Holiday Unscripted, page 18
“That,” I say, my head spinning, “that’s the night we—”
He stands there on the second step nodding his head, the snow falling all around him, his feet buried in the snow as he holds the bags in his hands. “Whiskey,” he repeats what he said before, “it’s been a long day.”
“Nate,” I say his name and he just walks up the steps and moves me away from the door. I watch him touch the keypad that turns blue, and then he punches in the numbers he told me and the sound of the lock turning open fills the silent front stoop. He struggles with the bags in his hands to open the door, and when he does, Whiskey is right there jumping on him.
“Back,” he orders him and he moves backward, giving him a chance to dump the bags. “Can you put him out?” he asks me. “I’m going to shovel the steps.”
“Yeah,” I reply softly as he walks past me and heads to the garage door. I watch him as I try to calm down the way my heart is hammering in my chest. I watch him until I feel my hand being moved and Whiskey shoving his nose to smell me. The sound of his tail hitting the door makes me look down at him.
“Do you want to go out?” I ask him and then he barks as he backs up again into the house. “Okay, let me get out of these boots,” I tell him, stomping my feet as I step inside and take off my jacket and my boots. “There you go,” I say, opening the back door and watching him sprint out. I turn and go to refill his bowl of water and then his food, before walking back to the front and picking up the bags of groceries Nate dumped before going out to shovel. I take them back into the kitchen and start unloading them, stopping to let Whiskey in, who goes directly for his food bowl.
I walk to the Christmas tree, plugging in the lights and seeing the tree light up the room as I make it back to the kitchen, leaving the ingredients out for the dinner we said we would make. The front door opens and then slams shut. Whiskey takes off like his life depends on it. The sound of his tail hitting the wall every time it wags makes me smile as I hear Nate chuckle. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Did you play in the snow?” he asks him, and then I hear his footsteps coming down the hall. “It’s coming down even harder out there.”
“I think we should hurry and make dinner before we lose power,” I suggest and he nods his head, walking to the sink and turning on the water to wash his hands.
“Just got off the phone with Joshua, the power is out at your parents’ and also at the hotel. They have the generator going, but the panic is starting to set in that the food might be ruined for the wedding if the caterer doesn’t have a generator.”
I gasp. “I’m not going to say this is a sign”—I put my hands on the counter—“but I’m not not saying it.” He chuckles. “Nate,” I call his name and he looks over at me, and for the first time in my life, looking at him makes breathing hard. For the first time in my life, I accept the fact Nate has been the man I’ve secretly been in love with. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. Not. One. Fucking. Clue.
“Elizabeth, why don’t we cook and then we can discuss it when we eat.”
“Okay,” I reply giving in to him. “Do you still want me to make my chicken with pasta?”
“Yes.” He shakes the water from his hand before grabbing the towel to dry his hands. “What can I do to help?”
“You can butterfly the chicken.” I point to the breast. “I’ll get the spices I need for it.” I walk over to the side and open the little cabinet next to the fridge and grab paprika, garlic powder, onion flakes, and dried thyme. “How do you have all these spices?” I ask him, taking the jars out and walking over to the other side of the island.
“Your mother gave me one of those spice racks that turn,” he explains as he takes out the cutting board and then a knife, “and then came over one day and decided that it didn’t look nice, so she stored the bottles and threw away the spinny thing.”
I chuckle. “That sounds nothing like my mother.” I walk over to the drawer I know he keeps his utensils in, grabbing a small bowl and mixing the spices.
“Okay, the chicken is done.” He looks at the cutting board and I walk over to inspect them.
“Not bad for a vet.” I wink at him, and he laughs. “We are going to need twelve cloves of garlic.”
He walks over to the fridge and opens it, taking the little jar from the fridge. “Crushed?”
“No, roughly chopped,” I tell him as I pinch the spices in between my hand and coat the chicken with it. “Do you cook for yourself often?”
“Often enough.” He pulls the garlic bulbs loose. “I like to eat, so usually I cook maybe three times a week and then I have leftovers for at least two to three of those, and then there is always a pizza night.”
“Is it even a week if there is no pizza?” I look over at him as I turn the chicken over and season the other side of it. I walk over to the drawer beside the stove and take out a deep pan, putting it on the stove and then starting it.
“Do you cook often?” he asks me and I nod my head.
“I do. I have this thing where I get into bed and I go down the rabbit hole to all these one-pot recipes online. Where is the olive oil?”
“Where we’ve always kept it,” he replies and I open the small cabinet by the stove where we used to keep the oils and vinegar. “I got used to doing things like your mom.”
“So, it followed you to your own house?” I ask him as I drizzle a little bit of the olive oil in the pan. “I want to say I don’t do the same at my house, but I do.” I laugh as he roughly chops the garlic. “My kitchen is the exact replica of where all the cooking stuff is at home.”
He laughs at me. “Why do you think you can find things so easily in this kitchen?” he asks me. “Everything is the same.”
“I tried to move things around,” I admit to him, holding my hand above the pan to see if it’s hot enough. “You know, because I’m stubborn and would always fight about how placement was done in the kitchen.”
