The space is vast, though. To the left is a generous living area, where the big sofa faces a TV that’s suspended from the ceiling. And straight ahead is a glorious kitchen that I rarely use, because cooking for one man is not very much fun.

  I carry both boxes over to the counter. I shrug off my suit jacket. “May I hang your coat?” I ask.

  “Let me do it,” Chiara says, taking my suit jacket and carrying it over to the coat rack on the wall. “You’d better open those boxes.”

  I find a knife and cut through the packing tape. Then I start pulling things out of the cold box. Mist rises into the air from the piece of dry ice in the bottom. “Mama wanted me to have a Finnish Christmas. She knows I miss my family over the holidays.”

  Chiara makes a soft noise. “Three brothers, two sisters.”

  “That is right.” She was wrong when she said we didn’t know each other very well.

  From the cold box, I pull out a small ham and a container of cooked beets. Two cheeses. And a container of my mother’s mashed potatoes. “I do not even want to guess how much it costs to send mashed potatoes overnight across the sea.”

  “Speaking as someone who knows, people enjoy feeding you.” She touches my arm. “You do like your food.”

  “The food was only part of why I always went to Romano and Bianchi,” I point out. “Not to put you on the spot, but it’s true.”

  Her dark eyes dip toward her hands. “I did know that. We used to fight about you.”

  My hands go still on the next box. “You did? You and Stefano?”

  “Oh yeah.” She shrugs. “He would always accuse me of flirting with you.”

  “You didn’t,” I say. “You were just friendly.”

  “True,” she says, lifting her chin. “But I cared for you in a way that I didn’t for any other customers. He knew that. It must have been very obvious.”

  “It is not a crime to care for someone,” I say. Then I open the other box and find what I am looking for. “Ah! The cookies. There are two kinds. We had better sample them both.” I am already pulling down a couple of small plates, and putting the kettle on. “Tea?”

  “I would love some tea,” she says. “But what is this?” She pulls a bag of rice out of the box.

  “In Finland, Christmas Eve is the day we celebrate, and this rice is for the morning, when we make our rice porridge. We make it with milk, and topped with cinnamon and sugar, or berry compote. You are supposed to put a single almond into the pot.”

  “Here it is!” she cries, extracting a single blanched almond, wrapped in plastic, from the box. “Is this for luck? Whomever gets the almond in their bowl has a lucky year?”

  “Exactly. Last year I made the porridge and put the almond in and felt very unlucky. I was sitting here by myself for hours before it was time to go upstairs for the team party. It is easy to feel sorry for yourself when you are away from your family. I have gotten very good at it.”

  She tilts her head and gives me a soft smile. “I know that you don’t want to hear this, but missing your family is lovely. It means they’re worth it.”

  “I suppose this is true.”

  She touches my hand briefly. “By the way, Christmas Eve is also the big party day for us. And it’s why I’m so annoyed at my uncle—it is our turn to host the big day for all the Romanos and Bianchis. And I wanted to cancel, but he says he can’t break with tradition.”

  “So…” I do the math. “Stefano will be at your house all day?”

  “That’s right. I’d prefer not to see his little weasel face on Christmas Eve. He might even bring his girlfriend.” She rolls her eyes.

  The kettle is hot, so I pour water into two mugs. “I am going to make a suggestion, but you should feel no pressure. You are welcome to spend Christmas Eve with me. You can see that my mother has sent all this food. And my team has a party in this building. It is very casual—players and their families. Some card games. Catered food that I do not have to cook. And Rebecca has said she is making her famous margaritas.”

  “Rebecca Rowley Kattenberger?” Chiara’s eyes grow wide. “And the whole team will be there?”

  I shrug. “I do not know which players. Do you need to see a list?”

  She laughs wickedly. “Of course not. Just got a little intimidated there for a second. Are you sure I should go? I don’t want to be a gatecrasher.”

  “Gatecrasher. That is a fun expression.”

  “Isn’t it? But not so fun to actually be one.”

