Cassie Mint

  The Gift

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-60-1

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Lisbeth

  2. Alexei

  3. Lisbeth

  4. Alexei

  5. Lisbeth

  6. Alexei

  7. Lisbeth

  8. Alexei

  9. Lisbeth

  10. Alexei

  Teaser: Big Boss

  About the Author

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

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  One

  Lisbeth

  Thick snow crunches under my boots, so tightly packed that it squeaks under my weight. I stride clumsily across the research station courtyard, my mail bag bouncing against my hip and my breath misting in the scarf wrapped around my chin.

  It’s 2pm, and it’s dark. Of course it is. Here, during the winter months, the sun never makes it above the horizon. We spend the months in icy darkness, washed in frigid winds and electric light, and the whole island holds its breath until the sun returns again. And in the meantime, we work and eat and live and play under the cover of shadows.

  “Lisbeth!” An elderly gentleman raises an arm, waving at me from across the courtyard. He must be one of the visiting scientists, one of the dozens who come here every year to study the stars and the local wildlife. He clearly knows me, but he’s so bundled up in winter gear that I’m ashamed to say I don’t recognize him.

  “Hello!” I settle for a vague, polite greeting, waving back, and walk faster across the courtyard.

  Maybe it’s rude of me, but it’s freaking cold out here, and I’ve got hundreds of letters still to deliver this afternoon. I don’t want to play guess-the-scientist.

  Because it’s not him. The only scientist I desperately want to see. The man I’d happily stand outside in the cold for, lingering for hours and hours if it meant feeling his eyes on me.

  I’d know if it was. I know the shape of his broad shoulders by heart; I know the deep timbre of his voice, his words rusty and clipped like he’s not practiced in speaking.

  He’s probably not practiced. My scientist is not a talker.

  He speaks to me, though.

  “Watch your step on the ice,” the mystery man calls, and I grit my teeth and wave again, stamping down my irritation. I mean, I’m not a visitor on this island. I’ve lived here my whole life—all twenty years of it. I think I can walk through some damn snow.

  I’m still grumbling under my breath when I push through the front entrance, the relative warmth of the research station lobby washing over my cheeks. It’s a huge, sprawling warren of a building, all faded red carpets and mystery winds whistling through dimly lit corridors. The scientists don’t tend to come for more than one season, so no one ever settles here. No one fixes the leaks or tries to make it nice.

  I don’t think this building’s been redecorated since the 80s. It’s kind of a shame.

  My damp boots scuff over the carpet, and I turn left into the first corridor. About twenty more paces, then another left.

  When I first started working with the mail, I used to get so lost in this building, trying to figure out where all the strange scientists’ offices were. The names changed every damn season, and sometimes they switched offices without telling anyone! Seriously, these scientists are a law unto themselves.

  But then the only other postal worker on the island, a woman in her forties called Kristina, saved my ass, and showed me her secret weapon: the cubby holes.

  The scientists can come and collect their letters, and we can deliver them all in one go. It’s a perfect system.

  I’m already rummaging in my mail bag as I approach the wall of wooden cubbies. They’re in alphabetical order, thank goodness, else I’d be here until the sun rises in spring, because there are a lot of scientists in this building. More than anyone really knows, I’m sure, and they keep on coming every season, reliable as the tide.

  For a brief moment, my scientist flits across my mind, and I let myself wonder how much longer he’ll stay on the island. He’s been here for two years already—far longer than most—and I know, I know, that he must be planning to leave soon.

  The thought leaves a hollow ache in my gut.

  I don’t want him to leave.

  Not without me, anyway.

  “Nilssen…” I flick through the envelopes, my gloves dangling from the ties on my wrists. I sewed those loops on after my second week on the job, and I did them for Kristina too on my third. They’re super helpful—I may not be a fancy scientist, but I can still be pretty handy. “Nilssen…”

  It takes me twenty minutes to deliver all the letters. To tuck them all safely in the right cubbies, careful not to bend or damage the envelopes. I get hotter and hotter the longer I work, standing in way too many winter layers for the indoors, but I don’t slow down to remove my coat.

  No. I’m too eager, too determined to make my next delivery.

  Because there’s one cubby that’s still empty.

  Distant voices echo through the halls—scientists walking together between their laboratories and offices, debating about best practices and obscure theories. Some days, I like to linger and eavesdrop. See if I can figure out what they’re studying.

  Not today. I want to see my scientist too badly.

  “Perfect,” I announce to the empty corridor, checking my mailbag for letters I’ve missed one last time. Then I set off down the hallway, gloves still dangling from my wrists, and one last envelope clutched in my bare hand.

  As I walk, I rub my thumb over his name, scrawled in blue ink, and recite it over and over in my head, butterflies already crowding my stomach.

  Dr Alexei Galkin.

  It’s a curt name. A cold name. One that brooks no nonsense.

