Author: Susan Mac Nicol; Adele Downs; Emily W Mims; Kat St. Croix; Aubrey McKnight; Joan Bird; Christine Ashworth; Kary Rader
Date: 2015-11-17 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: lunchbox romances; Short Stories; historical romances; holiday anthology; contemporary romances; seasonal cheer; sweetest gift; finding love; christmas stories
Description: Eight Holiday Romances - A Christmas Anthology Christmas Star by Christine Ashworth Amy’s Wish by Joan Bird Her Christmas Cowboy by Adele Downs Out for the Holidays by Susan Mac Nicol A Family for Christmas by Aubrey McKnight A Gift of Trust by Emily Mims Kissing Mr. Scrooge by Kary Rader To Hell with Christmas by Kat St. Croix
Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group

THE SWEETEST GIFT

8 Holiday Romance Stories

“Christmas Star” by Christine Ashworth

“Amy’s Wish” by Joan Bird

“Her Christmas Cowboy” by Adele Downs

“Out for the Holidays” by Susan Mac Nicol

“A Family for Christmas” by Aubrey McKnight

“A Gift of Trust” by Emily Mims

“Kissing Mr. Scrooge” by Kary Rader

“To Hell with Christmas” by Kat St. Croix

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

CHRISTMAS STAR
Copyright © 2014 Christine Ashworth

AMY’S WISH
Copyright © 2015 Joan Bird

HER CHRISTMAS COWBOY
Copyright © 2014 Adele Downs

OUT FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Copyright © 2014 Susan Elaine Mac Nicol

A FAMILY FOR CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2014 Kimberly Cannon

A GIFT OF TRUST
Copyright © 2014 Emily Wright Mims

KISSING MR. SCROOGE
Copyright © 2014 Kary Rader

TO HELL WITH CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2014 Sara Dailey and Staci Weber

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-944262-01-3

CONTENTS

CHRISTMAS STAR

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6

AMY’S WISH

Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue

HER CHRISTMAS COWBOY

Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23

OUT FOR THE HOLIDAYS

A FAMILY FOR CHRISTMAS

Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29

A GIFT OF TRUST

Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue

KISSING MR. SCROOGE

Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37

TO HELL WITH CHRISTMAS

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

THE SWEETEST GIFT

8 Holiday Romance Stories

CHRISTMAS STAR

Christine Ashworth

For Lynne Marshall, who watched me begin this story in the airport at San Antonio on our way home after RWA14. Thanks, neighbor, for always being there for a walk, or a talk about publishing, or just a hug. I appreciate it more than you know.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Way too many thanks must go to The Best Roommates Ever, Maggie Marr and Maria Seager. You may not remember, but you helped me with the initial plot during one windy night on our balcony during RWA14 (there was beer and wine involved). Wouldn’t have done it without your urging. My undying thanks as well to Debbie Decker, my other pair of eyes, who helped me see the light about the ending. Love you ladies!

And for the gal who was there at the start, when I was a crabby facilities manager who wouldn’t turn the heat up in the office over a decade ago. Jenn Reese, I wouldn’t be here without you. My love and thanks, always.

To Jill Limber, who met my enthusiasm for the StarTide series with her own, thanks so very much for taking a chance on me. I plan on doing you proud!

Much gratitude, as well, to my fabulous editor Chris Keeslar, who has taken my meltdowns and inability to hide my feelings (plus snarky emails) in stride. You polished this and I can’t thank you enough. Next conference, I owe you a drink.

Christmas Star

Chapter One

December 19th, evening

Elle Houston drew her feet up onto the couch and nervously watched her fiancé—her fiancé—finish packing in the hotel suite he called home. “Are you sure you want to get married?”

Taylor Collins, Grade A movie star, stopped adding shirts to his suitcase, tipped his head to one side and smiled, that lopsided grin that caused female hearts to flutter worldwide. “Are you getting cold feet?”

“No. Of course not.” She’d never thought she’d get a proposal, ever. Not saying yes to the guy who was People’s Sexiest Man Alive? She’d have to be brain-dead. “I’ve got the guy all the girls want, the guy paparazzi clamor over.” She nibbled her top lip, considering. “I guess I’m still just a bit stunned that you proposed.”

She’d been looking for romance. Her soul yearned for it, and they’d spent so much time together during filming that she’d, naturally, fixated on him. He’d noticed but been the perfect gentleman while they worked on the same set.

When shooting wrapped, however, he’d asked her out. To her own surprise, she accepted. They’d had a month of intimate little dinner dates—getting there by separate cars, of course, dodging paparazzi. Movies in his hotel suite. Breakfasts in her apartment. Dancing on the beach in the moonlight, freezing their toes off and laughing at nothing. Making love. It had all been a sparkly fairy tale. But now, despite the ring on her finger, she found she wasn’t too sure of the ending. Their wedding was in five days, and something very like panic was invading her chest.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he reproved. “Look, I wish I didn’t have to go, but you know how these things are. Why Sam decided to do the pick-up shots in New York City, I’ll never know.”

“He wanted to be close to his family.” Elle thought everyone knew that. Their director was completely besotted with his wife and kids.

Taylor came to her then, bent to give her a kiss. Elle responded, her arms urging him closer. She parted her lips, drew her tongue across his mouth and nipped, anxious to have him sweep her away.

But he kept her at arm’s length. Gave her a wry smile.

“We can’t do this. You know I’ve got a plane to catch, and the car will be here any minute.”

Need made her bold, and she pressed her hand against the growing bulge in his pants. “Make love to me, Taylor. Please. Right now.”

Grabbing her hands, he held them away from him and let out a short laugh. “You made me promise when I proposed. No more sex before marriage. I’m not going to start our life together by breaking that promise, honey.” He kissed the top of her head and let her go while moving out of her reach. “You’re going to have a great time at the Bidwell Estate. The spa there is the best ever, and so is the personal chef.”

“So I’m supposed to get pummeled by a masseuse and eat my way through the hours all alone?” She snorted. “Lovely. My wedding dress won’t fit.” Not that she got to choose the dress. Taylor had done that. He’d chosen the dress, the venue, the date… Well, he’d also paid for everything. It would be petty of her to be mad. And she had enjoyed shopping with him, though her mother would have a fit when she found out.

“You won’t be alone.” He zipped up his travel case and shrugged into his suit jacket. “My manager Conway will be spending the days with you. And Luc, the chef, is terrific. You’ll love his food.”

His answers were curt, as if his mind were already on the plane.

“I don’t mind postponing the ceremony until next month. Truly,” Elle said, trying to hide her sudden desperation.

“Honey, I’m giving you the Christmas wedding you’ve always wanted, and I’m thrilled about it. Now, Conway will be here in the morning to take you to Bidwell. Be nice to him. He’s done major things for my career.” Taylor came around the back of the couch and gave her a brief kiss. “I’ll call you once I’m on set, and we’ll talk and text. All day long if you want.”