  “I promise you will crash no gates. But I would be honored to have you as my guest.”

  She laughs. “You are too good to be true, Ivo.”

  “Then say yes. If you need convincing, try the Finnish spoon cookies.” I fix a tray and carry it over to the sofa.

  But inside, I am doing cartwheels.

  Which is another excellent English expression.

  “I love Finnish spoon cookies,” she says after we’ve eaten several. “Is that raspberry jam?”

  “Yes. There’s also apple.” I push the plate closer to her.

  She takes a sip of tea and smiles at me. “Do you really mean it about spending Christmas Eve here?”

  “I really meant it.” Our eyes meet, and I feel the same way I did my first week in Brooklyn—like I could look at those pretty brown eyes forever. “I have never been more sure of anything. It’s you who should think it over. You will have to put up with me and my rowdy friends.”

  She puts a hand on my knee. “That doesn’t sound like a hardship.”

  “One more warning, then. There might also be more of this.”

  “More of what?” she asks.

  I lean in and kiss her sweet mouth, very slowly. Just once. But it’s a good one. And then I make myself retreat. “More of that.”

  She blinks at me with unfocused eyes. “I see. Well.” She blinks again. “That doesn’t seem like a hardship.”

  I cup her smooth face, as I’ve been wanting to do for so long. “It would be my pleasure to have your company for the holiday, hani.” It means honey. “But no pressure.”

  “Ivo, I don’t deserve you,” she whispers. “I’ve wanted to spend more time with you since the first month we met. And I didn’t follow my instincts.”

  I stroke a thumb over her soft cheek. “You’re here now. It is enough.”

  She leans her head against my shoulder for a half second, and then sighs. “I should get home now. It’s late. You’re probably exhausted from your game.”

  I should be. But it’s hard to be exhausted when your wishes are coming true. “Let me ask the doorman to get you a taxi.”

  “What time should I come over tomorrow?” she asks, rising from the sofa.

  “The party starts at midday. But come early—we will have breakfast porridge. Someone has to find the lucky almond.”

  “All right.” She dons her coat. “Maybe we can watch a Christmas movie before the party.”

  “Good plan.”

  I ride downstairs with her to make sure the taxi is there. And I give her only a kiss on the cheek as she goes.

  I’m a patient man. And my Christmas wishes are already coming true.

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  I am up at nine on Christmas Eve, video-chatting with my family overseas, and stirring the rice porridge. This recipe is made with milk and butter, but no sugar. The jarred fruit compote—helpfully provided by Mama—gives it sweetness.

  There is Christmas music playing in my kitchen, and I am in a very festive mood, even if it breaks my heart a little to see my entire family all together in a place I am not.

  “Do not forget the almond!” my mother says in Finnish. “I want you to have another lucky year.”

  “I’m not sure it works that way, Mama.” My porridge is thickening, and I toss the almond in. “How lucky could the almond be if I’m the only one who might find it?”

  “Luck is luck,” she says crisply. As if that makes any sense at all. But you don’t argue with a mother of six kids. She will fight you. “You made a big pot of porridge, Ivo. It could take you days to be lucky.”

  “I can wait.” The buzzer suddenly rings—the one the doorman uses to speak to me. “I have to go, Mama. A friend is here.”

  “What kind of friend comes to visit on Christmas Eve morning?” my little sister asks.

  “A nice friend. Hyvää joulua ja nähdään! Later!” I wave at the screen, and then hit the END button even as my sister starts to ask another question. I grab the house phone and tell the doorman to let Chiara come upstairs.

  To be fair, I thought she might change her mind. But I’m glad she did not.

  I know it’s unusual to spend the biggest holiday of the year with the woman you have loved from afar. But I’d rather have an awkward day with her than no day with her.

  When Chiara comes to my door a moment later, she wears a shy smile. “Morning. I brought coffee.” She holds out two takeaway cups from the chic place on the corner. “I also brought a bottle of wine for later. Thank you for making this day easier for me.”

