you’re named Saint,” I drawled.
Using the box knife, he began to cut out a shape that promised to be an even more disappointing Santa than my attempt at holly, and I felt a small measure of relief.
“My name was always Saint, though I was rarely called that in the stream of foster homes I’d lived in up until that point,” he replied with a devilish wink. “But that’s when my last name became Nicholsen.”
Of course. I flushed.
“So, your parents must love Christmas then, to keep your name.”
He nodded, a bright grin spreading over his beautiful face that I felt right down into my stomach, a burning ball of want for something I knew I would never have. “They claimed that’s how they knew I would be their son,” he replied. “I thought they were ridiculous at first. And I was less than saintly to them for longer than I’m proud of, but they won me over.”
“I can’t imagine you being anything but saintly,” I replied wryly. The way the staff talked about him—the way everyone talked about him—and the way he responded, how he treated everyone with kindness and warmth made it impossible for me to picture anything less.
He let out a bark of laughter, causing a lock of hair to fall whimsically on his forehead. “Oh, I was definitely on the naughty list. I’d be happy to provide proof.” His gaze found mine just as my breath caught. The smile he wore fell under the unintended implication of his words. “I mean, I’m sure on his good days, my father would be eager to share the horror stories,” he continued roughly before clearing the rasp from his throat.
“I’m sure.” I nodded quickly and went back to my task, the look in his eyes still lingering hotly in my blood.
He handed me the knife, prompting me with what my next step was. “And how about you, Holly? How did your name come about?”
“Ignorance,” I blurted out, biting my tongue as soon as it let the word slip.
I’d sacrifice anything to shift the conversation from where the desire between us led it to. Anything including my unfortunate past.
“Ignorance? Of a Christmas carol?” His disbelief was evident.
At this point, avoiding the truth would be worse than just admitting it—avoiding it would make it more than what it was.
I bent over the table, focusing on my careful slices and grateful for the excuse to avoid his gaze as I replied calmly, “My parents—my family is Jehovah’s Witness.” That should’ve been explanation enough, instead I heard myself continue to speak. “They don’t celebrate Christmas. Or birthdays. Or any holiday.” I licked over my lips, hating the taste of regret that lingered on them.
“They’ve never heard a Christmas carol?”
My throat tightened, recalling how stringent my parents and upbringing had been.
“They don’t even listen to the radio around this time of year. And if they did, they’d take it to their grave,” I replied wryly, hoping it would hide the turmoil I felt. “But I can’t imagine they have, even after I told them about it; otherwise my name wouldn’t be the perfect product of ignorance and irony.”
In their staunch ignorance, my parents had named their only child after a holiday they felt so sharply against. I still remembered the horror on their faces when I came home from school in fourth grade and asked them why they’d named me after a song I’d never heard for a holiday we never celebrated.
Horror turned to frustration. Frustration turned to anger.
But it was the look in their eyes from that day forward—the look whenever they had to use my full name—that made me feel as though I’d done something wrong. That I was at fault for their choice.
Moments passed in silence before I finally lifted my eyes from where I’d sectioned my ornament from the surrounding wood, noticing the burn each time I blinked.
“So you... never celebrated Christmas?”
I shook my head. “Not when I was younger. Definitely not.”
“But after?”
I sucked in a forced breath. My childhood was one thing. But after that wasn’t something I wanted to talk about, especially with him. Especially when pity was already bleeding from his gaze.
“After eighteen years of not celebrating?” I arched an eyebrow, turning the pain in my chest into coldness. “Why start then?”
His brow creased. He knew when I was brushing him off. He knew when there was more I wasn’t willing to share. And just like every other time, he’d remain close enough without pushing until I gave in.
“That