“Of course.” He shakes his head. “I remember once when you had a huge fight with her about the mugs not being right above the coffee machine but in the small cupboard on the side.”
I laugh at the memory. “And it took me a whole week defiantly fighting about how right I was, yet every single time I went to the other cabinet.” I put the chicken in the pan. “It really sucks when your mother is right.” I look over at him. “Remember the mug you got me for my birthday that year?”
“How could I forget?” He ducks his head to the side. “This is what I had to do to avoid you throwing it at my head.”
“It was a reflex, it wasn’t my fault,” I defend myself.
“How was it a reflex.? He pushes the garlic to the side. “You literally took it out of the box, read it, and threw it at me.”
“And why did I throw it at you?” I ask him and he just smirks. “It said ‘Mom was right about everything, and so is Nate.’”
“I paid extra for that.” He points the knife at me. “It had our faces on the other side.”
“I got scared,” I joke with him as I set a timer for four minutes. “I need you to dice an onion.”
He walks over to the fridge and gets an onion from the drawer. “You got me back.” He looks over at me and I look down into the pan, trying not to laugh at what I did to him. “Here, Nate,” he mimics my voice, “my mother bought these swim trunks for you and wants you to try them on.”
“She technically bought it for you since I had to use her credit card to buy them.” I look over at him, seeing the glimmer in his eyes at the same time.
“Then you said she wanted to know how they felt in the water.” I look over at him. “And then stupid old me, I got into the water and then what happened, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t—” I start to say and he glares at me. “I gave you a towel, didn’t I?”
“I was naked in the pool in the middle of the afternoon, and your grandparents were over,” he hisses at me. “You gave me a dissolvable bathing suit.”
“Nate,” I say his name as I flip the chicken over, “that’s what you do when you have a crush on someone.”
“You had a crush on me?” he asks me and I have to look away.
“It was working its way up.” I can’t help the laugh that comes through me. “It was definitely there not long after,” I confirm. “It might have even started when I saw you come out of the pool.” I shrug. “We’ll never know.” I go and get a plate, putting the chicken on it and then looking at him. “Plus, I think you broke my heart not long after when I caught you making out with Taylor at the side of the house.”
“You were fifteen,” he shrieks, “your father would have killed me.”
“Whatever, you were four years older than me, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“Twenty-six and twenty-two is not that big of a deal. Thirty and twenty-six, not that big of a deal. Fifteen and nineteen, very much a big deal.”
I add in some butter and then fry up the onions and then the garlic. Adding in the veggie stock that we bought and then the cream, making it thicken a bit, before I add the pasta. “Now we wait eight minutes or until the pasta is done.” He nods at me, walking to wash his hands and wipe down the counter where he was cutting the stuff.
“Do you want some wine?” he asks me, looking over his shoulder at me as he dries his hands.
“I would love some.” I wait for him to turn around before walking to him and gripping his hips in my hands. “And I’d like to make out with you more.”
He grins as he grabs my hips and lifts me up on the counter, my legs opening for him to stand in between them. His head slants to the side. “Have I told you you’re beautiful today?” he asks me and I put my hands flat on his chest, feeling the way his heart beats under them. Our hearts beating in sync, it’s something I’ve never done with another person in my life. But him. Always with him. Always with Nate.
“You have not.” I smile up at him as my hands go up his chest to lock around his neck at the same time the lights flicker a couple of times. “I need it to hold off for another ten minutes, max.” I look over at the stove, seeing the pasta boiling. “After that, it can go off.”
“The stove is gas,” he reminds me, “but we might be eating by candlelight.”
“That sounds romantic.” I smile at him and he bends to kiss me.
“Then let me start looking for those candles.” He starts to turn away but I pull him back.
“I’m really fucking sorry I didn’t force you to talk to me back then.”
“I’m fucking sorry I thought you left me,” he says softly. “But you have to know, Elizabeth”—he pushes the hair back away from my face—“that that night…” He holds one side of my face in the palm of his hand, and I press deeper into it. His thumb rubs my cheek back and forth. “It was, hands down, one of the best nights I’ve had in my life.” His eyes stare into mine. “It was as if everything that was happening or had happened all led to you.” The words sear my soul as if you lit a fire, heated a branding tool, and marked my heart with his name on it. “The morning after, not seeing you there. It broke my heart.” The lump starts to get bigger in my throat. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“But it does,” I quickly add, “it matters now, just as it did back there. The only thing is, we can’t change what happened back then, but we can change things going ahead.”
He smirks. “Elizabeth, you live halfway around the world.” The smile is sad, his voice low. “There is no going ahead.”
Even though I know he’s not trying to hurt me, it still does. “I know that,” I reply, heaviness now forming in my chest. “What I meant is”—my fingers go to the back of his hair—“going forward, we both know that night meant something to both of us.”
He nods. “Wrong time, wrong place.”
“No,” I say, breathlessly, “right person, wrong time.” He kisses me softly as the lights flicker again.
“I’m going to go and search for candles before we are really without lights.”