She twisted around and stood on the couch, wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on. “What about guests? Who are we inviting? Should I invite my parents? What about your parents?”

He rubbed her nose with his. “Silly nugget. You’re really worried, aren’t you?”

Elle relaxed as he took her in his arms. She peered into his eyes but couldn’t read beyond the affable good guy he always projected. “Yes. I want to do this right, not fast. Not just because we could. You should meet my parents, I should meet yours, we should do the whole thing slowly. Just in case.”

“Christmas Eve fits into my schedule. We’ll have an entire week for a honeymoon. Beginning in January my schedule is hell, you know that. If we don’t marry Christmas Eve, our wedding won’t happen until late next year.” He moved away, checked his appearance in the mirror, and picked up his travel bag. “New York at Christmas. Oh well. At least I get to attend the Copperstone party while I’m there. I did tell you we’re in talks for a new superhero movie, didn’t I?”

She frowned in surprise. “No, you hadn’t mentioned it.”

“Nothing is set in stone, but we’re talking. You’ve got my new cell number, so call or text me any time.”

Elle dropped onto the couch, dissatisfied. The Copperstone party? And just what was wrong with waiting a year to get married? “All right. Call me the minute you land in the morning. Be safe.”

Taylor stopped at the door of his apartment and sent her a smile. “It’s been a good month, Elle. I’m going to miss you.” He opened the door and was gone.

“I love you,” she called, but the door shut on her uncertain words and bounced them back to her.

She grabbed a pillow and hung on. Great. Four whole days at a private spa so grand she’d be afraid to touch anything or go anywhere, all with a guy she’d never met before a wedding that she wasn’t entirely sure of, in a dress she’d only tried on once. This was not going to be the best week of her life.

Then again, avoiding Texas would be a good thing at this point. While she’d always had a thing for actors, Daddy hadn’t ever wanted her to fall in love with one. Especially one with such a huge female following, like Taylor.

But she loved the glamour of the movies. Loved the larger-than-life men and women who acted in them. So when Taylor pursued her, she’d found her resistance was impossibly low. His charm bowled her over from the start. She’d never been pursued before, and she’d liked it.

The ring on her left hand caught her eye. Two delicate spirals of diamonds swirled up each side of her finger to hold up the main stone, a gorgeous amethyst bigger than anything she’d ever seen. This wasn’t the simple diamond solitaire she’d always dreamed of, but something much grander. Something she’d have to take off before doing dishes, or gardening, or taking a shower, instead of something that would stay on her finger for the rest of her life.

Elle stifled another niggle of unease and got ready for bed. After pouring herself a glass of white zinfandel, she snuggled down in the big bed to watch the holiday DVDs she’d brought with her. A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas were bound to cheer her up.

Chapter Two

December 20th, mid-morning

Elle turned from staring out the window of the Lincoln to smile at her traveling companion.

“Thank you for coming along. I much prefer company. I hope your holiday plans weren’t ruined. Do you have family in town?”

Conway Davis, Taylor’s agent and manager, smiled. “It’s my pleasure. No, no family here in San Diego.” His phone buzzed and he checked his email. “Sorry. Business. Even with everyone taking these two weeks off, there are always deals to be made.”

“Of course. Please.” As she watched him, she realized who he reminded her of—none other than Dorothy L. Sayers’s fictional character Lord Peter Wimsey. Blond hair, a slender but strong body, a slightly vacuous look on his handsome face but with what she suspected was a formidable intelligence behind it. He’d been nothing but kind during their trip.

The Lincoln eventually pulled into a long drive that wound around to a grey, two-story estate set amidst trees and lush greenery.

“This is it,” Elle said, and butterflies took up residence in her stomach. They’d arrived at the place where her life would change forever. A cloud passed over the sun. She shivered and looked up. Earlier it had been all blue sky. Now the storm clouds were gathering. An omen?

Conway put his phone away. “Ready for the time of your life?”

Elle ducked her head as the driver opened her door and got out instead of answering.

A dapper man in a dark gray suit came toward them, all smiles. “Ms. Houston. Mr. Davis. Welcome to the Bidwell Estate. My name is Jamison, and I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

***

Luc Favreau tipped his head to Bidwell Estate’s manager and raised an eyebrow. The man had come into his kitchen, something he rarely did, and seemed overly flustered. “So, we will be taking care of the skittish bride of Mr. Collins. You’re not worried, are you, Jamison? We’ve entertained many of Mr. Collins’s women here. Or is there something you’re not telling me?”

“This is his bride, not his usual sort. She seems nice.” Jamison checked his notes. “Mr. Collins bought the place out, so Elle Houston and her escort are our only guests until the wedding on Saturday. Find out what she likes, so you can get an idea of what to prepare for the wedding breakfast, in case it varies greatly from what Mr. Collins has ordered. If she wants to cook, let her cook.”

Luc rubbed his nose. “Look, I’ve got work to do in here. There are gifts for the staff to make, plus the turkeys to cook for the shelter, not to mention the daily meals. I can’t just turn my kitchen over to a guest because she has nothing else to do.”

“Of course. Just, please, don’t do anything to upset her,” the resort manager implored. “Mr. Collins requested you specifically, and you’re getting quite a handsome check for this week on top of your usual salary.”

Jamison had a point. Luc sent him a wry smile. “You worry too much, my friend. I will be a mirror to her mood.” At Jamison’s confusion he added, “It’ll be all right.”

“Good.” Relief spread over the manager’s features as he ticked something off his list. “Ms. Houston and her escort are settling into their rooms. She might be down here before lunch.”

Luc shrugged. “I’ll be making pasta. She can come down at any time.”

Jamison nodded and hurried off to check the rest of the public rooms.

Luc got out a bowl and threw in a couple handfuls of flour before cracking an egg into it and stirring. A little water, more stirring, more flour. He relaxed as he moved the slightly sticky mass to the marble slab, tossed some flour on it, and kneaded the dough. He’d start with pasta for lunch. If the woman wouldn’t eat his fresh pasta, it would be a difficult week. Only time would tell.

He’d do what needed doing, of course, to keep her happy, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Usually Gustavo, the other chef, took care of the celebrity women, as he enjoyed providing them a luncheon consisting of an amusingly small leaf of endive, with a bare quarter-teaspoon smattering of blue cheese and three dainty dried cranberries dotting the center. Luc shuddered at the thought. Give him a proper meal, like pasta, or a rich, hearty cassoulet, or perhaps a thick steak and smashed potatoes with grey salt from Provence and a light dusting of pepper. He preferred food that warmed and nurtured, any time, to rabbit food. But Gustavo had the holiday week off, as he had a wife and kids, whereas Luc…? Not a family member on this coast, unfortunately.

Luc’s stomach rumbled as the dough grew silky under his hands. He sighed and tucked it under the bowl to let the gluten relax. He’d done some prep work earlier in the day for dinner that night, so could take a few minutes now to sit back with an almond croissant and a cup of coffee. He’d go to the fish market after lunch for the lobsters.

