Page 42 of On the Way to Christmas
I pause, eyeing him suspiciously. “Well... Iwouldlike to be a hit.”
His grin widens. “It’s settled then.” He claps his hands together. “Tomorrow after your excursion, I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
“That’d be . . . lovely.” All of a sudden I feel acutely aware of his father sitting a foot away from the exchange, the elbow-jammed-in-the-rib sense that his choice of words sounded a whole lot like . . . well . . . a romantic gesture (although one could never be sure), and that the heat radiating off my cheeks could, at that very moment, fry an egg.
But one thing is sure.
I quite like the sound of it all, I admit to myself after Oliver strides back down the aisle and vanishes through the emerald curtain. I’ve never driven a train before. In fact, having lived in the city so long, I’m not even sure my driver’s license is in good standing. But there it is. Me. Driving a train. With Oliver.
My stomach seizes up a little at the thought of it all, especially the last part. Which is absolutely ridiculous, because Jonas and I broke up a total of three days ago and I have jumped into a train relationship with Ian.
Ian.
I try not to grimace. Elodie really could write a lecture titled “How to Fail at Rebounding” from me.
“One cold glass of milk and cookies for MissFairbanks.” I jump at the voice that manifested out of my thoughts, and my temples pulse as I turn to see Ian’s bright, shiny face leaning over with a platter.
I need to move farther away to the window seat, where people can’t keep startling me.
“Oh,” I say, looking at the rather unappetizing platter of cookies before me.
“The one you—” Ian gives me a significant look before darting his eyes toward Clarence. “Ordered.”
Oh, dear. And here he is, trying to sneak in a sweet gesture.
“How... lovely.” Begrudgingly, I take the platter in my lap.
I stare at the cookies. The beady eyes of the sugar-cookie snowmen are leering at me. Taunting me.
Ian waits expectantly, long enough that I am forced to pick up one of the angry little snowmen. I bite off a small piece of his head. “Mmmmm.” Honestly, if I have one more gram of sugar this morning, I’m going to throw up. “Delicious.”
“Mrs.Byrd makes the best sugar cookies in all the land,” Ian says.
I begin to put the cookie back on the plate, but his smile starts to fall. I put the cookie back to my lips, and his grin yo-yos up. Painfully, I force another small bite.
It’s at this point I notice two rosy spots on his cheeks. They’re actually rather inescapable to spot, shimmering slightly beneath the cabin lights. My eyes shift to two other elves standing nearby.
Does he... wear... blush? What... for his job?
For that matter I think, looking at the particularly light, cool pink with a touch of silvery shine, is he using the same blushIuse? Am I potentially dating a man I could share blush with?
He notices me staring at his face and stiffens. I dart my eyes away, but it’s too late.
I offer up a little laugh to emphasize the point that this is fine. It’s all fine. “You know, I worked off set one summer inhigh school. I saw my fair share of guys putting on makeup for the job.”
But to my surprise, Ian’s shoulders hitch up even farther. In his octave-higher-than-normal voice, he says, “We elves get our glowing cheeks from our sugary diet.”
He was offended. Not that I had questioned whether he was or wasn’t wearing makeup, but because I was questioning his authenticity as an elf. Anelf.
“Oh.” For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. “Sure.” I nod vigorously. “Of course.”
A long pause sits between us.
“Anyway,” he continues, more cautiously and at a near whisper, “today’s swamped but I’ll be off tomorrow sometime in the afternoon. I could borrow you for a minute. Give you a little tour of my collection,” he adds a bit mischievously, as though it really is something to be quite proud of.
Collection? What kind of collection? Oh, yes, the books. His passion for literature. Ian’s very handsome and charming passion for literature.
I smile widely. “I’d love that.”