  Dr Alexei Galkin.

  It suits him.

  * * *

  My first week on the job, Kristina warned me Dr Galkin was rude. Stuck up, she called him, and so awkward that I’d wish I never had the misfortune of speaking to him.

  “Deliver to his cubby,” she told me. “Even the parcels. The man’s a block of ice.”

  That’s not normal, leaving parcels by the cubbies, but I guess Kristina really didn’t like him. When she spoke about him, her mouth went all pinched, the lines at the corners getting deeper, and her curly red hair practically quivered with indignation.

  Still, the first time a box came for him in the mail, I wasn’t going to risk it being stolen on my watch. Not even if Dr Alexei Galkin really was rude.

  I stop outside his office door, tugging on the thick winter coat of my uniform, my mind hazy with memories of that day. The first day I met him; the first time I felt his burning hot gaze scorching down to my soul.

  He’d frowned at me. Scowled, I suppose. But our fingers brushed when he took the parcel from me, and when he gritted out his thanks, a pink flush crept over his high cheekbones.

  A block of ice? Ha. Kristina should look closer.

  Dr Alexei Galkin is secretly all fire.

  The envelope crinkles in my hand as I tap gently on his door. Behind the wood, there’s the creak of a desk chair. Soft, drumming footsteps, and then a shadow shifts beneath the door.

  He’s right there. I flatten my palm to the wood, breaths coming shallow. Can he hear me? My heart’s thumping so hard, I bet he can hear it all the way inside his office.

  Let me in. Please.

  A floorboard creaks. The shadow shifts. And for a horrible, sickly moment, I think he’s not going to answer. That he’s going to make me slide his letter under the door and leave empty-handed, leave without having seen him today, with this desperate ache still throbbing inside me.

  But then the handle spins, and the door wrenches open, and I’m staring up at him. Dr Galkin.

  “Yes?” He sounds annoyed. He always sounds annoyed, but I see through him. He can’t fool me.

  Dr Galkin’s not annoyed. My scientist is simply shy.

  “You have a letter.” I hold it out gently, carefully, like I’m trying to coax a wild animal. His burning gaze drops down, fastening onto the envelope in my grip, and I take a moment to study him openly. To soak up every detail of him that I can.

  His dark blond hair is rumpled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyebrows are pinched together in his customary frown. His black-framed glasses hide chocolate brown eyes, and a flush lingers on his sharp cheekbones.

  Dr Galkin is always blushing. Is it because of me, or does he blush around ev eryone? I have no way of knowing, and it drives me insane.

  “Thank you.” He plucks the letter from my hand, careful not to touch me, and flips it over to read the handwritten address. A pang shoots through my chest at that, at his avoidance, but I school my features before he scowls at me again. “Do you hand-deliver everyone’s letters in this building?”

  I swallow. Something tells me he already knows the answer to that question—that otherwise, he wouldn’t ask. “Um. No.”

  He watches me for a long moment, then nods, the movement curt. “Good.”

  Good?

  What is that supposed to mean? Is he mocking me? Does he just hate the cubby system? Gosh, I’ve chosen the most infuriating man to have an all-consuming crush on.

  “Why?”

  Dr Galkin shrugs, his shoulders shifting under his pale gray shirt. The fabric looks soft, and the rolled sleeves show off his toned forearms, dusted with dark blond hair. My mouth is dry just looking at this man, and yet he’s still scowling at me. Still cool and unaffected.

  Except for those burning eyes, anyway.

  “Have you sent any gifts?” I blurt. “For the winter exchange?”

  It’s a tradition on the island. A way to cheer each other up through the endless night. For one week in the depths of winter, when we’re halfway through with over a month still to go, we give each other gifts to lift our spirits.

  Dr Galkin didn’t receive any gifts for the last two winters. Everyone knows. He didn’t send any either, and he must be the only person on the island left out.

  It’s been haunting me, the thought of him not receiving anything this week. I keep checking my mail bag each morning, crossing my fingers for him, but he only gets official looking stuff. Nothing fun.

  “No.” That’s all Dr Galkin says. No. And his jaw firms, set with warning.

  The message is clear: don’t push. It’s none of my business. But he sure feels like my business, and I can’t help myself.

  “Maybe if you sent one first—”

  “Goodbye, Miss Dahl.” The door clicks shut in my face. I splutter, blinking at the unpainted wood, anger and longing warring in my chest.

  I want to poke his stupid chest. I want to wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his clean-shaven throat.

  What does he smell like up close? I’ve never gotten near enough to know, and I definitely won’t today. I spin on my heel with a growl.

  Dr Galkin is shy. He’s misunderstood, and I know it.

  Doesn’t mean he’s not an ass sometimes.

  Two

  Alexei

  I stare at my office door, my hands balled into fists, and wait, breaths heavy, until I hear an irritated huff and then her boots stomp away down the hall.