Christmas music warbled cheerfully in his kitchen. He loved Christmas. He’d hung a garland of fragrant cedar around the French doors, and a wreath of bay and sage threaded with a glossy red ribbon hung on one door. His gifts for family had all been made or bought and sent off a week ago. The only thing left were holiday pastry wreaths to make, both for the staff here and for local friends. Filled with dried cranberries and almonds, it had become a tradition for him in a life that had precious little tradition left. So tonight, after the meal, he’d do more baking.

Not bothering to remove his white apron, he grabbed a croissant, drew down an espresso, and went out onto the patio that adjoined the kitchen and stretched along the whole side of the house. He sank down in wrought iron chair and stared across the gardens without seeing them. This whole wedding business had him thinking about his own future. It was time to settle down. Start a restaurant, get married, have some babies. He was thirty-five, after all. He had a nice nest egg, had lived frugally for years, but he had never found the right property, the right partners, or the right woman….

He sighed and tilted his head back. The air was chilly and the sky thick with dense clouds. There’d be rain before sunset. A good thing, as rain had been scarce the past few years. He breathed in the scented air. Rain, sea, and greenery, one of his favorite mixes.

He heard a noise behind him, a soft clearing of a throat.

“Excuse me, but do you know where the kitchen is? I’m quite lost, and you’re the first person I’ve seen.”

Luc’s every muscle tightened. The voice held him captivated, a womanly, alluring sound rich as cream sauce with a hint of sugar and salt, laughter and tears. Slowly he stood and turned. His gaze found hers. Something inside him clicked, and a moment of recognition passed between them so strong it was hard to believe he’d never met her before. Never loved her before.

He took a step back. Fate had surprised him, finally.

One of her eyebrows rose. “Are you okay?”

Luc shook his shoulders and gave a Gallic shrug. “The kitchen is this way. Was there something you needed?” Like a man to take care of you for the rest of your life? A man to love you and give you babies? He took a leisurely perusal of her body, grateful she was no Hollywood stick-thin coat hanger, no starlet wannabe. This woman was a sweet armful, blonde and bounteous, with an open face and a kind manner. New kitchen help, perhaps, though Jamison hadn’t mentioned hiring anyone new.

Pink washed over her face and she smiled, a dimple rising on her left cheek. “My name is Elle Houston. I need an apple or something.” She pressed two hands to her belly and looked sheepish. “I’m starving.”

He saw the obnoxiously big ring on her finger, and Luc’s heart fell at her feet with a thud. So, this was the bride-to-be? Well, damn it. Regret filled him as he realized he’d come on the scene far too late. Ah well. Surely there was a woman just as good out there for him. In the meantime, he would pamper this one, listen to her, and enjoy her from afar.

He flashed a grin at her and drew her into the circle of his arm. “Welcome, Elle Houston. My name is Luc Favreau, and I shall be your personal chef for this week.”

***

Elle’s heart gave a little flutter as Luc steered her into the warmth of the kitchen. His arm was hard around her, protective, and he smelled delicious, of bread and toasted almonds. This morning was going much better than she had expected.

She sat at the stool he pulled out from under the island at one end of the kitchen and looked about eagerly. “What does a personal chef do?”

“I shall tempt your palate. Let’s see, mid-morning,” he mused.

“Elevensies.”

“After second breakfast,” he responded, his blue gaze dancing with merriment. “A kindred spirit. I discovered Tolkien when I turned ten and had my tonsils out.” He tapped his fingers on the counter, thinking. “Hm. Since it’s a chilly morning, how about some decadent hot chocolate and a couple of shortbread cookies? Made fresh before first breakfast.”

She inhaled the warm scents of the kitchen and sent him a grateful smile. “Sounds wonderful.”

“That’s a lovely engagement ring,” he said. “Amethyst. You must have been born in February, then?”

Elle’s heart fell as she considered. “No. September, actually.” She twisted the ring on her finger and wondered if it had been bought for some other girl. Some girl who maybe was born in February?

Luc’s gentle voice intruded. “My mistake.”

Elle pushed Taylor out of her mind and watched the chef move about the kitchen as though he were captain and commander, getting out heavy cream, sugar, and milk from the refrigerator and chocolate from a cupboard. He was as unlike Taylor as possible, and yet Elle felt a strong attraction. No, it went beyond attraction for this man she’d just met. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything in the world, and that bewildered her more than anything else that had happened to her in the past month.

He maybe topped six feet, if not an inch or so shy. His dark hair was lush and unruly, his shoulders were broad, and from what she could tell from the enveloping apron, his body was thicker, more ruggedly muscled than reed-slender and sleek Taylor. Luc’s face looked like it had been in one too many neighborhood fistfights, with his crooked nose and slightly asymmetrical bone structure. But his eyes were kind, and his hands strong and gentle. What was he? Italian? Spanish or Mexican? Hm. No accent…

“What is your heritage? Sorry,” she added hastily when he looked up from the stove. “You just seem to be a fascinating mix of cultures. I’m curious.”

“Never apologize for honest curiosity,” he said, whisking milk into the melted chocolate. “My father was French, my mother Greek American. I grew up in Italy and Spain and a bit here in the States. I fell in love with cooking while standing at my mother’s side as she cooked her way across the world. And now I am here, cooking for you.” He sent her a swift smile that she felt to her toes, tingling all the way.

He poured the heavy cream in, stirred some more. “What is your heritage?”

“American mutt. Born in California, moved to Texas, and now back here to California.” She leaned on her elbow, finding his kitchen very comfortable. “Nowhere near as exciting as your childhood. I work in the movie industry, in makeup and prosthetics. Monsters and such. I was working on a movie with Taylor Collins when the unthinkable happened and he proposed.” She let out a nervous little laugh. “Oh God, please don’t tell anyone.”

“When we sign on to work at the Bidwell, we sign a confidentiality agreement. Anything you say to me I am duty-bound to keep secret.” Deftly, the chef spooned chocolate into a dainty cup. A swift trip up the kitchen, and then he was back with a plate of shortbread cookies, and he set them in front of her. “Would you like to sit outside and enjoy? Lunch isn’t until one o’clock.”

She sent him a shy glance. His presence was so comfortable, so familiar, that she found herself truly relaxing for the first time in days. Since Taylor had slid his ring on her finger, to be precise. “I interrupted your coffee earlier. So I’ll sit outside if you’ll join me.”

A slow smile spread across Luc’s face. “I’d be honored.” He made another espresso, and they went back out to the patio.

Elle took a seat and sighed with pleasure at the peaceful view of the gardens. “This is wonderful. How do you get any work done with this all this right outside your door?” She sipped the hot chocolate and moaned a little. “And the chocolate is truly decadent.”

“I’m used to it. I use this as a resting place when I can.” He gave a little shrug. “My life is the kitchen, not the garden. I have plans for more, but for now the kitchen is where I am most myself. What are your plans, your dreams?”

