by Marie Landry
“You scared me,” I call, hurrying to turn the volume down.
“Sorry.” He steps inside and closes the door. “It wasn’t closed all the way. I knocked, but you didn’t hear me so I decided to just enjoy the show.”
I cover my flaming face with my hands. I forgot to make sure the door was locked when Celia left. I’m usually careful about things like that, despite this being a secure building. Thank god it was only Hugh at the door.
Soft footfalls move toward me. “That was a spectacular performance,” he says, gently prying my hands away from my face. “I’ll never be able to hear “Mr. Brightside” again without picturing that little shimmy thing you did.”
I’m about to apologize for the fact he can never unsee my spazzy dancing when it hits me why it’s strange to see him here. “How are you here? The Village is a madhouse this week.”
His smile falters almost imperceptibly. “I had a few meetings and some other things to take care of today,” he says. “I ran into Celia at the Village before I left and she said you’d be on your own for the night. She told me in a very wink-wink nudge-nudge sort of way.”
“She’s subtle, that one.” I wouldn’t have pegged Celia for the type to orchestrate a night alone for Hugh and me. I guess it shows she really is trying to change.
Hugh is still holding my hands in his, and he gives them a little jiggle. “Would you like to go out for dinner? I was thinking we could order in, but on the way over I realized we haven’t been on a proper date. Unless, of course, you really did want to spend the night on your own.”
“Pff, when I could spend it with you? Give me five minutes.” I grab the box with the wool sweater in it and dash to my room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I glance around the restaurant, thinking for at least the third time how it feels like something out of a romantic movie. The lights are low, candles flicker in glass jars on the table, and instrumental music wafts from speakers hidden in the rustic wood rafters above us. Hugh knows the owner of Luigi’s Fine Italian Dining—a restaurant I’d never even heard of, near Santa’s Village—which means we’ve received the royal treatment since our arrival half an hour ago, including a secluded table in a quiet nook.
This place is absolutely incredible, like something out of a dream. There’s just one problem: I haven’t been able to enjoy it because I’ve been crawling out of my skin since we left my apartment.
It started just after we got in Hugh’s car. I felt like I’d been hit with the world’s most sudden cold—scratchy throat, runny nose, watery eyes. I dismissed it, thinking maybe Hugh had been transporting something earlier in the day that I was having an allergic reaction to. By the time we reached the restaurant, my symptoms had waned slightly, but they picked back up again once we were seated.
Talk about shitty timing. I can’t afford to miss work so close to Christmas, and I’d hate to have Hugh simply drop me off after our date. Tonight is the first time in months I’ll have the place to myself, and I want to take advantage. Hugh does have an incredible immune system, though. He says he’s built it up over years of working with children. I saw a kid sneeze on him a few weeks ago and I was sure he’d have the sniffles the next day, yet he was fine.
The restaurant owner’s mother, a stooped old woman with more lines on her face than a roadmap, has been at our table for the last few minutes, talking animatedly to Hugh in a combination of Italian and broken English. She’s completely ignoring me, which is fine, because it means I’ve had a chance to polish off my second glass of prosecco without anyone noticing. Now I’m contemplating shoving one of the long, thin breadsticks down the back of my shirt as a makeshift back scratcher. I’m itchy all over, including my face, especially around my mouth and nose. I don’t think I’m feverish, although my face feels hot.
The owner, whose name is actually Don, not Luigi, appears at our table with another bottle of prosecco. “Leave these two lovebirds to themselves, Mama,” he chastises his mother. “I’ll be bringing out more food in a moment,” he adds to us, giving Hugh and me a nod. He hooks an arm around his mother’s shoulders and leads her away.
Hugh’s attention returns to me. “I realize now I should have thought this through. I wanted to take you somewhere nice, but I didn’t think Don would pull out all the stops and feed us ’til we burst.” He inclines his head toward the platter between us, which holds an assortment of appetizers. It’s apparently the first of many courses to come. So far I’ve tried the bruschetta—the best I’ve ever had—along with a few meatballs and some breaded zucchini. I’ve pretty much been stuffing my face because it temporarily takes my mind off the itching.
