Holiday Op

Chapter Five

"Where's your knife block?"

Tony eyed the small space someone actually called a kitchen. More like a closet with a stove in it, but no biggie, he could work in any space with the right tools. What mattered was she had let him in. Now all he had to do was keep his head in the game and avoid saying or doing something stupid.

A guy only got one chance to know a woman like Annabelle Foster.

"I don't have one,” she said.

"Then what do you cut with?"

Annabelle opened a drawer, pulled out a butter knife, and handed it to him. He looked at it, raised his gaze to hers, and let out a whoop of laughter. “Are you serious? This is what you call a knife?"

"It serves my purposes."

He was going to have to improvise. Tony pulled out his keychain and used the attached Swiss army knife to slice up vegetables for them to munch on. Then he opened a bottle of ruby red Toscana, poured them each a glass, and held his up. “To the holidays."

She clinked her glass to his. “I'm not much of a holiday person."

"That why you don't have any decorations?"

She shrugged. “It seems like a waste."

Tony opened a bunch of cupboards and found a beat up saute pan on the third try. He set it on the stove, dropped in a stick of butter, and turned up the heat. Browning, it filled the kitchen with a nutty aroma. He dug out a decent sized pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove to boil.

"I take it you love the holidays,” she said.

"Around my house, the holidays are sacrosanct. Big tree, tons of outdoor lights, gnomes on the lawn, the whole bit. What about yours?"

"It was just my dad and me, takeout Chinese food, a couple of old stockings, and a Charlie Brown tree in the window. Dad was a fan of the no fuss Christmas."

Tony added pecans and sage to the sauce, stirring slowly until it was soft and fragrant. One thing he'd learned about Annabelle, she needed the right setting to let her guard down and open up. And that was perfect, because he was the master at setting. The right food, good smells, the right questions.

"So your dad, he was a pretty straight-laced guy?"

"He wasn't sentimental, especially not after my mom died."

Tony glanced around the Spartan townhouse. Now it all made sense. Annabelle wasn't a woman who had grown up with extras, materially or emotionally. Clearly no one had ever paid her the kind of attention every woman deserved. Tony wanted to be that guy. Starting tonight.

"When did your mom die?"

"Christmas eve, the year I turned seven."

Letting the sauce rest off the heat, he turned and leaned against the counter. Annabelle was sipping her wine, staring at the floor. The puzzle was coming together. “That must have made the holidays a tough road to hoe after that."

She tipped her head slightly. “It was a long time coming. Breast cancer."

"That doesn't make it any easier, does it?"

She looked up at him, eyes uncertain. He could feel a shift in the air. She was thinking about opening the door further, giving him a few more inches. “Do you have any photos of her?"

Annabelle glanced around, looking a little guilty. “I don't have any photos.” She said it like it was the first time she'd realized it.

"Still packed away?"

She shook her head. “I never put any up in New Orleans either."

"Why not?"

"I guess it makes things easier, without all the sentiment and gushy stuff. Makes it easier to do what I do without…"

Without feeling.

Tony reached across the counter, took her hand in his, turned it over, and stroked the inside of her palm with his index finger. She didn't move a muscle, just watched the motion of his hand where it cleaved with hers.

"What are you doing?” she whispered.

"Taking care of you."

She looked at him with genuine confusion. “Why?"

"Because you need it. And I'm good at it."

She took her hand from his, pushed her hair back from her face. A gesture he was beginning to recognize as a defense mechanism. He was getting too close to the fire and she didn't like it.

"I don't know if I can do this, Tony. I don't do relationships. I don't have guys up to my place. I don't even have pictures up on my walls. I live my job. Is that what you want?"

A small shrug. “I don't see those things. I see a woman who fights for her beliefs, for her country, and for the lives of other people, while also managing to stay cool as hell and enjoy the greatest things in life. That's a person I don't meet very often. And a person I want to know very well. The question is, can you handle that?"

And the answer was… she had no idea.

Annabelle snuck glances at Tony as he finished their meal, adding a dash of this and that, then slipping the raviolis into the sauce one by one. The kitchen smelled amazing, a combination of nutty, herbal, and sweet.