Elle watched the fine grains of chocolate swirl in her cup and tried to make sense of the panic that infused her body at his question. She went into a breathing pattern she’d learned in order to handle anxiety.

Luc’s big hand touched her arm with a gentle caress. “Elle? Are you all right?”

She let out a jerky laugh. “I don’t know. What were we talking about?”

“Dreams,” he said. “Plans for the future. For instance, I look to the future and see myself opening a restaurant. Not here or in Los Angeles, but maybe in wine country up north. Sonoma, perhaps. I’ll have a kitchen garden, and babies. I want babies to love and cuddle and scold. Someday I hope to convince the right woman to give me those babies, and to make my most important dream come true.”

Her heart hitched. She’d always wanted babies. “So, you found the right woman?” That hurt, somehow. It shouldn’t. She didn’t know him, but knowing he found someone to love before he’d even met her hurt.

She dared to glance at him. He was frowning as he looked to the horizon, and a muscle alongside his jaw twitched.

“Ah.” He smiled as if remembering something wonderful. “Perhaps. Relationships can be complicated. Plus, the holidays.” He met her gaze without blinking. “It’s a stressful time.”

So, he was taken. Just as well, since she had Taylor—whom, with a shock Elle realized, she hadn’t spoken with since he left yesterday. She should call him, reassure herself that all was well.

“You just need to be firm with her,” she said. “Tell her the truth about how you feel. She’d be an idiot not to be convinced.” She took another sip of her chocolate and sighed as she stood. “I’m going for a walk. The chocolate is totally swoon-worthy, thank you so much.”

She set it on the table, but Luc shook his head.

“Take it with you, please. It will keep you warm.” He wrapped the uneaten cookies in the cloth napkin he’d brought out, and handed the bundle to her. “For you. If you want a later lunch, just let me know.”

“Thank you.” She blushed at his intensity and took the cookies then met his concerned gaze shyly. “You’ve been very kind.”

It was really too damn bad that they were both taken.

She turned, but his voice stopped her before she got to the steps leading to the garden. “Elle. If you ever need to talk, I’m a good listener.”

Talk? She nodded once, surprised at the sudden tears blurring her view of the landscape. “Thank you again.”

She went down the steps and followed the path that, according to a sign, led to a viewpoint. Hunching into her coat against the chill, she wiped at her eyes and breathed through the anxiety that gripped her. What did she think she was doing, marrying one of Hollywood’s top stars? She wasn’t a model or an actress. She was just someone who had turned a talent for art into a career in makeup, that’s all. It wasn’t until Luc’s question about dreams that she’d realized she was putting her own dreams on hold in order to make a living.

Working for the studio had been her father’s idea. Wanting only to make him proud, Elle had made sure she was ready when that opportunity came, and no one since then, not even her fiancé, knew of her connection to one of the biggest movie moguls in the industry. As well, she’d moved on from Copperstone Multimedia. Cut those ties a few years ago, and had been freelancing. Which was wonderful, and yet…

All she’d ever wanted in life was her own art studio, a place to sketch and paint. A studio, a loving husband, and yes, okay, babies. She remembered the longing in Luc’s voice when he talked of it, and she knew that same longing surged through her veins. Did Taylor want babies? What were his dreams for their future? Would he mind if she stopped working and became an artist instead?

She frowned. Looking back on their time together, she realized they’d never discussed the future. Sure, they’d talked about the latest club or the hottest restaurant, or which movie or TV series Taylor should do next. But they’d never talked about the big, important things you should talk about before you get married. She’d never shared her dreams with him. She’d never even shared her family with him, and what did that say about her? About them?

Elle bit her lip and drew her cell phone out of her pocket, dialed Taylor’s number, and stashed the cookies in the coat she wore.

The call went straight to voicemail. Of course, he was probably shooting. She waited, and at the beep she forced herself to smile. “Hi, Taylor, it’s Elle. Just wondering how you’re doing. Also, I wanted to talk about our future. You know. Like how many kids, and where we’ll live. Call me, okay? Bye.” She hung up and cringed at how awkward that felt. Talking with your fiancé really shouldn’t be awkward.

There was a bench at the end of the walk, and she sat. Absently ate a cookie that melted in her mouth. At the thought of Luc making them, the chill ebbed from her heart. She sipped the rich chocolate and sighed, absurdly comforted.

Luc. He seemed so real. Not that the actors she worked with weren’t real. They worked hard at a craft that ultimately let other people escape their daily lives, and laugh, or scream, or cry at what they saw on the screen. But, Luc? He nurtured. Fed people for a living. Chefs, to her, were people born to nurture.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out eagerly, but it was only a text. She stifled a sigh and clicked on it.

I live out of a suitcase. Not a place to have a kid. Can’t talk now. Will call tonight.

It was so not a surprise, but it stung anyway. No kids. No permanent home. Elle shoved the phone into her pocket and munched on another cookie. From what she’d learned from Taylor while on the set, he was a tumbleweed rolling from job to job, woman to woman, Los Angeles to New York to Europe. When, for Pete’s sake, had she begun to believe he’d change that way of life for her?

When he proposed, of course. Their relationship had been strictly on the fun and casual side until he popped the question, completely out of the blue. And as she’d never been asked before, she’d said yes. Only now, staring down a wedding that would take place in less than four days, was she coming to realize she wasn’t at all sure about getting married to Taylor Collins, Movie Star.

Her head throbbed and her stomach ached with anxiety, which she promptly soothed with a third cookie.

Merry freaking Christmas to her.

Chapter Three

December 20th, 3 p.m.

That afternoon Elle tried to read one of her historical novels, but her mind kept going back to lunch. Conway had been absent, for whatever reason, so it had been just her and Luc. He’d made her a delicious meal of pasta with fresh garlic cream sauce, fresh sourdough bread, and a side of roasted broccoli with garlic, pine nuts and lemon. She never wanted to eat in a restaurant again.

It had been so intimate, her sitting there in the kitchen while he cooked…and that was not a proper thing for her to crave. She hit her head with her novel and sighed. “Stupid girl.”

The room phone rang, and she picked it up.

“Come shopping with me.”

Elle’s heart fluttered to hear Luc’s rumbly voice. “Why?”

“I checked, and you’re not getting a massage or a tennis lesson. Nor are you in the sauna. So I figured you might be up for an adventure. I need to pick some things up at the market. Do you want to join me?”

She jumped to her feet. “Yes. Oh man, yes. Thank you. I’ll be down in five minutes. No, make that ten.”

“Meet me at the front door.”

“Thank you, Luc. Bye.”

What did one wear to the grocery store with a hunky guy? Elle put the phone down and spun around, breathless. She couldn’t wear the same clothes she’d had elevensies and lunch in, and she didn’t want to change into her dinner clothes. Jeans were too casual and a blazer too dressy. Gah! Why did these things have to be so difficult?

She settled on a pair of black jeans, black tennis shoes, and a sweater in a Christmassy red, carrying her coat. No reason to look like a puffball if she didn’t have to.