“It’s fine,” I assure him, even though I want to cry at the thought of spending the next hour or two here while trying not to scratch myself raw. “This place is beautiful. And the food is unbelievable.” I spear a mini ravioli and shove it my mouth.
Hugh presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Do you have ants in your pants? You’re awfully squirmy tonight.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but only a sigh comes out. “I think I’m coming down with something. Ever since we left my apartment, I’ve felt like I’m getting a cold. Except it’s a cold on steroids because it’s making me itchy for some reason.”
“I wondered,” he says. “You’re…well, don’t mistake me, you’re exquisite as always, but you…your face is turning red. And a bit splotchy.”
“What?” I drop my fork and cover my face with my hands. “Red and splotchy? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
His eyes are twinkling now, which definitely means he’s trying not to laugh. After a moment of studying me, understanding dawns in his eyes. “Is that sweater wool?”
I blink hard, confused by the non sequitur. “What?”
“Ivy, love, have you ever owned anything wool before? A sweater, a coat, a scarf?” I shake my head and he nods his. “You’re likely allergic.”
“Allergic? To wool? To this sweater?” I groan and drop my head, nearly hitting it on the table. Shit. This beautiful, thoughtful, likely very expensive gift from Celia. I straighten up, brushing my hair back from my face. “It’s fine. I’ll wear something under it next time so it’s not directly touching my skin. Or only wear it when she’s around or when I know it won’t be for long. Or—”
Hugh cuts off my babbling by reaching across the table and gently prying my hands away from where they’re clawing at my neck. “Ivy.”
“Celia can’t know,” I tell him. “Our relationship is so delicate, I don’t want to upset the balance.” I yank my hands away from his and turn to the side to sneeze. “Shit.”
“Celia will understand, Ivy,” Hugh says. “It’s not like either of you could have known you’re allergic to wool. She could likely return it.”
“With my DNA all over it from scratching myself silly?”
His lips twitch. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll go find Don and get the bill so I can take you home.”
“Wait.” I grab his hand when he starts to rise. “Are you wearing anything under your shirt?”
He gives me a strange look before slowly saying, “Yes.”
“Can I have it? If you go into the bathroom and take off your undershirt, then give it to me, I can put it on. I’d hate to leave now. I’ll always wonder what the next course would have been.”
Hugh’s eyes sparkle in the dim light. “Of course. Come on.” We get to our feet and his warm hand settles on the small of my back, making me want to arch into his touch and beg him to scratch my back.
We’ve just reached the hall where the bathrooms are when Don’s mother appears out of nowhere. “Uh uh uh, you two,” she says in her thick Italian accent, waving a crooked finger between us. “No nookie in the bathrooms. Health code violation.”
This night just keeps getting better.
“Don’t worry, Mama Bianchi,” Hugh says, patting her rounded shoulder. “We’re using the restrooms for what they’re intended, and we’ll be
back at our table in a minute.”
She gives him a squinty-eyed look before hobbling away. Hugh flashes me a smile and ducks into the men’s room. He returns shortly with a black t-shirt, which he hands to me.
“Thank you,” I gasp. I’m practically hopping in place now, my hands clenched around the shirt so I won’t be tempted to scratch. “You’d better go back to the table before Mrs. Bianchi comes looking for us.” I open the bathroom door and pause, a thought fluttering through my mind. He’s still standing there, a small smile gracing his lips. “Do you really think I’m exquisite?”
Confusion flits over his features, and then a smile blooms, lighting his whole face. He closes the distance between us and cups my cheeks with his hands. “Absolutely.”
“Even all red and…” I pause, sniffling. As my nose starts tingling, I remember a trick I read about in a magazine that said to push the flat of your tongue hard to the roof of your mouth to prevent a sneeze. It works.
Without waiting for the rest of my sentence, Hugh bends slightly so our faces are only inches apart. “Absolutely,” he says again, pressing his lips gently to mine. He rubs his thumbs over my cheeks before releasing me to return to our table.
