Page 31 of All About Christmas

“Do you have winter tires?” I ask when we’re back in the car heading home. Thick snowflakes come down and stick to the windshield. The Tesla’s windshield wipers effortlessly sweep them aside. Christmas hits, made possible in part by Sky Radio, pour out of the car’s speakers.

Olivier smoothly overtakes a BMW tearing down the highway as if it were racing in a game of Mario Kart and had just run over a banana peel.

“Sure,” he replies. “The garage puts those on by default around fall.”

“Hm, what a luxury.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him grin and then place his hand on my thigh.

It’s a small but intimate gesture that gives me a warm feeling inside.

Four months ago, I would have called you crazy if you said I would be sitting here right now grinning like The Joker just because this man is touching me.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

I’m curious to see where this goes. I’ve dated many men in my life, but never someone like Olivier.

I was always more into alternative men who had backpacks the size of Thierry Baudet’s ego.

And Steven. But that, too, was not a success.

I’ve actually never dated someone who speaks with perfect pronunciation. Who spends a god’s fortune on jackets and then wears them to occasions where women walk around with weak ankles and stainable substances.

And who I think looks at me like he really likes me for who I am.

My romantic musings are disrupted when the music changes to a ringtone and a name flashes across the display screen.

Paula.

I frown. Paula. It takes me a moment to place that name, but then I realize she’s the woman he took to The Nutcracker .

Olivier removes his hand from my thigh and clicks the call away. Then he puts his hand back on the steering wheel.

“I’ll call her back when we get home,” he says when he feels my questioning gaze pierce his cheek.

“Say, Olivier?” I begin cautiously.

“Yes?”

“What exactly is she to you?”

He frowns. “A good friend.”

I bite my lip. I don’t want to be one of those girls.

One of those girls who gets insecure when the guy they have a crush on hangs out with other women.

But I am curious. I want to know if maybe men with perfect pronunciation have a different flaw than alternative types.

Perhaps they don’t carry a backpack, but a harem of women.

“Did you guys have something going on?” The words roll past my lips before I know it.

“No. Why?”

“Well... you did take her to The Nutcracker . And to last year’s Golden Televizier-Ring Gala.”

A dimple appears in his cheek. “How do you know?”

My face heats up. “Oh, um... I don’t know.”

Olivier chuckles and casts me a quick, warm glance. “She’s really just a friend. I already told you I haven’t been in love before.”

“But you did sleep with her?”

Olivier bursts out laughing. “No. I’m not sleeping with her either. After all, I don’t do that with ‘regular’ friends.”

Biting my lip, I think of the way her hand lay possessively on his arm during the ballet. “Why not?”

“Why am I not sleeping with her?” he says, shaking his head. He seems to find this conversation amusing. “Because I don’t like her that way.”

Cogs start turning in my head as I let those words sink in. Does he have to be in love with someone before he dives into bed with them? Would he...

“Say Olivier...” I start extremely seriously, although I can’t imagine that what I’m about to ask is true. Certainly not after last night.

“Yes?”

“Were you a virgin?”

He gives the steering wheel a little jerk, which is met with honking from the cars behind us. Then a deeply offended expression appears on his face.

“What?” he asks in exasperation. But then he starts laughing. “No, Holly. I was definitely not a virgin. And if you think that after last night, then I seriously did something wrong.”

“No, sorry. That was a silly question. But if you had been, I would have thought you were a natural.”

“Thank you,” he replies dryly.

“But...” I find it all very confusing: a man who says he’s never been in love, but also doesn’t sleep with a woman because he's not in love with her.

As if reading my mind, he puts his hand on my thigh again and gently squeezes it. “Listen: I didn’t sleep with Paula because I don’t want to ruin a good friendship for a little sex. That doesn’t mean I’m a virgin, Holly. That means I have principles.”

“Yes. Okay. Good point,” I say, a tad embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“And if you don’t believe me...” he adds, his hand sliding up a little, causing me to gasp. “Then I’d like to prove it to you again when we get home later.”

I swallow. “That seems like a good idea,” I reply hoarsely.

“You’re so cheerful,” Peter says as we walk along the Oudegracht canal a day later for the last of our Christmas shopping.

The trees peek above the railing, and their branches, adorned with yellow lights, create a magical atmosphere.

The otherwise red bricks are now covered by a layer of shimmering snow.

Shop windows, filled with large square gifts wrapped in shiny wrapping paper, attract bargain hunters.

Christmas angels hang behind windows and snowy fake pines take up much of the available space.

Despite my wearing heels, Peter towers over me. In adolescence, everything he ate went to extra inches. With me, everything I ate went mostly to my hips.

“And you’re totally beaming...” he continues suspiciously. He grabs me by my shoulder and holds me still for a moment so he can get a good look at me. “Say, Holly?”

“Yes?”

“Are you in love?”

My mouth flaps open and closes again. “What?” I finally manage to utter in a shrill voice. I pull my wool scarf up extra high so I can cover my traitorous cheeks. “No. Of course not.”

Peter continues to look at me with a steely face.

“I... I...” I stutter nervously. “How did you come up with that?” I emit a high-pitched laugh. “Me... in love... Ha-ha. Imagine.”

“I can,” Peter replies, extremely serious. “You’re in love. With that one colleague, aren’t you? That Olivier.”

The corners of my mouth sink abruptly and I look at him furiously. “I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m not.” I wave my hand wearily. “Ugh, never mind.”

“Holly’s in love,” Peter sings as we walk on again. “Holly and Ollie, sitting in the Christmas tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Jeez, how old are you?” I grumble as I stop in front of a cookery store. The window is full of casseroles dishes and cookbooks with Christmas classics. On the covers sparkle roast turkeys, trifles, and gingerbread men.

“Never too old to tease my sister,” Peter chuckles. “Ooh, that Le Creuset will be nice for Dad.”

“Yes, I was just thinking the same thing. It’ll be a gift for Papa, too, since he can enjoy Dad’s cooking.”

“Exactly.” There’s a brief moment of silence, flakes of snow swirling down around us. “But are you in love?”

“Peter!” I exclaim.

He holds up his hands defensively. “Sorry, sorry. I promise not to say anything to Dad and Papa. But are you?”

I heave a deep sigh. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

“I do like him. A lot. And when I see him...” My cheeks cramp from the force of my smile as I think back to yesterday when he pulled me into a closet full of office supplies for an unabashed kissing session.

Like a couple of adolescents in a bike shed.

Peter chuckles and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Oh, Holly, I know. You’re so ho-ho-hopelessly in love.”