Page 40 of Our Little Cliche
“What about you? Where are you going?”
“I’m going to cook you dinner. Your stomach is growling louder than the storm outside, and if I don’t settle your grizzly bear of a stomach with food I simply will not be able to hear myself writing.”
Well… shit.
It doesn’t feel like Christmas, butFeliz Navidadspins its tune on the record player and I can’t help but to sway around downstairs while hanging the last of the tinsel, filling whatever blank space I can.
How hasn’t he decorated yet? It’s only days away and he had nothing up. Maybe he doesn’t do Christmas. No that can’t be right, he said that he sculpts every year for the town’s market, so he must be into Christmas. I suppose that’s why I’m here, sohe can reconnect with his old habits. I’m here to take away his stress, and yet I feel like I’m the one creating more of it.
I’m surprised Cyrus had it—Michael Bublé’s Christmas Edition album in his vinyl collection. Mr. Bubblesas I call himhas always been a favorite of mine. I play his CD every year back at home on repeat from the first of December right through until January when everything gets torn down, boxed back up, and stowed in the roof for the next eleven months. Ugh, I wish I had my Bucko and Champs album, that was always a banger on a hot Aussie day, gets you right in the spirit of it.
What am I talking about?
I have access to bluetooth.
I’m not shy with the volume either.Aussie Jingle Bellsis the first to blare through the house on the speakers. Pure joy radiates through me and a heavy dose of laughter runs free from my rib cage. Suddenly, I find myself dancing as though my body is infested with fleas.
“Is this how youAustraliansdo Christmas?” Cyrus’s sarcastic tone shouts over the music with two bowls of pasta—one in his hand, the other balancing on his forearm—and two glasses of wine filled to the line, balancing in his other hand, glaring at me as if he’s just seen the stupidest thing in the world.
Thank god it’s not red wine.
“Yeah, it’s the law. In my house anyway.” I adjust the volume, trying to play it cool, but my nervous laugh gives away how much this man makes me giddy.
The sweet, nutty smell of caramelized mushroom with hints of thyme is the first thing to tease my senses as Cyrus places the food on the sofa’s side table. A flush of cool air fans past me when he flicks a blanket to the floor by the fireplace. Goosebumps flare under the fabric of my clothing, but since I’m wearing jeans and a long sleeved blouse, he can’t see them.
“Well, you’ll have to show me more of these Bucko and Champs, and what rusty Holden utes are all about after dinner. I might need a translation, though. I’m still learning all of your… abbreviations,” he says, referring to the lyrics of the song that’s playing in the background.
“I can write you a thesis,” I toy and find a spot on the soft blanket, closest to the fire because I like to feel like I’m a few degrees from incineration. I am Australian after all. “I’ll have it on your desk first thing.”
I crane my neck until I reach his eyes—gulp—which are beaming with sparkles by the way.
Why is he so tall? And sexy. And…
Him.
As though he senses my discomfort in having my neck bent that way he crouches, handing me my glass of wine and bowl of pasta like he’s pleased to serve me. “But I’d rather you just tell me using the words from your mouth, not in paper form, Miss Cate.”
Wait… what am I telling you about again?
My head spins. This is what he does to me, like a brain to mouth—no, brain tobodymalfunction.
“Huh?”
He chuckles at my brain’s sedated absence and his facial expressions cause his glasses to slide down his nose. He pushes them back up before taking a gentle sip out of his glass. “We were talking about you showing me more music, and teaching me Australian slang.”
“Oh, yeah. That.”
I take the dry fruity liquid to my lips, but then hesitate.This guy has class, I probably shouldn’t down the whole thing in one gulp as if I have no gag reflex.One sip draws in, and I responsibly put the glass down beside me to eat.
“Eat up, then we will decorate the tr?—”
Gusts of wind thud against the windows, rattling every square inch of the place, startling me. Then, every light throughout the house flickers into oblivion. Other than the flicker of the fire beside us, the whole place is in complete darkness. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach.Crap.
“Maybe not.”
“Should I be concerned?” I ask.
“Of a blizzard?”
