Unwrap Me (3 page)

And then we head to the entry hall to greet our friends.

“Uncle Damien! Uncle Damien! Please, please, please can we watch Snoopy again?”

Four-year-old Ronnie climbs into Damien's lap and bounces, her hands holding his T-shirt in tight little fists. We're in the great room so that we can enjoy the tree that we spent the late afternoon decorating, with Ronnie placing the star on top from her perch on her father's shoulders.

The room's east wall has a hidden panel that reveals a large-screen television, and we've all been sprawled on the sofas, chairs, and the floor watching
Home Alone, A Charlie Brown Christmas,
and
How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
We're full of pie and hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps, which really is as festive as Jamie promised. Not that Ronnie or Sylvia know that—the child and the mom-to-be got to enjoy the cocoa, but not the extra cheer.

And, in retrospect, even just cocoa was probably a mistake as far as Ronnie is concerned. Because now the little girl is completely hyped up on sugar and excitement.

“Please, please, please, please,
please.
”

“
Sorry, kiddo,” Damien says, his expression at least as serious as if he were laying off a long-time employee. “Not happening.”

“Frosty the Snowman?”

“You like Frosty?” Damien asks, as Jackson and Sylvia look on from the other sofa, their expressions amused.

“Frosty's the bestest,” she announces. “ ‘No money, no ticket!' ”

From across the room, Syl meets my eyes. Her lips are pressed together and I can tell she's trying not to laugh. Jamie, who's sprawled on the floor with her head in Ryan's lap, isn't even trying. She has a hand over her mouth to hold in the sound, but her entire body is shaking as she holds back a fit of giggles.

I'm amused, too, and wondering what Damien's going to say next, especially since Jackson is taking no pity on his brother. But Ronnie must innately realize that she's not going to get anywhere with Damien, because she crawls out of his lap, then cuddles up next to me, her eyes huge and pleading as she looks at me. “Please, Aunt Nikki! Pretty please?”

“Hold on a second there, rug rat.” Jackson takes his hand off Syl's belly and stands, thankfully coming to my rescue even though he'd left Damien to the mercy of a miniature negotiator-in-training. “I'm your daddy. Don't I have a say? Doesn't Mommy?”

For a moment, the little girl looks stumped. She sucks on her lower lip and moves her head from Jackson to me and then back to Jackson again.

Finally, she comes to a decision, her eyes fixed firmly on me. “But it's your house, right? Yours and Uncle Damien's? So you get to say. Please?”

Ollie's been sitting quietly in the leather armchair, but now he stands up and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His expression is courtroom serious. “I think you should let her watch it if she wants.”

I gape at him. “Ol—”

“I just mean that if she doesn't mind that Santa Claus will have to pass us over.”

“Huh?” Ronnie scrambles off my lap and goes to stand in front of him. “Santa?”

“He's got a schedule to keep, kid.” Ollie checks his watch. “Right about now he's over California. And once he heads out over the ocean, there's no time to come back. I mean, he's got to visit a lot of houses in just one night. But if you don't mind, then I guess maybe we could pop in
Frosty
…”

He trails off as Ronnie shakes her head, and although Ollie and I have had our ups and downs over the last couple of years, in that moment I think that my oldest friend is a little bit of a genius.

“So bedtime?” Sylvia asks Ronnie.

The little girl nods, then looks at Damien. “Can you tuck me in?”

“Absolutely.” He stands up, then swoops her onto his shoulders before taking her to Jackson and Syl. “Say night-night.”

“ 'Night, Daddy. 'Night, Mommy.”

She's sleepy now, and turns her cheek for her parents' kisses before Damien trots her off to bed.

“He's good with kids,” Syl says, but she says it with a question mark. Jamie hears the question, too, and she sits up, then hugs her knees to her chest.

“Well, Nicholas?” Jamie prompts, and there's both a tease and genuine curiosity in her voice.

“You guys, I've barely got my business off the ground. Isn't that growing pains enough?” I ask the question lightly, but the truth is I mean it.