***

He took her to Emerson Seafood on Emerson Street, right on the water. Elle went in, curious, and very aware of Luc’s big hand on the small of her back.

The shop smelled fresh and briny.

“Luc! It is good to see you, my friend. Lobster today, yes? And who is the lovely with you?”

Luc shot a quick smile at her before turning to the man behind the counter. “Simon, this is Elle. Elle, Simon, a man who knows his fish.”

Elle stepped forward and shook his hand, aware of Luc beaming at both of them. “Nice to meet you, Simon.”

Simon kept her hand in his. “Ah, bella Elle. Such a beauty. Luc, I shall steal this one away from you, see if I don’t,” Simon threatened.

Elle giggled. Simon was seventy if he was a day, a shrunken old man with weather-beaten skin whose hands had been gnarled by the sea. But he had a lively eye and a wide smile. Elle liked him immensely.

Luc gently took Elle’s hand away from Simon and kissed it. “Ah, there is a man before you, Simon,” he said. “Mourn, my brother, for this lovely lass is getting married on Christmas Eve.”

“Well, you can’t win them all,” Simon said. “Spinys, right? I’ve got ’em packed up for you.” Simon handed a small Styrofoam case to Luc and warned, “Careful now with the dry ice.”

“He says that each and every time.” Luc winked at Elle. “As if I’ll forget.”

“Never hurts to hand a reminder. Need anything else?”

“This’ll do it. Thanks, Simon. See you next week.”

“Be good, Luc. Elle, thank you for brightening my day.” He gave her a stiff half-bow, a wicked twinkle in his eye.

“Oh la, sir. You’ll turn my head if you go on so,” she said, and batted her eyelashes. “Perhaps I shall marry you, instead?”

Simon roared with laughter. “She’s a pistol. I’d take you up on that, but my Mary wouldn’t like it much. She’s a persnickety old woman, but she’s all mine. No, dearie, you go on as you were. Take good care of her, Luc.”

“I’ll do my best. Shall we?”

“Let’s,” Elle said, and they left the shop. “What a lovely man.”

“Simon’s a hoot,” Luc agreed. He stashed the Styrofoam container in the truck. “He’s worked there for years. Let’s walk around.”

Elle grimaced. All that water. She gulped and tried to calm her racing heart. She had no wish to get closer than they already were but went along anyway. With Luc.

The wind grew sharper when they moved from the shelter of the building and alongside the water. Small pleasure boats bobbed and the ocean was a choppy slate gray matching the thick clouds overhead. Elle shivered, grateful for her coat and for Luc at her side.

“Are you cold?”

She turned to him abruptly. “Can we go back?”

Surprised, Luc put an arm around her. “Of course. You okay?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t until they were safely in the truck again that she relaxed. “Sorry. Stupid, I know, but all that water.” She shook her head. “I’m not a big beach person. Jaws totally ruined that for me. Plus I get drowning dreams.”

“Ah.” Understanding filled his eyes as she shivered again, and he started the truck. “I’m more a mountains kind of guy, myself. When I was a teenager, I was fat. Going to the beach was never really my thing.”

“I never would have suspected you were overweight.”

He grinned. “Mama’s cooking. In middle school, I took up running and wrestling. That took care of the extra weight, eventually. But portion control is something I’m still aware of, and I keep an eye on the scale.”

Kinship filled her. “I’ll never be a size two,” she confessed. “I always wanted to be that small. The smallest I’ve ever gotten was a size ten, and it totally screwed up my metabolism. That’s when I swore off any sort of diet.”

Luc reached over and took her hand. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

Elle smiled and looked out the window.

***

“But Colossus was the best roller coaster at Six Flags in Valencia,” Luc argued. “Too bad it caught fire.”

“Well, sure.” Elle sniffed. She sat opposite Luc at the island in the kitchen, with Conway between them. The island was littered with the remains of their excellent meal of steak au poivre, garlic potatoes, green beans and the shells of spiny lobster. There was only a little wine left in the bottle. “Colossus is fine if you like having your back wrenched to high heaven. The new one will be as jerky as the old one, I’m sure. As far as back-wrenching roller coasters go, you’d probably love Desperado, in Primm—Buffalo Bill’s Casino, on the way to Las Vegas,” she explained.

“We’ll have to ride that one together,” Luc said, and stopped, clearly startled. “Sorry. Shouldn’t be making dates with a woman who’s getting married in a few days.”

An awkward silence fell. Conway studied the wine left in his glass. Elle set her napkin aside and cleared her throat.

“No apologies necessary. Thank you for the marvelous dinner.” She smiled at Luc. “Your reputation is well deserved, and I’ve truly enjoyed tonight.”

Conway stirred. “Yes, and thanks for letting us eat here rather than in the dining room. I much prefer this casual atmosphere. But you’re wrong about the Chargers,” he added. “There’s no way the San Diego team will make it to the Super Bowl.”

“We shall see. I’m holding you to that bet, Conway. And it’s been my pleasure having you both here, but now I must boot you out of my kitchen. I have more work to do. Unless you’d like to stay? Have some dessert?”

Elle wanted to stay, more than anything, but she shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m stuffed. I’d better walk around the garden a bit before heading off to bed.”

“I shall walk with you,” Conway said as they stood. “Have you checked out the library here? It’s quite extensive. Has all the popular authors.”

Luc nodded. “He’s right. There’s Tolkien and Mary Stewart, Ursula Le Guin, Jane Austen. Plus several big-name romance and mystery authors, like Dorothy L. Sayers.”

Her heart hitched. “All my favorites,” she said, and lifted her gaze to Luc’s. More than anything she found herself wanting to stay right where she was. She forced herself to move to the door. “Thank you again.”

Conway opened the French doors just as Luc called Elle’s name. She turned back to him, her heart pounding. “Yes?”

He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “We should discuss your wedding breakfast. How many people, what you would like to serve, and so forth.”

“Oh.” Her smile faltered. Crap. Not the conversation she wanted to have right now. But she sent him a cautious smile. “Now? It’s getting rather late.” The clock on the wall said it was past ten.

“Not tonight. Let us say, after breakfast tomorrow? Nine o’clock? I’ll have an hour to spare then.”

“Sure. Of course. Tomorrow. I’ll be here.” She turned blindly and almost walked into a pillar. “I’m fine,” she said in response to their exclamations. “Embarrassed, but fine.”

Taylor’s agent twined his arm with hers. “I’ve got you. Let’s take a walk.”

They went down the steps to the garden path, now shrouded in the fog borne by the marine layer off the ocean. Lamps gave a cursory light along the walkway.

“It seems Luc is smitten with you.”

Conway’s dry observation had her sighing. “I really like him, too.” Elle breathed in the scent of the sea and the gardens before she realized what he’d been saying. “Damn it. You must think I’m mental.”

“I think anyone who gets married is mental, so it’s nothing personal.” They walked in silence for a bit before Conway cleared his throat. “You had quite a reaction to Luc’s mention of your wedding dinner. Is there a problem?”

