Sunday's Child(17)
When the cooking was done and the table groaning with food, Claire surveyed their handiwork, propped her hands on her hips and grinned at Andor. “We make a good team.”
His smile wasn’t as wide but far more intense. “Yes, we do.”
That euphoric tide that always rushed through her every time he complimented her or even stood near her, struck her again. Stronger this time. Harder. It left her tongue-tied for a moment. She tried for a lighthearted response instead of the one she really wanted to give. “I still have a hard time believing you’re not married or in a relationship.”
As quickly as that rush of joy struck, it abandoned her at Andor’s suddenly grim expression. What had she said?
“I’m not married, Claire,” he said softly. “I do consider myself in a relationship.” Those blue eyes burned like gas flames. “With you.”
Claire crushed her apron in her fingers. Her “You do?” came out as an incoherent squeak. She tried again. “You do?” He nodded. “But you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
The hard angles of his face softened. The faint smile returned. Claire’s “Ohhh niiicce” made him chuckle into her hair as he slid his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his body.
He bent his head and Claire inhaled sharply as he nuzzled her neck just below her ear. Powerful shoulders flexed under her hands. “Patience, Claire,” he whispered. “I will kiss you, and when I do, I won’t stop with a kiss.” Deep laughter tickled her ear. “Or maybe I will, but it will be the first of a thousand, along with all the caresses that will accompany them.”
Her knees gave out, and she sagged in his arms. Andor caught her up, one hand sliding down to cup her butt. “Don’t faint,” he teased.
“It’s more like I’ll combust,” she countered in a strangled voice. Her body was on fire. If Jake wasn’t there and likely to walk in the room any minute, she’d wrap her legs around Andor’s waist and demand he carry her to her bedroom. Forget Thanksgiving dinner.
She twined his ponytail around her hand instead and kissed his neck in the same place he’d tickled hers. He groaned at her touch and squeezed her harder. “I’m not very patient,” she said.
Andor slowly peeled her off him, his breathing shallow and a blush riding the high ridges of his cheekbones. His eyes had gone that same cobalt color she’d seen earlier. “Call it Neanderthal or antiquated, but I don’t want to share you with someone else, Claire.”
Her cheeks heated at that. “Not a problem, since you’re the only guy I’ve dated in almost three years.”
“I want to be the only one for the next twenty.”
Claire hoped she didn’t have a coronary brought on by sheer excitement. “That’s rather fickle of you, don’t you think?” She winked and was rewarded with Andor’s deep laughter. She gave his arm a light stroke as she passed him on the way to the bedrooms. “Get the wine; I’ll get Jake. While we’re growing hot, the food is growing cold.”
Dinner was a feast, and Claire was certain she’d be eating enough leftover turkey to sprout feathers. And that was after she sent most of it home with Andor. The weather outside had gone from dreary to miserable, with a steady drizzle making a murk of the last bit of daylight. A damp cold hung in the air, defying every attempt to layer up and keep it from seeping through clothing and skin. Claire disliked such days when she had to get out in it to go to work or run errands. Today, however, she loved it. Her house was warm and smelled of coffee and pumpkin spice. She sat on her comfortable couch, sandwiched between Jake who played his favorite game, Dumb Ways to Die, and Andor, whose acerbic commentary about Santa’s outfit in the movie they were watching on TV made her laugh.
“I hate that red leotard. Nicholas was a bishop. He would have worn vestments.”
Claire gave him a puzzled side-eye and tried not to nestle too hard against the arm wrapped around her shoulder. Who knew someone got that worked up over a Santa suit? “I thought it was a Kriss Kringle thing. It’s not?”
“No. Kriss Kringle is the Anglicization of the Austrian and German word Christkindl. The red suit is a modern element. Saint Nicholas is a lot older than that. A bishop of Myra, now Demre in Turkey. He was Greek. Some called him Nicholas Wonderworker or Nikaolos ho Thaumaturgos. He’s the patron saint of sailors, children and pawnbrokers.”
Claire almost choked on the coffee she just swallowed. “Are you serious? Santa protects pawn shops?” Somehow that just didn’t fit with jolly, merry and ho, ho, ho.
Andor’s expression was enigmatic as he stared at the TV screen. “Saint Nicholas is a lot more interesting than the rotund man we think of now in the red suit.”
“I’ll say. I’m guessing you came by your Santa knowledge while working on an exhibit?” God knew she’d stumbled across all kinds of bizarre and interesting things during her research projects.
Andor danced around her question. “You’re an archivist. I’m sure you’ve discovered unusual things in your research.”
Claire casually slid one hand over Jake’s ear and nestled him close to her side to muffle his other ear. He’d put up with that for all of four seconds, so she spoke fast. “Oh, yeah. So I guess when I say I don’t believe in Santa, I need to qualify that since he did exist.”