Yes, I do want kids eventually. Honestly, with Damien, I want everything. But how do we know when the time is right? How do I know that our demons—because god knows we both still fight them—have been truly exorcised? When does it make sense to back away from the business I've worked so damn hard to get off the ground?

The thought brings me full circle to the deed I unwrapped hours ago, and I force myself to smile in the face of their teasing.

Because that's all it is, of course. Sure, there's a genuine question beneath the gentle ribbing, but I'm happy that none of them press the point. Instead, Jamie scurries to the pile of DVDs that we've spread out like a smorgasbord over the floor. “Another?” she asks, as Ryan pulls her back down.

“Don't encourage her,” he says. “The slightest hint of enthusiasm and she'll have us up all night watching movies.”

“What's wrong with that?” she asks.

“Santa,” Jackson deadpans, casting a quick glance toward Ollie. “We can't interrupt the jolly old elf's distribution plans.”

“He has a point,” I tell Jamie.

“Yeah, well,
Santa
still has to put some presents under the tree,” Syl puts in. “And he can't do that until we're sure that someone is asleep. So I'm up for one more movie. As long as there's another hot cocoa in it for me.”

“I'm all for cocoa,” Jamie says. She cocks her head as she looks at me. “There's still peppermint schnapps left, right?”

“James, you brought the biggest bottle in the history of mankind,” I point out. “I think we still have one or two drops left.”

“All right then. So I vote for
It's a Wonderful Life.”

The nomination passes without opposition, and the angels on screen are just starting to talk in the heavens when Damien returns. He settles in next to me, and I lean against him, comfortable and warm with his arm around me and my head on his shoulder. About the time that Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed start dancing over the indoor pool, Jamie starts to snore softly, and Ryan picks her up and carries her off to bed. Sylvia crashes, too, sliding down on the couch until her head is in Jackson's lap.

Not me. My eyes are heavy, but I love this movie too much, and when the end credits finally roll, I have to wipe away the tears that are streaming down my face.

“Merry Christmas,” Damien says, and I realize that it's just past midnight. He kisses me softly, and I snuggle close.

“I should probably clean up the kitchen,” I say, though the thought of moving doesn't appeal at all. “Ronnie's going to be up at dawn.”

“I'll take care of it,” Damien says.

“Yeah? That's reason four-thousand and thirty-three why I love you.”

Across the room, Jackson gently picks up Sylvia. “Give me a second to get her in bed, and I'll help you before I put the presents under the tree.”

Once they're gone, I glance at Ollie. “How about you? Heading to bed? Scrubbing the kitchen?”

“I was thinking about getting some air,” he says with a nod toward the glass doors that open onto the huge balcony. “It's a clear night. I bet we can see a blanket of stars out here.”

“The nights here are incredible,” I agree. “Especially after living in Dallas and Los Angeles.”

“And Manhattan,” Ollie adds.

I nod. Ollie was my neighbor in Dallas growing up. He's lived there and in Los Angeles and in New York. Like me, Ollie didn't grow up under a blanket of stars. “Come on,” I say, sliding off the couch and grabbing a fleece blanket to wrap around my shoulders. “Maybe we'll see Santa's sleigh crossing over the moon.”

I follow him out onto the balcony and breathe in the crisp night air. The temperature has dropped, and I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders as I lean my head back and look up at the night sky to see the stars flickering like Frank Capra's angels looking down on us.

“You want to tell me what's wrong?”

I look over at Ollie to see that he's focused on me, not the stars, and there's no ignoring the concern on his face. “Nothing's wrong,” I say, which is sort of the truth and sort of a lie.

“Seriously, Nikki? I know I've fucked some shit up, but I thought we'd gotten past it.”

“We have,” I say, and I mean it. Orlando McKee and I were practically inseparable until his parents shipped him off to boarding school when he was twelve. We've always had a bond—a connection—and for years he and Jamie were the only ones who knew about the demons in my past. About my sister, my mother. About my fears and my nightmares.

About my cutting.

Yes, he'd butted heads with Damien, but I also know that everything he's done has been because he cares about me. Thankfully, Damien knows that, too, and they've reached a detente. They're never going to be best buds, but at least now they get along.