I scurry into the bathroom. The door is barely closed and locked before I’m yanking off the sweater, desperate for relief. I fan myself with my hands, rubbing at my irritated neck and chest. “Gah!” The horrified sound rips out of me when I catch my reflection over the sink. ‘Red and splotchy’ was putting it delicately. I look like I’ve recently taken a dive headfirst into a patch of poison ivy.
Hanging my sweater and Hugh’s shirt on the hook meant for purses, I inspect myself in the mirror. I foolishly left my purse under the table; I don’t wear foundation, but I do carry pressed powder with me to combat my naturally shiny skin. It’s also good for covering up redness or small breakouts. It’s not going to do me any good now, though. With a sigh, I lean closer to the mirror, not that I need a better look at the rash-like redness around my mouth and nose.
I’m sure it’s my imagination, but as I peer at my reflection, some of the redness seems to fade. I’m also not as itchy as I was. Hopefully it was some bizarre contact-only allergy and the symptoms won’t linger for long. Could I be that lucky?
Turning, I take Hugh’s t-shirt from the hook. It’s still warm from his body. I can’t resist bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply. With my face buried in the material, I get lost in my own little world until I realize I’m huffing Hugh’s scent like an addict while the man himself is sitting at our table waiting for me.
I yank the shirt on, not caring that it’s way too big for me, because at least I’m not allergic to it. If I had a belt—and if it wasn’t several degrees below zero outside—I would shuck my pants and attempt to rock it as a t-shirt dress. Oh well, a fashion statement is better than wanting to turn myself inside out.
Gingerly, I pluck the sweater from the hook, whimpering slightly when I think about breaking the news to Celia. I hold it away from me as I exit the bathroom and hurry back to our table. Hugh’s head is lowered, his eyes trained on his cell phone, and a deep scowl on his face. I’ve never seen him wear such a stormy expression.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sliding back into my seat.
He startles, nearly fumbling his phone. The scowl slips into what appears to be a forced smile—something else I’ve never seen from him. The hardness around his mouth and eyes eases as he takes in my appearance. “Fine,” he says. “Just…well…” He blows out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. Instead of continuing with whatever he was going to say, he reaches for my sweater. “Let’s put that beside me, shall we? Just to be safe.” I hand it over and he folds it neatly on the empty seat beside him.
Don sweeps over to our table, followed by a server carrying a tray with multiple plates of food. The scents of garlic and tomatoes hit my nostrils, making my mouth water. The server lays out the dishes on the table while Don explains what each thing is, his obvious passion for food coming through in every word. “Buon appetito,” he finally says with a little bow, leaving our table as quickly as he appeared.
I survey the food before us—various types of pasta, fish, and meat. “There’s enough food here to feed the whole restaurant.”
“I hope you like leftovers.”
“I’ve been single and living on my own for a long time. Leftovers are a lifesaver.”
“In that case, I’ll be sure whatever’s left gets sent home with you. You’ll likely have enough to last ’til Christmas.”
Now that I’m no longer distracted by the scratchy sweater and wondering what’s wrong with me, my appetite has kicked into overdrive. We pile our plates with a bit of everything and dig in. Hugh tops up my prosecco often, telling me he’s reached his limit for the night if he wants to drive us home. We talk about easy things—the Village, our coworkers, my new job with Piper. I notice he keeps the conversation mostly on me and skillfully steers it if we veer into post-Christmas plans. I’m so content just being with him and stuffing myself with this delicious food, I don’t push or question him.
Once we’ve eaten our fill, Don personally clears our table, assuring me he’ll have all leftovers packed up for me. We’re contemplating if dessert would be too over the top when Hugh’s eyes slide past mine, and his smile slips. He leans heavily on the table, ducking his head. He’s just opened his mouth to say something when he’s interrupted by a loud female voice.
“Hugh, is that you?” A woman about my age with shampoo commercial-worthy hair steps up to our table, smiling brightly.