Elle tightened her hand on his arm. “You seem really nice. And I’ve had wine. So you know, the truth is I don’t have anyone to come to the ceremony.” She turned her face up to his. “I’ve been afraid to tell my parents. I don’t have many close friends. I’m”—she waved her hands up and down her curvy body—“not exactly movie star wife material,” she said, and she heard the despair in her own voice. “What am I going to do when the shit hits the fan?”

“You mean, when people gossip about you? They’ll think that that you married him for his money or his celebrity.”

A snort escaped her. “That’s so not true.” But her doubt had grown until it became impossible to ignore.

“I know it’s not true, but that won’t matter. The press can get ugly, and social media even uglier. If you and Taylor are truly committed to this relationship, then you’ll have to ignore the rest. Stick together.” Conway looked up. “I think it’s going to rain. We should get under cover.”

They headed toward the main patio, and Elle’s thoughts twisted and turned as they walked.

“I know about the press. That’s why I keep out of the media.” They arrived at a patio outside the main gathering room, and she had a sudden thought. She slid her arm free and sent Conway a wry smile. “You know the truth, don’t you? About me, I mean.”

“That you’re William Davison Copperstone’s daughter? Yes. Copperstone married your mother when he found out about you, when you were ten. He never had other children. I was doing some research, and a private investigator discovered the link between you.”

Elle didn’t know whether to be mad or impressed. “You had me investigated?”

Conway put his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Not exactly.” He paused. “Conway came to me asking about a certain movie series that Copperstone Multimedia is producing. He wanted to be involved, so I did some digging. I also had my client, your fiancé, investigated. I have all my clients investigated once they hit a certain income level. I want to make sure they’re not being stupid. Well, I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Taylor mentioned the movie.” Elle said, reeling. Taylor’s agent—agent, manager, whatever the hell he was—had Taylor investigated? Okay, so apparently it was normal, but still. “It could be a coincidence. Right? Taylor and the Copperstone movies.” There must have been a note of desperation in her voice, because concern crossed Conway’s face.

“If I can do anything for you, let me know.”

“Why? I’m not your client or your friend. Why would you help me?”

He shrugged. “One, I don’t see any male relative around and taking care of you. Two, I like to believe I have protective instincts toward the female half of the population.”

Elle smiled. “You’re a nice man, Conway. But your first loyalty is to your client. I understand and appreciate that.”

They walked to one of the doors leading back into the house. Conway opened the door. “Go on in and call him. Perhaps you’re just missing him. To his credit, when he told me about the wedding, he was bubbling with enthusiasm. Call him, and do some billing and cooing. Maybe that will ease some of your doubts.”

“I’ll do that.” Elle stood on tiptoe and kissed Conway’s cheek. “Thank you.” She went inside and held the door open. “Are you coming?”

“It’s a lovely night for a walk.”

She laughed. What an interesting person. It had started to mist heavily. “I guess it is. Goodnight.”

Elle lingered in the door and watched him walk away, out onto the path. He lifted his face to the rain and disappeared around a corner. Elle turned, dismissing all thoughts of Conway and thinking about the next step. She needed to call Taylor. Conway was right about that.

She made it to her lovely room and changed into her pajamas before calling Taylor’s cell, waited as the phone rang. Her heart gave a leap when a voice answered, music and laughter in the background. Was he at a party? The Copperstone party, perhaps?

“Talk to me.”

“Taylor? It’s Elle. How did the pick-up shots go today?”

“Elle. Hang on a minute.” The phone went dead.

Elle knew he was just muting the cell so she couldn’t hear what was being said. She’d seen him do it many times, and even approved of it, but this time it irritated her.

He came back on the line. No sounds of a party could be heard. “Sorry about that. It’s almost two a.m. here, you know. Why did you wait to call so late?”

“I called you earlier. And you said you would call me. Which you didn’t. So I finally called again.” She waited a beat, but he didn’t answer so she started in. “Have you ever had second breakfast?”

“Have you been drinking?”

Elle frowned. “Just some wine. Why?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I was quoting Tolkien.”

Taylor groaned. “Some Russian author? Sorry, hon. I don’t read anything but scripts.”

Elle stared at her phone before recovering. “Never mind. You know, I was thinking we should go to Vegas after we get married. Go do all the roller coasters at all the different casinos. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“I don’t do the tourist thing.” But his voice had gentled. “I’m sorry. You’re feeling neglected, aren’t you? I’ll be there Friday morning. We can talk then.”

Guilt and anxiety rose in her, but she was determined to get all her questions out. “So, you really don’t want children?”

A heavy sigh came over the line. “I have never had the overwhelming need to reproduce, no. At least not until I’m George Clooney’s age. And please, don’t ask me to pick a coast to live on. I’m bicoastal.”

Elle licked her lips. “But, what do you think about buying a place in Sonoma? You know, central California, wine country, not too far from San Francisco. Face it, Taylor. I’m not going to be on every movie set you’re on. And I kind of want to paint.”

“I’d need an apartment in Los Angeles—and one in New York City, too.”

His reply was swift and sure, and she blinked. Why had that sounded like a negotiation? “I’m surprised you don’t have them already. You certainly make more money than I do, considering how much you make per picture.” Then she remembered the production had paid for the hotel he lived in during filming, and she wondered. Where did Taylor live?

There was a long pause, and Elle’s heart sank.

“Sweetheart, I need to get to bed. My call time is just a few hours from now, and I’m beat. I’ll be there on Friday, and we’ll talk then.”

“Wait, Taylor, don’t hang up. I’m having some major second thoughts about this wedding. We know so little about each other. We went too fast. I’m just not sure I…” But she couldn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t tell him over the phone that she didn’t love him. No, that was something better handled in person. She might have had her head in the clouds up to this point, but it was time to take control of her life.

He didn’t respond, so she swallowed and continued. “I want a prenuptial agreement signed by both of us before the wedding. I never want your money to come between us.”

“That’s very sweet but hardly necessary, honey,” he protested. But there was a thread of alarm in his voice. Not a good sign.

Elle gritted her teeth. “It is necessary. Everyone is going to think I’m just using you, but I want you to know the truth. I’ll have my lawyer draw one up and email it to you.”

“You have a lawyer?”

His surprise was rather insulting, she decided.

“I know people,” she said, keeping it simple, then waited for his loving assurances. When he didn’t say any more, she took a breath. “So, speaking of the wedding. How many people were you planning on inviting? I might be able to scrape up one or two people, myself.”

“I haven’t invited anyone yet.” Now he just sounded annoyed. “Look, Elle. I promise you we’ll talk. Maybe we can Skype on Thursday, but right now I really need some sleep, and I don’t want to have to take a sleeping pill. You know how I hate flying.”

She rubbed the space between her eyes. “No, I didn’t know. You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“Don’t be like that. You’re the only woman I’ve actually been engaged to.”

