“It is, woman, but you don’t know me.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” I asked.
“Fuck no,” he answered inflexibly.
Well, that was good.
“It’s also Christmas Eve,” I noted.
He made no reply to that.
“And, I, well…have enough food for two. Though, I have mostly romantic movies to watch but all the other DVDs haven’t been checked out and there might be something you’ll wanna watch.”
He said nothing.
“Or you can be by yourself,” I offered. “Stay in your room and brood or sleep off the road. You just can’t build bombs in it or plan government takeovers.”
His brows moved up slightly. “Government takeovers?”
“I’m being funny,” I explained.
He didn’t confirm or deny he agreed that I was funny. He just kept staring at me.
I straightened my shoulders, held his gaze, and stated, “You’re welcome. It’s Christmas and I’m alone. It’ll be nice to have someone around, even someone I don’t know. And it’ll be nice to do something nice for someone on Christmas, like give a weary traveler somewhere to lay his head and food to fill his belly.”
This particular weary traveler’s head tilted a bit to the side and his gaze on me was sharp, even if it was void, when he asked, “You think you’re livin’ one of those romantic movies?”
“I absolutely, one hundred percent know for a fact that I am not living one of those romantic movies,” I answered immediately and resolutely. I then went on to point out, “I’m alone on Christmas, Priest. How romantic is that?”
His face changed, I swear, it changed, as in, it went soft for a heartbeat before he said quietly, “Pie.”
Not a fun memory.
But…whatever.
I drew up a hand and waved it in front of my face in a “pshaw” gesture.
“I was being nice. You’re immune to nice. I won’t try that again but, just saying, the caveat is that it’s Christmas and you can’t not be nice on Christmas so you’re gonna have to suck it up and accept nice. Even if it’s me setting a sandwich by the door of your room while you stay in it, badass brooding.”
“I don’t brood,” he stated and I looked to his shoulder before muttering an openly disbelieving, “Right.”
That was when he asked, “What’s for dinner?” and my eyes shot to his, something bubbling inside me at his words, words that meant he was staying. It was something dangerous. Something I knew I should not feel. Something I immediately denied I was feeling.
“I already had dinner,” I told him. “But I was about to break out the chocolate-covered almonds. And the tin of macadamia nuts. And it was time to arrange the Christmas cookies for easy reach. I have five varieties. And I could throw together some of my cream cheese corn dip and rip open a bag of tortilla chips.”
“Jesus,” he murmured but I wasn’t done so I spoke over him.
“Or I could make the cheesy, green chile, black bean dip I had planned for luncheon-esque time tomorrow. It’s heated. Or I could whip up some parmesan sausage balls. Or those garlic, sausage and cheese things in the wonton wrappers, though that takes some prep and baking. I could also unfreeze some of the beef stew I made last week.” My eyes drifted away. “But that’ll take time seeing as I’ll have to make fresh dumplings so it’ll have to simmer awhile.”
“Woman,” he called and I looked to him. “No stew. Your green chile shit can stay on tomorrow’s menu. Nothing with sausage in it ’cause I’m hungry and I don’t wanna wait for anything to cook or bake. But all the rest would not go wanting.”
I smiled at him, that something inside me bubbling stronger. So strong, I had to clutch on to the denial so it wouldn’t burst inside me like a geyser.
“Go grab your stuff,” I ordered and kept bossing. “Then take off your coat. Make yourself at home.” I started to dash to the kitchen and stopped, turning back. “Your room is the first on the left at the top of the stairs. You could pick the other one but that one’s your best bet. It’s less girlie. Though, warning, the ex-owners of this house had a psychotic affinity to chintz and flowers so it’s only slightly less girlie.” I resumed my dash, stopped, and again turned back. “Bathroom is across the hall from that. I have my own bathroom, FYI.”
Then I resumed my dash, finishing it by skidding to a halt on the kitchen floor on my thick, woolen socks, wondering where my dip warmer thingie was.
And since I was in the kitchen, and before that had been babbling and not paying attention, I didn’t see John Priest watch me through the whole thing, unmoving. I also didn’t see him stay that way after I disappeared from the foyer.