Hugh straightens slowly, plastering a smile on his face. His eyes flick to mine, offering what seems to be a silent apology before his attention returns to the woman. All the food I just devoured suddenly feels like lead in my stomach.
“Today must be my lucky day,” the woman says. “I haven’t seen you in ages, and I see you twice in one day.” Since she’s completely ignoring me, I take the opportunity to look her over—form-fitting black dress, sky-high red heels, that unbelievably glossy hair. She’s got an air of sophistication about her I’ve always lacked—not that I mind or dwell on it. If I’d ever given it any thought, she’s the kind of woman I’d likely picture Hugh with.
I tune back into their conversation as the woman says “—so sorry about your holiday village. I know how hard you tried to get the necessary permits, and I want you to know I was pulling for you. Maybe things will be different next year.”
Hugh gives her a tight smile. He’s studiously avoiding my gaze, which for some reason makes the brunette tune in to my presence. Her eyes widen when they land on me. Her gaze sweeps over me, pausing on Hugh’s shirt. Even if the redness from the wool allergy has faded, I can feel a blush burning my cheeks now.
“Anyway,” she says, turning back to Hugh and effectively dismissing me. “I thought I should tell you I voted in favor and I’m sorry the others are so stubborn. I hope to see you again before you go.” She lays her hand on Hugh’s arm, lingering longer than necessary, then struts away.
Hugh’s eyes finally meet mine. They’re unreadable, and his expression is tight, like it was when I returned from the bathroom.
When he doesn’t speak, I ask weakly, “Go?”
He lets out a weary sigh. “I think we should have this discussion back at your place.”
“I’d prefer to have it now,” I say, proud of how firm my voice is. “We can avoid the awkward, uncomfortable silence on the ride home and you can tell me now so I don’t go crazy wondering or coming up with scenarios that are likely ludicrous.” I’m out of breath by the time I finish speaking.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He leans in closer. “I want to start by saying I was going to tell you. I was, perhaps stupidly, looking for the right moment. When I got to your flat tonight, you looked so happy and carefree, and I didn’t have the heart to wipe that beautiful smile off your face. I wanted to enjoy a nice evening together, and then tell you when I took you home, no matter
how difficult it was.” He pauses to clear his throat. My own throat is desert dry and my stomach is roiling with anxiety.
He reaches for one of my hands, enveloping it between both of his. “I had a meeting with the city today. They didn’t pass my permit requests to turn the Village into a year-round amusement park. They drew it out and made me wait like the money-hungry bastards they are. I plan to appeal in the new year, but for now…well…” He clears his throat again, shifting around in his seat. “For now I’ll be returning to Scotland.”
“Scotland,” I say faintly. “Oh.” I always knew this was a possibility, but I held out hope for a miracle. Or at the very least, I’d hoped Hugh would stay in Canada regardless and attend to some of his other business.
“I’d planned to stay,” he says, making me wonder briefly if I accidentally spoke my thoughts aloud. “I’d thought if the worst happened and I didn’t get the permits, I’d at least stay through Christmas and New Year’s. But my sister called me the other night to tell me she’s engaged and she wants us to be together as a family for Christmas. She laid it on thick, as she’s known to do, talking about how our parents can’t be here and what a special time it is.” He’s got a faraway look in his eyes. A wistful, affectionate smile ghosts over his lips. “I was still debating what to do, but then after today…”
“You’re going home,” I say. “You have to go. She’s your sister, and you have hardly any family left.”
“Exactly.” His shoulders slump slightly, like he’s relieved. “Thank you for understanding that.”
A bittersweet smile twists my lips. On an intellectual level, I understand. My heart, however, is a different matter. “When do you leave?”
He swallows hard. “There’s a staff party on the twenty-third, the day after the Village closes. I’ll likely fly out late that night or the next morning.”
My lungs seize, as if all the air has been knocked out of me. The twenty-third. That only gives us a little more than a week together before he goes, and we’ll both be working almost non-stop between now and then. I nod, unable to form words and afraid if I do I’ll start crying.