A business card states that they were made from recycled materials, and I know in my gut that he looked up the EPA’s guidance on having a green holiday. His thoughtfulness overwhelms me, but when I go into the kitchen to thank him, he brushes me off, bustling around as if he’s been here a hundred times instead of once.
That’s fine, since I don’t really know what to say anyway. This is a twelve-day holiday hookup—no more, no less. Come Christmas morning, I’ll be volunteering at a local food kitchen. I didn’t tell Gideon, in case he felt obligated to include me in his plans with his mom or offered to come with me. The rest of the year will be spent packing, and in January I’ll find a new apartment and go back to living and breathing my job, which won’t leave any room for fun and games with my former nemesis.
I say “former” because while Gideon might have been a giant pain in the ass when we were kids, he’s now incredibly easy to be around. Honestly, it’s unnerving. And after everything he shared last night, I have a vulnerability hangover. I’m satisfied with his explanation—and let’s face it, kids can be really mean to each other, even without their parents sowingseeds of hate—but I don’t know how to reconcile the Gideon I remember with who he is now.
The best thing I can do is stick to the activities on our list, engage in some great sex with a hot guy, and once Christmas is over, go back to my regularly scheduled life.
I ordered dim sum, and he sets the table while I put on Christmas music. We eat next to the two-foot-tall potted spruce I picked up this afternoon, and which my landlord agreed to add to the plants in front of the building.
“What did you do today?” I ask, before devouring a soup dumpling.
He swallows a bite of noodles. “Rodrigo and I went on a shopping spree.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh?”
“You know that high-end sex store on Seventh Avenue?”
“Yeah, it’s been there forever.” My eyes widen as I realize what he’s implying. “Wait, Rodrigo helped you buy sex toys forus?”
His full lips tremble like he’s trying not to laugh. “That’s what work husbands are for.”
“No, work husbands are for keeping you company at lunch, not sex-toy shopping!”
“We have a list, and I needed his expert opinion.”
“You told him about our list? Did he think it was weird?”
Gideon rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say he wasverysupportive.”
I don’t ask for further details. “What did you buy?”
His grin is wicked. “You’ll see.”
My face flushes, and I swallow hard. “Well, I’ll pay you back. Just send me the receipt.”
That ruins the moment, and Gideon makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “You absolutely will not.”
“But—”
“No, Valencia.”
It’s the usage of my first name that halts me. The way his deep voice caresses all four syllables sends a thrum through my body.
Everett used to call me “V” most of the time, and I didn’t mind it. Or, at least, I got used to it. But I like my name.
And Ireallylike how Gideon says it.
“Fine. Be that way.” I make my tone snippy to disguise my real reaction.
The look he gives me is exasperated and fond, all at the same time.
After dinner, Gideon helps clean up. We sing along to Nat King Cole, Mariah Carey, and Michael Bublé while we deck the halls with pine boughs and strings of energy-efficient LED lights. I’m still not ready to dig out my parents’ ornaments, so I appreciate that Gideon thought to buy me new ones, even if he won’t let me pay him back for those, either. He also pickedup a couple of quilted stockings made from repurposed fabric. For me and Archie, he says.
I moved into this apartment with Everett when I was twenty-two. He took all his stuff when he left and I’ve made it my own, but with Gideon here, the space feels different in a way I can’t explain. Gideon has an innate confidence in his own skin that seems to extend to the area around him, as if the force of his personality conforms the environment to his will.
Archie must feel it, too. He usually hides when someone else is around, and he used to actively hiss at Everett. But with Gideon, Archie rubs right up against him, shedding gray fur all over Gideon’s expensive black trousers.
Gideon doesn’t seem to mind, though. He scratches Archie’s head and murmurs baby talk to him in what sounds suspiciously like French.
