Darknight(29)

He shot me a sideways glance. “You’ve done more than that, and you know it. But those tamales have definitely been appreciated.”

“Good.” After I’d packaged them all up, Connor had taken most of them over to his cousin Marie’s house as his contribution to the Wilcox potluck. Of course he still said he wouldn’t go, that he wouldn’t leave me alone on Christmas Day, even though I’d told him I really didn’t mind. Maybe I did, a little; sitting here alone while he was off at a get-together didn’t sound all that appealing. But I didn’t want to be the reason he avoided going. Truthfully, I sort of wished I could go, too, if only for the anthropological curiosity of seeing a bunch of Wilcoxes in their natural habitat.

Even as I thought this, though, he said, “This all looks too good to let it get cold. So I’ll just say thank you to the universe for everything we have, and leave it at that. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like a great plan,” I replied, relieved that he wasn’t going to push things any more on that front.

For a while we were quiet as we ate our salads. After that came the duck carving, which Connor did a decent enough job of. Good thing, because it was a skill I definitely lacked. I just wanted to cook the birds, not have to cut them up afterward.

He took a bite and let out a sigh. “This is incredible. Better than anything I’ve ever had in a restaurant.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. It shouldn’t be that hard to accept a compliment, should it? Especially since I didn’t feel as if I’d done anything that special. Aunt Rachel had done most of the heavy lifting in teaching me how to cook, and after that it was really a matter of following directions more than anything else.

We ate and drank, and again talked of anything except the Wilcox clan and Damon’s plots. The gallery, and how he was preparing to set up a new installation of an artist who worked in bronze and fused glass, and how he was excited about that. That led into my talking a bit more about jewelry making, and how I’d tried working with dichroic glass once but found it very difficult. And so on.

Through it all, however, I couldn’t help but be conscious of his gaze on me, the way he watched me. Something in that direct green stare made the heat within me flare up again, and I had to fight to keep my hand from shaking as I lifted my fork to my mouth or reached out to grasp the stem of my wine glass.

I want you, that stare said.

And Goddess, how I wanted him. For the first time I had the barest inkling of what it must feel like to be an addict, to have that need ache along every vein, every artery, through every cell in your body until you feel as if you’re going to cramp up forever because of it. But I couldn’t let myself give in to it. I couldn’t betray my family that way.

On the other hand, since Connor was my consort, wouldn’t I be betraying the very forces of fate by trying to ignore the bond between us? There had to be a reason why he was the one…didn’t there?

“Any more?”

I blinked. “What?”

A faint trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he might have guessed why my thoughts were wandering so much. “I was asking if you wanted any more duck.”

“No, thank you. I’m getting full, and I made cranberry tarts for dessert.”

That trace of a smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “Well, in that case, I think I’ll stop, too. Cranberry tarts? When did you squeeze that in?”

“They’re easier than they look,” I replied, which they were. Quickie cheesecake on graham cracker crusts and topped with a sweeter version of cranberry sauce. Easy peasy.

“I’ll have to take your word for that. As you know, I don’t cook.”

“I kind of got that impression.” This time it was my turn to shoot him a sideways look. “Which makes me wonder why you bothered with all those top-of-the-line appliances.”

He shrugged. “They’re the best.”

I didn’t really have an answer for that. Maybe I shook my head slightly. But since we were done, I just gathered up my plate and Connor’s, and took them into the kitchen, while he picked up the remaining serving pieces and set them down on the counter.

When I reached out to turn on the water to start rinsing off the dishes, though, he said, “Just leave them. I’ll clean up later. It’s the least I can do. Besides, we’ve got a tree waiting for us.”

Fine by me. Cleaning up afterward was always my least favorite part of cooking. I followed him into the living room, where he went back to the box of ornaments and started pulling out smaller boxes filled with beautiful decorated glass balls and what looked like icicles of hand-blown glass, and so many other things — drops of mirror and brass, jingling bells in red and green and gold, strands of tinsel. Everything looked almost brand-new, and carefully chosen to coordinate well.