open, but nobody was looking out into the dark. They were all too busy spilling drinks on the floor and filling the trash cans with empty bottles.
“Will you have to clear up after that lot?” Mac asked as he waited for her to get out her key.
“Not personally, but I’ll have to organize the cleaners first thing in the morning. This is not a planned event, unfortunately.”
“Will you be able to get anyone? It’ll be Christmas Day.”
“I have some good arrangements in place with local companies. Cleaners, caterers, repairmen, suppliers. They know the drill, and the Narmans pay well. I told them the family was bringing in a big group and they might be needed at short notice. It only happens a couple of times a year.” She turned the key in the lock and he followed her in, and reality hit.
She was here, in her own private space, with a man she hadn’t even known when she’d left her cozy nest four hours ago. She had a moment of utter panic, and didn’t know where to begin. Offer him—? Tell him—? Touch him and—?
She turned, on the point of giving a babbled apology.
You’ll have to go. I don’t do this. I really don’t.
But then she saw him standing there, hands deep in the pockets of that familiar red ski jacket, and she felt a rush of calm—if calm could come in a rush. He wasn’t lunging for her. He wasn’t leering with intent. He was simply taking a quiet look around. At her bookshelves. At her neat kitchen, where the expensive espresso coffee machine was her only visible indulgence.
“I can see why you live here on your own,” he said. “There’s not a whole lot of room for two.”
“It suits me. I’m on the slopes all day. Nice to have a warm rabbit burrow to come home to.”
“I guess. You don’t get lonely?”
“No, I like it. You?”
“Mostly in the past I’ve shared with a couple of guys. Ones who aren’t total pigs, but who also don’t have to vacuum the windowsills twice a day. Don’t know what I’ll do for accommodation here.”
“Those guys exist? Really?”
He laughed, then looked at her open bedroom door, through which he could see the double bed, covered in its indulgent piles of bright silk pillows and thick, puffy comforter. She hated sleeping in a warm room, and always turned the heating way down at night, but loved to snuggle under cozy covers.
Maybe not tonight. Tonight the comforter might have to go, and they would need the air warm....
He stopped looking at her apartment and looked at her instead. “Nice coffee machine.”
“Makes nice coffee.”
“Want to make some now?” he suggested.
“Sure. Want to help?”
She liked that he was as nervous as she was, that he wanted to ease into this, take some time. When she went into the kitchen, he came after her. “So what’s my job?”
“Choosing mugs. Top shelf, there. Or on the hooks.”
“You don’t trust me with the technical part?”
“It’s a one-person job.” Which she did with her back to him, while she heard him clinking the mugs.
“You have too many mugs for a kitchen this size, I would have thought,” he said.
“I like nice ones.” Pretty mugs, cute mugs, silly mugs, clever mugs. She knew she had too many. At least sixty, which was why she needed a whole shelf, and half a wall covered in hooks. Turning, she found he’d chosen two from a set she especially loved.
“These are great,” he said. “Book covers.”
“Penguin Classics paperbacks, the original cover designs. Don’t you love buying on the internet?”
“Why these?” In his hand, he rotated the purple-and-white of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. On the counter sat a green-and-white Agatha Christie, The Body in the Library.
“I have others. Pride and Prejudice. Great Expectations. And there are heaps in the series that I don’t have.”
“So you don’t need to read the books, you just buy the mugs.”