I think Ollie's grown up a bit in the last few years, too. Even his appearance has changed. He cut the long hair he wore for years, so now he has a short style that he wears with a hint of beard on his chin. And now that he's replaced his glasses with contacts, he has a confident-yet-dreamy look about him. Before, he looked like the lawyer who hides in the back and does research. Now, he looks like a man who can command a courtroom.

Honestly, I like the change, even though at the moment I'm thinking those newly revealed eyes are seeing just a little too much.

He sighs. “Look, if it's none of my business, just say so. But if you need an ear, I'm here.”

“I know. Of course I know that. And it's really not a big deal.”

He points a finger at me. “Aha! I knew it wasn't nothing.”

I smirk. “It's just—oh, hell. Have you ever wondered what would happen if you'd made different choices?”

I see genuine worry on his face. “You and Damien aren't having problems—”

“No!” The answer is fast and honest. “But, wow, you sound really worried.”

He doesn't pretend to misunderstand. “There was a time that you and Damien on the outs would have had me opening champagne and singing a jaunty tune. But not anymore. You guys are good together.”

“Took you long enough.”

He laughs. “I can be slow on the uptake. Like now, for example. If it's not Damien—”

“It is,” I say. “But not like you mean. It's just that he bought my office condo. The one I've been saving for. He just wrote a check and, poof, it's mine.”

“That unspeakable bastard.” His voice—and his expression—are deadpan.

I grimace. “So I'm overreacting?”

He rubs his fingers through his hair and turns to look out over the lake that sparkles in the moonlight. “Oh, hell, Nik, I don't know. You wanted to do it on your own, I get that. But you're not on your own anymore. You're with Damien. Really with him. And no matter what I might have thought at first, that's not a bad thing.”

“It's a wonderful thing,” I agree.

“But would you have made it without him? This business you've got going despite the fact that most small businesses fail. Would you be turning a profit? Would you be so flush that you could even consider buying your own office space?”

“Exactly.” This is the friend that I've missed. The guy I can talk to. Who has known me forever. Who gets me like Jamie does. And, yes, even a bit like Damien does. Or, rather, usually does.

I think of George Bailey and the movie we just watched. “It would be nice to know. To get a glimpse of what it would have been like.”

“I get that. I mean, I'll never know if Courtney would have stuck with me if I hadn't fucked around with Jamie. Or how my life would have been different if I'd stayed in New York, or if I'd never left LA after law school. We all pick paths, Nikki. And that's the thing about life. You can't unpick it.” His smile is a little sad, a little boyish. “For what it's worth, I think you would have kicked butt in business, even without Damien.”

“Me, too,” I agree. But I can't quell the little part of me that wishes I knew for certain.

When Damien steps out onto the patio to tell me that the kitchen is tidy and Jackson has gone to bed, I leave Ollie to his communing with the stars and follow my husband back to our bedroom.

“I love you,” Damien whispers as I spoon next to him, naked and sleepy. “Wholly and completely.”

His words are raw and real, but I also hear the undertone of a question. He knows there's something on my mind. How can he not, this man who knows me so well?

He's probably waiting for me to explain, but I can't. Not tonight with Christmas about to dawn, when I'm sleepy from schnapps and melancholy from the deed and my conversation with Ollie.

So instead, I just reply with the most basic truth of all. “I know,” I say. “Your love is like the air I breathe. It's vital. It keeps me alive.” I roll over to face him, then gently kiss him. “I love you, too.”

He holds me close, and I do feel safe. I do feel warmed.

And, yes, I do feel loved.

But even so, I am not entirely soothed. Not even by Damien's arms tight around me. Because I can't escape the fear that as far as my business is concerned, it is Mrs. Damien Stark who has succeeded, and not Nikki. Not the girl underneath.

That's not a feeling I like.

And as sleep settles over me, I think of Jimmy Stewart. But I don't wonder what the world would be like if I were never born. Instead, I wonder what it would be like if I hadn't met Damien when I did…