  “I don’t think you understand that you are doing exactly the same thing for me.” I kiss her on the cheek, inhaling her sweet scent. “And Happy Christmas. Come in and make yourself at home.”

  She takes off her winter coat to reveal a winter dress. It’s like a big sweater, comfortable looking, but also pretty. The dark red color is perfect against her dark, shiny hair.

  I have it so bad for her.

  “Breakfast is ready,” I announce. “If you are not a lover of porridge, there is also toast and cheese.”

  “I’m sure I’ll like it. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I shake my head. “Today you are not the waitress.” So it’s me who pours the juice and scoops out two bowls of porridge. I put a generous dollop of compote into each bowl.

  “Did you see where the almond landed?” she asks as I set the bowls on the table.

  “Just in case I might have, you should choose your seat.”

  Laughing, she sits down and gingerly tastes the porridge. “Delicious. Tell me more about Finland. What else do you do on Christmas?”

  “Movies and the sauna. But not at the same time.”

  She cackles. “The sauna, for real? I thought that was just a cliche.”

  “No, it is real. The Finns love their saunas. Sometimes we jump from the sauna into the ice cold lake, and then back again. There is also vodka involved.”

  She laughs. “What kind of berries are these?”

  “Lingonberry and blueberry, I think.”

  “It’s deli…” I hear a crunch, and her eyebrows fly upwards.

  “You found it!” I exclaim. “The lucky almond. Congratulations.”

  She covers her smile with one hand. “I hope you weren’t counting on it.”

  “No.” I am already lucky. “Maybe you need it more.”

  “Maybe.” She makes a face. “Although it would be fair to argue that luck isn’t what held me back last year. I think stupidity was the problem.”

  “Hey—take it easy on yourself for Christmas?” I suggest. “I am trying to have a lucky meal here. What movie are we watching?”

  “Have you seen Home Alone?”

  “No, I do not think so.”

  “Then we have to fix that right away,” she announces.

  It is a very funny movie about a little boy who does not have his family with him for Christmas. I know the feeling. But today I do not mind.

  After the movie, we go upstairs, carrying the ham that I’ve baked and Chiara’s bottle of wine. There is a big room on one end of the topmost floor, and the team has rented it out for our party.

  “Ivo!” our captain yells as I step into the room. “You cooked a ham? And who is your lovely date?”

  A dozen heads swivel in our direction. “Dude, Ivo has a date?” someone asks. And someone else makes a cat call sound.

  “I told you it was casual,” I grumble. “Guys, this is Chiara. She was responsible for helping my English go from miserable to only very bad last year.”

  There is a round of laughter, but then Heidi Jo skips forward and offers Chiara a glass of champagne. “Are you an English teacher?” she asks.

  “No,” Chiara says with a shy smile. “I was his favorite waitress at my family’s café, and he used to come in for lunch three times a week.”

  “The food must be excellent there,” Heidi Jo says with a wink. “It’s lovely to meet you. How do you feel about playing poker?”

  “I love poker,” Chiara says.

  “Be careful, she is a shark,” I insist.

  After that, the party is easy. There are games and there is a giant amount of food and drink. “It’s nice meeting your teammates,” she says as Heidi Jo shuffles the deck with the flair of a dealer in Las Vegas. “Who knew Tank would wear a baby carrier on his days off?”

  “Right?” Georgia, our publicist exclaims. “Men look extra hot wearing babies on their chests.”

  “I will bear that in mind,” I say, and everyone laughs.

  “Your English really did get better last year,” Castro says. “How’d you do that, Chiara?”

  “I quizzed him every time I saw him,” she says with a shrug. “He is motivated by desserts.”

  Another laugh. And the time just flies by. This party is twice as fun for me this year as it was last year. Having Chiara at my side is a big part of it.

  Being able to understand what my teammates say doesn’t hurt, either.

  The party ends before I’m ready. Suddenly it is time to help stack the plates and cups. I’m filled with a new kind of anticipation, though, as Chiara collects her handbag. We say our goodnights, and then we walk down the building’s stairwell together to reach my floor.