“I see.” Elle twisted the ring on her finger and wondered. “Okay. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Elle carefully set her phone on the desk, wanting nothing more than to hurl it against the wall. She felt like a fool. If she were honest with herself, the whole engagement hadn’t felt right from the beginning. The attention, Taylor’s pursuit, the intimate dinners had all turned her head. The past four weeks had been like living in a fairy tale, the climax of which was the prince asking the ordinary girl to marry him. But now? If he secretly knew who she was—or rather, who her father was—then he clearly had a hidden agenda. She didn’t do well with hidden agendas, which made her way forward clear.

She needed to end this engagement. But in order to do that, she needed some backup.

Elle reached for her phone, dialed the number she knew by heart, and waited, nerves fluttering in her stomach. At the gruff hello, she cleared her throat and spoke to the man who could instill terror into any movie industry player.

“Daddy? It’s Elle. Do you have a few minutes?”

William Copperstone’s voice came across the miles and warmed her heart. “Hey, little girl. I always have time for you. What’s up? Are you coming home for Christmas?”

“Probably not traveling for Christmas, Daddy.” She nibbled on her thumb. “Actually, it’s about this guy….”

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

Elle poured her heart out as her father listened. When it was his turn to talk, he made her laugh, made her think, and made her realize how much she missed him.

Chapter Four

Luc kneaded another batch of bread dough and swore under his breath. What the hell was he supposed to do, just let the most perfect woman in the world marry some unworthy hotshot movie star?

Damn it, yes. He slapped the ball of dough down hard onto the marble. That’s exactly what he was supposed to do. She loved Taylor. A woman like her wouldn’t get engaged to someone, wouldn’t give them her promise to marry if her heart wasn’t involved. She had to love Taylor, which meant he, Luc, would be making her wedding breakfast. Not the wedding cake, thank goodness. They jobbed those out to a local bakery. But the rest of the celebratory meal was all on him.

His mood soured, he transferred the ball of dough to a wooden slab covered in flour and set a mixing bowl over the top. Retrieving another bowl from the counter, he whipped off the towel covering it, and after sprinkling more flour onto the marble he eased out the risen pastry dough. It landed with a poof of flour dust. He sprinkled more flour on the dough before rolling it out to a large rectangle, slapping the pin down and getting some of his aggression out as he flattened it. Setting the rolling pin aside, he shook his hands out, stretched his back, and turned to get a bowl behind him.

“She must love him.” His words resounded in the kitchen as he spread the pastry dough with the butter, cranberries, and chopped almond filling. He set the bowl aside. “If I thought for a moment she didn’t love him, I’d take her away and make her mine. But, you idiot, she does love him. So just get that out of your head.”

But he found he was going through the motions as the night wore on, with not even the Christmas music cheering him up. He made four loaves of bread, several cranberry-almond wreaths, and downed yet another espresso, grimacing as the acid hit his stomach. At this rate he’d still be awake when it came time to start the turkeys in the morning.

Only two more wreaths to bake before he could try to get some sleep.

The timer buzzed, and Luc stood, slid his hands into oven mitts, and turned to the ovens. He eased two pans holding holiday wreaths out and set the pastry on racks to cool. Slid two more pans in, set the timer and closed the oven door.

Luc looked at the clock on the wall and grimaced. Almost two in the morning, and he couldn’t sleep for wanting Elle’s presence. How lame was that?

He should have known he wouldn’t fall in love in any ordinary way. They’d just celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary, but his father had seen his mother on the Metro in Paris and followed her for hours until she finally deigned to talk to the crazy Greek who offered her flowers. So, finding a woman four days before her wedding and falling in love with her wasn’t that much of a stretch for Luc’s heritage.

“You’re a stupid, stupid man, Jean-Luc. Stupid,” he muttered. He opened the big refrigerator, checked on the thawing turkeys. “I’ll be roasting you in a couple of days,” he said, poking at the big birds.

“Are you talking to the fridge?”

Elle’s voice, warm and amused, startled him. He shut the fridge door and stuck his hands in his pockets, struck by a sudden attack of nerves. She looked adorable in jeans and a heavy sweatshirt, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, and it took all his restraint not to pull her into his arms.

He’d take what he could get. Her, in his kitchen, at two in the morning.

“Turkeys. I have some turkeys I’m cooking. But you didn’t come down here to talk about turkeys. You’re not sleeping. Do you need some warm milk? Hot chocolate?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been talking to my dad.”

His eyebrows rose. “The whole time? You left here four hours ago. That’s a long conversation. Would you like a glass of wine? I happen to have an open bottle.”

“Yes, please.” She settled at the kitchen island and leaned on one elbow, announcing, “You look good in here. You belong in a kitchen.”

“Why does that sound wistful?” He poured some rich red wine into two glasses and carried them over, sitting beside her instead of across from her. Their hands touched as he passed the glass. Touched, lingered, drew slowly apart.

She smiled a little as she sipped her wine. He took a deep breath.

“It sounds wistful because it is. I’ve realized I need to start living the life I want to live and not the one I thought was safe.” She grimaced. “Not the one my daddy wanted me to have, I should say.”

“Fathers have a right to be protective. I have two younger sisters, so I know how it is.” Luc frowned down into his glass of wine, not sure where she was heading. “So, does this soul-searching have anything to do with your wedding on Saturday?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” She twined her hands together and sighed. “Yes, of course it does.”

His heart leapt. His head came up, and he caught her left hand. “You’re not wearing the ring.”

“I’m not, no. I told Taylor we needed to talk, really talk. I haven’t told him yet that I don’t love him. I thought it was important to do that in person.”

Luc searched her face, not wanting to assume too much. “Why did you come down here?”

“We made a connection.” Elle’s hand tightened on his. “I felt it this morning, and then it grew stronger through the day. It feels right, you and me. Like we’ve met again, not for the first time.” She flushed, and her eyes sparkled. “You know?”

She took his breath away. Luc gripped the counter, hoping to steady the world around him. Shock and surprise flooded him, followed by a deep gratitude. “That’s how I felt this morning. It killed me when I realized you were already taken.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” Elle blurted out. “Especially under the circumstances. But I think we should see if maybe there’s a possibility that there could be something more between us than this feeling that we belong together. We could give it a year or two. Unless you think I’m crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.” Elation flooded him. “Come here.” He tugged her hand, and she stood, stepping shyly between his spread knees.

“What are we doing?” There was a breathless wonder in her voice, and a part of Luc rejoiced.

“We’re soul-searching,” he responded, and with gentle fingers he lifted her chin and kissed her lightly. “Giving each other something to think about.” When he kissed her again, she stepped closer, and he eased his body toward the front of the barstool and caught her gaze with his. “Making sure neither of us makes a terrible mistake.”

She smiled. “Soul-searching,” she repeated, and she kissed him in return, her lips soft and questing.

Luc’s already hard body hardened further.

“Thinking,” she continued with another kiss, her tongue swiping his lower lip, “is never a mistake.”

