The Perfect Christmas - Debbie Macomber [35]
On the return trip to the mall, there was silence between them, no music, not even the radio. When they arrived, Cassie told him where to drop her off. Simon pulled up behind her parked car.
“Please let me know when you intend to serve the Christmas meal,” he said.
“Can I get back to you?”
He kept his hands on the steering wheel and gazed straight ahead. “Fine. But remember that all three tasks must be completed to my satisfaction. So far, you’ve done well.”
Was that praise? From the high and mighty Simon Dodson? She could hardly believe it. He must have an ulterior motive, no matter how much he claimed otherwise. Although, now that she considered it, he hadn’t exactly denied her accusation. “I’ll call you later in the week with the date.”
“Good. I thought you’d come around.”
She opened the passenger door, then climbed out and banged it shut. “Good,” she mimicked. Seeing someone waiting eagerly for her parking space, Cassie hurriedly got into her car and backed out.
On the drive home she did her best to analyze why someone she disliked could affect her so profoundly. It troubled her that she’d enjoyed Simon’s touch and his kiss, that she felt invigorated by his—occasionally annoying—conversation.
Not until the following Wednesday was Cassie able to work out a date that was agreeable to all her neighbors, as well as Angie and Shawn. Dinner was scheduled for the Sunday before Christmas.
To her credit, Mrs. Mullinex seemed pleased by the invitation and offered to bring her special pickled brussels sprouts. Her mother’s recipe, she said. Cassie declined, saying she’d take care of everything.
Mr. Oliver gave a one-word answer. “Why?”
“It’s just an invitation to dinner,” Cassie said. “I’m doing all the cooking and…and it seemed neighborly to have a Christmas celebration.” The explanation struck her as a bit lame, but she could hardly tell him her real reason.
“Who else are you inviting?”
She told him.
“I suppose I could come,” he said and closed the door. He made it sound as if he was doing her a favor. In retrospect, maybe he was.
The rap-music man was harder to catch. She rang his doorbell several times, then pounded hard, but either he didn’t want to answer or he was so deaf he couldn’t hear her. In the end she slipped a note under his door.
He responded in kind, placing a message under her door that said he’d be delighted to join her for dinner. He signed it Bob, which seemed a rather inoffensive name for someone who listened to such belligerent music.
Now that the arrangements were made, Cassie was ready to contact Simon. She knew he kept evening hours a couple of days a week for the benefit of working clients, and this was one of those days.
“He’s not in the office,” Ms. Snelling informed her. “I don’t see your name on the appointment list.”
“He asked me to call.” Or maybe she’d volunteered; Cassie couldn’t remember.
“I see. Do you wish to leave a message for him?”
“No.” Cassie was emphatic about that. She preferred to speak to him personally. In her opinion, it was time that he learned the art of compromise. She was going to ask for one small concession, and if Simon had any common sense at all, he’d agree.
“Can you tell me when he’ll be available?”
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I can’t. Dr. Dodson is home sick with the flu.”
Simon was sick? Cassie felt immediate sympathy. “How long has he been out?”
“Two days, and when he phoned in, he sounded absolutely dreadful.”
“Poor man.” Cassie hung up and went about her business. Her apartment looked Christmassy, thanks primarily to her brother’s tree. She’d draped it with merrily twinkling lights that brought a festive quality to the dark evening. Cassie had added a trio of angels to the fireplace mantel. A lovely wreath hung on the inside, rather than the outside, of her door because she didn’t trust her neighbors (one in particular) not to steal it.
Even with Christmas music playing in the background and cookbooks strewn across the kitchen counter, all Cassie could think about was Simon, sick and in bed.