  I realize we’ve fallen silent as I unlock my apartment. “What else do Finns do on Christmas Eve?” Chiara asks.

  “Oh, a great many things. Now I must pour you a small glass of Finnish brandy flavored with cloudberries. And then we wait for the Christmas Goat.”

  “The…sorry?”

  I smile at the look on her face. “It’s true. Our word for Santa Claus really means Christmas Goat. Don’t ask.” I follow her into the apartment, acutely aware that we’re alone again. “Chiara, I haven’t had this much fun in a long time. Thank you for today.”

  “Today was the best,” she says softly. She lifts her dark eyes to mine. “Seeing you again has made me so happy.”

  “Come and taste the cloudberry brandy,” I say, taking her by the hand. “We will end the night with a toast.” At the kitchen counter, I find two little glasses and pour a modest amount of liquor into each one. “What shall we toast?”

  “To our lucky new year,” she says, raising her glass. “Both of us.”

  We drink, and I hold her dark eyes. “But you found the almond,” I remind her. “All the luck belongs to you.”

  “Not in English,” she says firmly. She sets her glass down, and puts a hand in the center of my chest. “Maybe you’ve heard this idiom—getting lucky?”

  I chuckle, as my skin heats beneath her hand. “I do know that one. Yes. The boys speak of this a lot.”

  “See, that takes two people.” She gives an exaggerated shrug. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

  I clasp a hand over hers. “You are a very smart girl. I knew it the first time I saw you.”

  “That’s what you were thinking about?” she asks with a soft smile. “My intelligence quotient? I could have sworn you were staring at my ass.”

  “I can do many things at once,” I whisper, lowering my head slowly towards hers. “I speak poor English, but I am multitalented.”

  Her eyes fill with heat as I claim her mouth for my own. Her lips soften immediately beneath mine. I set my glass on the counter as I hasten to pull her body against mine. As I kiss her again, her hands are already full of my short hair.

  Last night I was gentle. There are moments for caution, and moments for certainty.

  This is the second kind. I bend my knees and scoop her up into my arms, lifting her to the counter. It is better now—she doesn’t have to lift her chin to kiss me. I brace a hand at her knee and deepen our kisses.

  Her dark eyes flash, and she whimpers for me. And now we are speaking the same language. Her knees are clamped at my hips, and her hands are working the buttons of my shirt. She works fast. As the two halves of the shirt separate, warm hands find my chest.

  This is wonderful. This is everything. But I do not want to get naked in my kitchen. If we are doing this, I want to do it right. “You know what is good about a studio?” I ask between kisses. “The bed is very near.”

  “Brilliant,” she pants. “Take me there.” She holds out a hand, as if I might pluck her down. But I pick her up instead. She gives a squeal as I carry her around the kitchen counter toward the back of my flat.

  The bed is a big, soft expanse for me to toss her into the center. She laughs, lying back on the quilt, and I run my hands up her thighs, under her dress, as I climb up to join her.

  “Let’s not waste any more time,” she says.

  “If you say so.” I tug her dress right over her head, and she laughs in surprise as she kicks off her tights.

  Then I’m not laughing, though. One look at Chiara’s red lace lingerie, and I’m letting out a string of Finnish curses. “This is much better than Santa Goat,” I whisper, dipping down to lick my way across her chest, just above the see-through bra. But I need more, so I tip the cups down and begin sucking eagerly on her dark nipples.

  Chiara makes the most delicious noises. “Ahh. You. Yessss. Naked more.”

  She isn’t speaking English either now. I take it as a good sign. I kiss my way down her belly, part her bare thighs. I stop to part her legs and place a hot kiss right over the lace panties.

  “Oh, Ivo. Yes.” Her body undulates with excitement. “But I was talking about you. Too many clothes.”

  But I’m not listening. I kiss the skin of her inner thighs, and tease my thumb over her hot center. I take my time with this sweet torture.

  “Naughty, naughty man,” she pants as I draw it out.