Picking up her grandmother’s old quilt from the back of the tattered sofa, Holly wrapped it around her shoulders. Taking a freshly baked sugar cookie from her chipped ceramic Santa cookie jar, she bit into it and sat down, staring at the fire.
Even the fire was different here. At Stavros’s penthouse in New York, the flames had been white and without heat, fueled by cold gas, over elegant stones. Here, the fire was hot enough to warm up the cabin, fueled by split logs she kept on her porch.
When her neighbors had heard of Holly’s return, they’d rushed to welcome her. Elderly Horst, bright-eyed and spry, had brought her a small Christmas tree, which he’d hewn from the nearby forest. Kindly, plump Elke had brought sugar cookies, decorated by her grandchildren.
So Holly wasn’t alone. Not really. And she’d tried her best to make Freddie’s first Christmas special. Her eyes lifted from the roaring fire to the two homemade knit stockings hanging over it. Before she went to bed tonight, she’d fill them with the oranges and peppermints that Gertrud had brought her, and the bag of homemade candies from Eleni. Not that Freddie could eat them yet, but at least he’d know he was loved...
The car lights outside grew brighter. Holly wondered if someone was visiting one of her neighbors. Elke’s son from Germany, perhaps. Horst’s brother from Geneva.
Her gaze trailed to her Christmas tree, now sparkling between the stone fireplace and the small, frosted-over window. She’d decorated it with big colorful lights and the precious vintage ornaments from her childhood. The only thing she’d left untouched in her family’s old Christmas box was the garland of red felt stars. The tree seemed sparse without it. But she just couldn’t.
When she’d made Stavros his homemade red felt star, she’d hoped it would start a new tradition for their marriage—blending his sophisticated Christmas tree with her own family’s homespun style.
She’d only remembered her gift on the plane, when it was too late to take it back. She wondered if Stavros would even notice it, tucked amid the branches of his artificial tree, or if Eleni would toss it out with his other unwanted things.
Like Holly.
A lump rose in her throat. No, that wasn’t fair. Stavros had been clear all along that he would never love her. She was the one who’d tried to change the rules. She was the one who, in spite of all his warnings, had given him her heart.
She heard the sudden slam of a car door outside, followed by the crunch of heavy footsteps in the snow. Had another neighbor decided to visit, this late on Christmas Eve? It had to be. Who else could it be—Santa Claus delivering toys for Freddie from his sleigh?
She set down the barely tasted cookie on the saucer next to her cold cocoa. Rising to her feet in her fuzzy bootie slippers, she glanced down worriedly past her mother’s gold-star necklace to her old white T-shirt, so thin it was almost translucent, showing not just the outline of her breasts, but the pink of her nipples beneath. Her knit sleep shorts were so high on her thighs that they were barely better than panties. She’d dressed for solitary sobbing and brokenhearted cookie-snarfing, not to entertain guests.
A knock rattled the door, reminding her of Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol. Pulling her grandmother’s quilt more tightly over her shoulders, she came close to the wooden door. Quietly, so as not to wake the tired baby sleeping in the next room, she called, “Who is it?”
For a moment, there was no answer. She wondered if she’d somehow imagined the knock, by a trick of a passing car’s lights and rattle of the icy winter wind. Then she heard her husband’s low, urgent voice.
“Holly...”
Now she really knew she was dreaming. She ran a trembling hand over her forehead and looked back at the sofa, half expecting to see herself still sleeping there.
“Holly, please let me in. Please.”
It couldn’t be Stavros, she thought. Because he never talked like that. He didn’t plead for her attention. Please was a foreign word to him.
Frowning, she opened the door.
Stavros stood there, but a different Stavros than she’d ever seen.
Instead of his sharply tailored power suit and black Italian cashmere coat, he was dressed simply, in jeans, a puffy coat and knit beanie cap. And somehow—it didn’t seem fair—his casual clothes made him more handsome than ever. He looked rugged, strong. The vulnerability in his dark eyes, shining in the moonlight, made her heart lift to her throat.
“What are you doing here?” she breathed.
“May I come in?” he asked humbly. “Please.”
With a shocked nod, she stepped back, allowing him entrance to the cabin. Her knees felt so weak, she fell back against the door, closing it heavily behind her.
He slowly looked around the room, at the homespun ornaments on the Christmas tree and two stockings above the roaring fire.
“It’s Christmas here,” he said softly. He looked at her, and his black eyes glowed above his sharp jawline, dark with five-o’clock shadow. “The Christmas I always dreamed about.”
She said hoarsely, “What do you want?”
With a tentative, boyish smile, he said almost shyly, “I want you, Holly.”
Her heart twisted. Had he come all this way just to hurt her? To taunt her with what she’d never have? “You came all this way for a booty call?”
Slowly, he shook his head.