“Okay,” I say softly as he turns to walk out of the room. One of my hands falls to my side as I put the other one against the pain in my chest. “Right person, wrong time,” I mumble. “With you it’s always going to be the right person.”
CHAPTER 24
Nate
CHRISTMAS LOVE
“That was…” I put down my fork on the empty plate. “The best meal I’ve had—”
“If you say ever, I’m going to know you are lying.” She looks over at me, her face illuminated from the two candles in the middle of the table, as well as the tree that is also lit in the corner. Even though the lights are still flickering on and off, I decided that we would eat by candlelight. Especially when her face lit up as I walked back into the kitchen with four candles in my hand.
So, while I set up the table with the candles, she plated the pasta with the chicken. Bringing it over, she put the bigger plate in front of me, as I got us both some wine. “I was going to say that was the best meal I’ve had in a while.”
She picks up her glass of wine and it dangles in her hand side to side. “Good save.” She brings it to her lips and takes a sip. “Very good save.” The smile she gives me makes everything in me come to life.
“You know what we should do?” I pick up my own glass of wine and finish it. “We should play a game.”
“Oh?” She puts down her empty wineglass. “I like this already.”
“Of course you would.” I pick up the bottle of wine and fill her glass, emptying the bottle. “Unless you lose, then there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I can lose a game and be a good sport,” she counters and I snort.
“Tell me when that happened.” I push away from the table. “I need a date and time.”
“I don’t know the exact date or time,” she backpedals, picking up her glass of wine. “But the four of us were having a Connect Four tournament.”
My mouth hangs open when she brings up the memory. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It slipped out of my hands,” she defends herself. “Joshua put his face in front of me and—” She tries to hide the smile with the glass.
“And you picked up the Connect Four tower and bopped him on the head with it,” I remind her, and she looks to the corner of the room trying her hardest not to laugh. “He got five stitches at his hairline.”
“He was lucky I didn’t stab it in his eyeball,” she retorts. “He was taunting me the whole night. I win! I win! I win!” she mimics what she thinks his voice sounded like. “Loser.” She even uses her finger in an L on her forehead. “He taunted me. I had no choice but to defend my honor.”
“Your parents forbade us to play any more games ever. They threw out all the games.”
“And again, whose fault was that?” She waits for me to answer her, and when I take half a second longer than she wants me to take, she answers, “It was Joshua’s fault. It’s always Joshua’s fault for pushing my buttons.”
“Elizabeth.” I stop beside her chair to take her plate, and she looks up at me, and all I can do is bend my head and kiss her lips. “The minute you are going to lose, something comes over you.”
“I don’t like to lose,” she admits softly, her hand coming up to cup my cheek.
“Well, the good news is, the game we are going to play”—I turn and walk back into the kitchen, putting the plates in the sink—“there are no winners or losers.”
Her face goes into a grimace. “I already don’t like it. There is always a winner and a loser.”
“This one, we can all be winners,” I clarify and she fake vomits.
“That’s like everyone should get a trophy, which sucks.” She shakes her head. “If I win, I win. I want to be the only one with a trophy. Not have everyone else with a trophy so they don’t cry.”
“Wow.” I try not to laugh at her. “Let’s not have you be in charge of the children at the wedding.”
She pffts but takes a sip of wine. “What can I do to help speed this game playing and me winning along?”
“You can go and sit on the couch and look at the beautiful tree and wait for me.” I point to the Christmas tree in the corner, which lights up the room. I clean up the kitchen but she puts her glass on the table and comes over to help me. “I thought I told you to go and sit on the couch.”
“Nate,” she says my name and her tone is playful, “the only time I want to follow your orders”—she looks up at me—“is when you tell me to get on top or when you tell me face down, ass up.”
My cock immediately gets hard at her words. “Good to know.” Those are the only lame words I can say. I can’t even follow that up with my own dirty talk because I’ll forget all about cleaning the kitchen and throw her over my shoulder.
“There”—she points to my face—“right there, what were you just thinking?”
“Why?” I ask her.
“Your eyes changed, and the softness was gone out of your face.” She takes the pot from the stove and then looks for a Tupperware to store the rest of the pasta in.
“I’m not telling you my deep personal thoughts.” I rinse off the plates and put them in the dishwasher.
“It was about me”—she chuckles—“and sex.”
“How do you know that?” I ask her.
“You had almost the same look on your face as when you jumped into the shower with me.” She looks over at me as she stores the leftovers in my fridge.
“I guess you’ll just have to wonder what it was about,” I mumble not ready to give in to her and admit she was right.
She’s wiping down the counters while I’m rinsing the sink. “Okay, now that we’re done, let’s play.”
“We need another bottle of wine,” I tell her, walking over to the cabinet and taking a bottle out, “unless you want to do something else.”
“Wine is good.” She takes her glass and my glass off the table and walks to the couch. “It’s still coming down out there pretty hard.”
“Yeah.” I open the bottle and toss the cork on the counter before walking over to her and pouring some in her glass and some in mine. “Okay, so let’s play Never Have I Ever.”
