Abbey sat down on the floor cross-legged and pulled out her sketchpad. She turned around to view the trees she’d just decorated. With the warmth from the fire on her back, she peered up at the gorgeous trees, like bookends on either side of the windows. They’d already filled the room with so much character, their white lights glimmering against the window panes as the snow came down outside. Suddenly, inspiration was hitting her from every direction, and Abbey began to sketch out the room, her pencil moving as fast as it could go, her ideas bumping into one another on their way out.
She was going to make several seating areas in this room, each one angled so that everyone could feel the warmth from that gorgeous fireplace. Each group of chairs would have a small table in the center, allowing people to set down their drinks, talk, play cards, whatever they wanted. She imagined silver vases of Christmas greenery—tall shoots of holly branches with red berries. Above the mantle, she envisioned a colossal antique mirror with a thick silver frame. Her hands were sketching as fast as they could go, the side of her hand black from the lead of her drawing pencil.
“How’s it going?” she heard from across the room and jumped, her concentration interrupted. Nick was standing in the doorway, his eyes moving up one of the Christmas trees. Then, he looked at Abbey, and she caught him stealing a glance at her sock feet before making eye contact. She tucked her feet under her self-consciously. He should be happy she wasn’t wearing her shoes on the nice rug. He walked over to her and peered down at her sketchpad. “You’ve been busy,” he said, his voice contemplating and careful.
“When I get ideas, I just run with them.”
“Clearly,” he said. His face showed no indication of his thoughts and it was driving her crazy. “You’re keeping the piano, yes?”
“Yes. Is that okay?”
“It’s fine.” His gaze fluttered up to the mistletoe and then back to her. “Do you play piano at all?” he asked.
“A little.”
With that answer, he cocked his head to the side slightly with interest. “Show me.”
A swell of unease tickled her skin at his request. She was only facilitating conversation. She didn’t really play. She’d learned a few songs at her friend’s house when she was in high school. Now he’d put her on the spot.
Nick walked over and stood next to the piano. He was waiting for her to play something. Her empty stomach filled with nerves. Then, she got herself together. What did it matter if he thought she wasn’t good at the piano? She was there to decorate his house, not entertain him. She padded over on her sock feet and sat down on the bench, crisscrossing her legs.
“You don’t need the pedals?” he asked.
“Not for this song,” she said with a nervous grin. Then, she banged out “Chopsticks” on the keys. She was the best at this song because she’d practiced it enough to be fast, and it generally sounded like the actual song, which was more than she could say for her other options.
Abbey turned to look at him, and he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the floor, but clearly he was thinking about something, and the smile on his face told her that she’d done something right. His expression surprised her. She’d thought that he would be annoyed with her ridiculous piano playing after she’d said she could play, but instead, he seemed amused. His affectionate grin sent a wave of excitement through her.
He shook his head, that grin still playing at his lips, and then looked up at her. “Richard says you never ate lunch. I was just checking that you were okay.”
“Oh,” she said, only just realizing that she hadn’t stopped, and it was nearly dinnertime. Perhaps it was adrenaline from having such a large project in front of her over such a short span of time and the need to impress him, or maybe it was her creative juices flowing, but she hadn’t noticed the time.
“I’m having something prepared for you. I have a chef who cooks for me every evening. I’ve taken the liberty of having him make you an early dinner. You can have it here at the house, or he can box it up for you. Whatever you prefer.”
Abbey figured she’d better eat there since it would be terribly rude of her to bring her own dinner to her mother’s without having something for them. “Thank you,” she said, surprised again by his thoughtfulness. “I’ll have it here, if that’s okay.”
“Certainly. Why don’t I have him serve you in the dining room?”
“Will you be eating?” She couldn’t imagine the thought of sitting at the end of his long, empty dining room table all alone.