A person could get used to the royal treatment.

But it came with a level of honesty that had her reeling. No one, man or woman, had ever said anything like that to her. And meant it! The heat in his eyes, the certainty of his voice, the way he held himself-he was no joke.

He was the real thing.

Was she?

The guy had just said the most amazing thing in the world, words any woman would kill to hear, and all she could do was stand and stare at him like he was some unfamiliar alien life form.

In a way, he was.

Tony Lombardi wasn't like any man she'd ever met. He was good looking, sexy, passionate, and giving… annoying, stubborn, persistent, and arrogant. The truth was, she couldn't find anything wrong with him, at least not anything that should send her screaming in the opposite direction. Quite the contrary.

So that left one piece of the equation.

Her.

She was the one who wanted to shut the door on him not an hour ago. She was the one who had tried to cancel this date. She was the one who deflected him each time he tried to deepen their budding knowledge of each other.

When in the deepest part of her, she wanted nothing more.

That did it. She was going to do this. Open her mind to Tony Lombardi and everything that came along with him. Including the wonders he was creating in her kitchen, and possibly, her life.

"Bon appetit."

Annabelle slid into a chair at the kitchen table and stared at the gorgeous plate Tony had created. The raviolis were enormous-about the size of her palm. They were swimming in a decadent, creamy sauce, dotted with pecans and pieces of sage. It sure beat Lean Cuisine, but it felt strange, sitting at her plain table, preparing to tuck into a meal fit for a four-star restaurant.

"Wow,” was all she could manage.

She felt giddy just looking at the food, ruby red wine translucent in the candlelight, fresh salad glistening with dressing, some fresh crusty bread, and… Tony.

Annabelle placed a bite of ravioli into her mouth and began to chew. It was velvet on her tongue, the sweet nutty tang skipping along her taste buds.

For the first time in so long, she wasn't thinking about the next emergency call, the next rescue mission, the next time she would plunge into the deep, endless darkness of the sea. All she felt was pure pleasure.

She realized she'd closed her eyes and opened them to find Tony watching her. “Aren't you going to eat?"

"In a minute."

"Okay…"

"I like watching you. This is why I cook, to watch people enjoy it and leave everything else behind."

Which was exactly what she'd done.

This man had accomplished what no massage therapist, no long hot bath, no mind-numbing television show had ever done-he'd gotten her to let go. To let down her guard. She took another bite of ravioli, chewed slowly, thoroughly. Letting small sounds of contentment fill her lungs.

"What have you done to me?” she asked, still chewing.

He picked up his fork, speared a bite of ravioli, and popped it into his mouth, smiling all the while.

"Who are you?"

"You'll find out,” he said quietly, without doubt.

And she believed him. She understood what it meant to let someone in, to let someone care for her. It didn't make her weak or incompetent. It felt warm and fuzzy and deliciously satisfying.

Annabelle soaked up every ounce of sauce on her plate with not one, but three slices of bread. She ate like she'd been starved for years. In truth, she had been starving herself of all the creature comforts and companionship that made life worth living. No, she hadn't been living; she'd been existing. Getting by.

Tony was right. Getting by was not enough. Life was too short for that.

Tentatively, she reached across the table… and looked into his eyes, asking him now for what he had wanted to give her all along, hoping beyond hope the offer was still good. He looked at her hand, then at her, as if asking if she were really in. Then without a word, he met her hand squarely in the middle.

"Looks to me like you're angling for a second date,” he said.

"So, what if I am?"

He smiled, rubbing a thumb along the inside of her wrist. “In that case, we better end this one on a good note."

Tony pulled the pumpkin bread pudding from the refrigerator along with a plate of snowman cookies, placed the desserts on the table, and turned down the lights. He raised his wine glass in one hand and a cookie in the other.

"To your first Christmas in Kodiak,” he said.

Annabelle raised a cookie, touched it to his. “To our first Christmas.” Then she bit the whole head off at once and savored the first crunch, the soft middle, and finally, the very best part-the sweet, enduring aftertaste of no regrets.