  Lisbeth Dahl. The prettiest postal worker in the whole goddamn world. The prettiest woman, period.

  Fuck.

  I offended her this time, I’m sure of it. I finally pushed away the one person who sees past my awkward manner.

  What excuse can I even offer her? That she makes me lose my head even more than usual? That she’s so bright, so dazzlingly perfect, that I struggle to look directly at her? I don’t know why she keeps seeking me out, why she insists on bringing letters to me in person, but whatever her reason is, she must not realize that she’s tormenting me.

  Every time I see her, I’m reminded of how badly I want her. How I crave her.

  And that I’m no good for her. A grown man in his thirties, a professional scientist, who struggles through polite conversation.

  It’s a special humiliation that she brings our mail. That she sees firsthand how little I receive; how I never get postcards or friendly letters, only work-related reminders. Lisbeth Dahl has a front row seat to my failings, to the emptiness of my personal life, and it never grates on me as badly as during this week of the year.

  The winter gift exchange. A ridiculous island tradition.

  I bet Lisbeth gets dozens of gifts—I bet she’s inundated with admirers. The thought makes jealousy pinch in my chest, and I growl, storming across my office to stare out of the darkened window. There, below in the courtyard, a figure huddles against the icy wind, her mailbag bumping her hip as she strides across the snow.

  So intrepid. So spirited and capable.

  Fuck. I’ve never wanted a woman like this before.

  Maybe if you sent one first…

  Her words float through my mind, making my throat tight. There’s only one person on this island I’d like to send a gift, and she just stormed down that corridor, no doubt cursing me under her breath. What would I even do? Take it to the post office—make her deliver her own gift?

  Ridiculous.

  A ridiculous idea.

  My desk chair creaks as I throw myself down to sit, the cracked leather and lumpy upholstery a sign that my chair is as tired and worn as the rest of this building. Hundreds have worked in this office before me, and hundreds more will take my place once I’m gone next month. No one here will even remember me, and it’ll be like I was never here.

  I stare dry-eyed at the dark window, her huddled figure still burned in my brain. Lisbeth was almost bent double against the wind, but even bundled in her coat, even across that gloomy courtyard, the sight of her figure still made my mouth water. Still made my nerves crackle to life.

  Most of the island residents, I don’t give a shit about. I won’t miss them once I’m gone, and they certainly won’t miss me.

  But Lisbeth is different. And maybe she’s right.

  Maybe I’ll give her something to remember me by.

  * * *

  A necklace. A necklace.

  It’s an insane gift to give a woman I’ve barely spoken to—and that’s without her knowing that it’s a family heirloom. My grandmother’s necklace, a delicate gold chain with a teardrop emerald the exact same shade as Lisbeth’s eyes.

  I’ve been saving it for my wife. For the woman I’ll spend my life with. But I know, somewhere deep in my frozen soul, that if that’s not Lisbeth, it’s no one. That even if I leave this island still having barely spoken to her, I’ll always be hers.

  “Ridiculous,” I mutter, scolding myself as I nestle the gift in its black velvet box. She probably doesn’t spare a single thought for me.

  I still tuck the box in my coat pocket, stepping out into the cobbled street and locking up the red-painted house I’ve rented for the last two years. This is the biggest town on the island, and yet this mile-long street stretches the whole length of it. I can look from one end to the other, past rows of red, blue and yellow painted houses, and see distant snowy wilderness on either side.

  I wasn’t quite honest with myself earlier when I thought about mailing Lisbeth’s gift. I don’t need to mail it. I know precisely where she lives.

  Of course I do—this is a small town with few secrets, and I hoard details about Lisbeth Dahl more greedily than scientific discoveries.

  Bursts of laughter echo in the frozen air. Midway down the street, a pub door is propped open, warm light and the strains of music spilling from inside. A few drinkers cluster around the doorway, cigarette ends glowing red in their hands, and one even lifts a hand as I march past.

  I stumble, righting myself with flushed cheeks. By the time I wave back, they’ve already looked away, and I walk faster, a knot of tension in my chest.

  It’s a Friday night in the depths of winter, which means most of the locals squeeze into two locations. Either they pull up a stool in the pub I just walked past to drink away their sorrows, or they file down to the old waterfront courthouse to torture each other at the weekly open mic night.

  I’d rather poke out my own eye than listen to the town butcher wailing over his guitar, but I’m glad of that awful occasion tonight. Lisbeth often goes to listen to her friends sing, and this is my best chance to drop off her gift unseen.

  Her house is blue, nestled down a side street. Its roof is steep, a holly wreath hangs on the front door, and a candle burns in a second floor window.

  It looks homey. So welcoming and warm.

  What would it be like to come home here? To come home to Lisbeth?

  For god’s sake. I shake myself, coming to a halt by her front step. I’m a scientist—I should know better than to ask questions that could never be answered.

 

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