She stepped fully against him and put her hands on his shoulders. Luc drew her closer, one hand cradling her head, the other at her lower back as he took the kiss deep. Her scent, one of fresh peaches, mingled with the cinnamon in the air. Her full breasts flattened against his chest, her belly pressed against his painfully hard erection, and her tongue strained against his as if she could never get enough. She tasted of wine and secrets, a heady combination.

***

Elle’s body came alive under Luc’s kiss, under his hands, and she marveled at the need that pulsed through her with every beat of her heart. Her breasts heated as she pressed against him, seeking to soothe the ache that bloomed there. She dug her fingers into his hair and reveled in that silky mass as they kissed.

So, this was what she’d been missing! This heart-pumping, shuddery sensation that filled her body and sent her soul soaring, this sense of rightness settled in her mind along with the knowledge that she’d come home just by stepping into his arms.

Luc’s lips left hers to press kisses along her jaw. He took a detour down her throat, pausing to suck gently at the pulse there. She moaned at the heat of his big hand on her ass.

“Luc,” she said, just before his mouth took hers again. His hand moved upward, slipped beneath her sweatshirt. She shivered at the warmth of his fingers against her skin, glad she’d left her bra off when she’d made the split-second decision to come down to the kitchen at two a.m. He smoothed the skin of her back, came around and palmed one breast. There was reverence in the touch, and Elle shivered as her nipples tightened to a painful degree.

“You’re so beautiful,” Luc murmured, and he kissed her again, plunging her back into the storm of desire. So much sensation. How could a kiss light up every nerve in her body? How come no other kiss ever had? Not like this.

She wanted him so hard it scared her, and she remembered with a shock the woman in his life. Elle moved her hands out of his hair and back to his shoulders, mentally separating from him.

“Wait.” To her surprise, she was breathless. “You told me earlier that you might have found someone you want to have babies with. We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

He chuckled, a tired sound. “I was talking about you. You told me to be firm,” he said. “To tell you the truth about how I feel. Well, I want to explore a life together, Elle. You and me. I want to spend years and years getting to know you.”

Her world righted itself as she processed his answer. It was both a good and a bad thing, though. “It seems we both have a lot to think about.” She licked her lips, tasting him there. “Taylor will be here on Friday. I can’t… I mean, I’m not free. Not until I tell him in person.”

Luc’s eyes grew intense. “You have taken me by storm, Elle Houston, and I am so grateful for it. If you’re truly not in love with Taylor, then I will wait for you to be free.”

“I swear I’m not in love with Taylor.” She leaned her forehead on his and breathed in his scent. “What freak of fortune brought me here, now, to you? In such a way?” She pulled away, aware of how her body ached for his and knowing any sleep she got this night would be full of dreams. Wonderful dreams that would undoubtedly leave her restless and yearning.

Luc caught her hand, kissed her palm. “If this interlude is all I ever have of you, it will be enough. Well, no, it won’t, but at least I will have tasted you. Better a taste of heaven than nothing.”

“You’re a romantic. This isn’t all we’ll have of each other. I swear.” Elle’s heart gave a painful jerk. “Would you walk me to my room?”

Luc gave a quick glance at the clock and shook his head. “The baking will be done in fifteen minutes. I am quite sure I would spend more than fifteen minutes kissing you at your door. So it is best that I stay here. Especially given that you’re not yet free.”

Elle nodded, her smile brilliant, and backed toward the French doors, amazed at how difficult it was to leave him. “And if I want to talk to you?”

“Dial nine and I’ll answer,” he promised, following her. “So, you don’t hate me for taking advantage of you?”

She laughed. “You didn’t take advantage of me. I came down here for a reason, didn’t I?”

Before she could say more, Elle turned and left the kitchen, grateful for the chill in the air against her overheated skin. Wild thoughts flashed through her mind as she walked. What had she done? Then she pressed a hand against her swollen lips and smiled. She’d done nothing wrong. Just kissed a man who saw her. Saw who she was, as she was, even though he knew nothing about her. His kiss had changed her elementally. She’d never thought of herself as an overly sexual being, but since she met Luc it seemed life had taken on a sensual shimmer. It had burst into full color tonight.

She’d felt it, that instant recognition, when they first met. As though something had fitted into place, the missing piece of the puzzle of her life. She’d felt it and ignored it until the contrast between Luc and Taylor grew too great. And that had only taken a day. What would the rest of their lives be like? Anticipation shivered through her, and she hugged herself, grinning.

Elle made it to her suite, shucked her sweatshirt and jeans, and dressed only in a thin camisole and panties she climbed into the resort’s downy bed. She hesitated a brief moment before picking up the house phone and pressing nine.

The phone didn’t complete its first ring.

“Elle.”

His voice sent shivers through her body, and her nipples tightened. “Hi, Luc.” She licked her lips. “I just wanted to say thank you again.”

He chuckled, low. “It is I who should thank you for not marrying that man on Saturday.”

A grin took over her face, and she leaned back against the pillows. “You’re welcome. Now, stop baking and go to bed. I want to have breakfast with you.”

“I’m in the kitchen by six,” he warned.

“I’ll be there by six-oh-five,” she declared. “I just… Oh, hell.” Elle swallowed.

“What is it?”

“Thank you,” she said, agonizing, wanting to say more and yet afraid. It was too soon. Definitely too soon. She wanted time. Time to figure out who he was, deep down. Who she was, when she was with him.

“Sleep well, Elle. Everything will be clearer in the morning, I promise.” His voice sent delicious shivers down her spine. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

But, sleep? Elle set the receiver down and flopped back in bed, spread her arms wide, and grinned at the ceiling overhead. Who could sleep at a time like this?

Chapter Five

December 21st, morning

Elle arrived at the French doors at six. Luc moved toward her with a big smile and unlocked them. She walked into his arms and gave him a hug. He held her tight, nuzzled her neck, and breathed deep. She smelled of the rain that poured down, and of peaches, and warm woman.

After another long moment, she loosened her arms and he released her.

“Good morning, Elle. Coffee? Or chocolate?”

He kept an arm around her and settled her at the kitchen island. Her cheeks pinkened, and her dimple winked at him. “Coffee, thank you. Isn’t the rain lovely?”

“You are lovely.” He wrangled the espresso maker and glanced at her over his shoulder. “Did you sleep well?”

“Eventually. You’re right, you know. Everything is remarkably clear now.”

“Oh? I’m very interested. What is clear?” He set the coffee in front of her, along with cream and sugar. “I have a simple breakfast planned. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, broiled tomatoes and orange juice. Sound good?”

“Oh, yes please.” She stared out at the rain, a smile on her face. Her cell phone rang, breaking the peace, and she fumbled for it. Frowned. “Sorry,” she said, and went to stand on the covered patio where he couldn’t hear the conversation.

Luc’s gut tightened as he set bacon to sizzling. One of the devils that had kept him awake in the night was Taylor’s reaction. If Elle left Taylor to be with him, would he lose his job? Taylor didn’t usually throw his celebrity around, but he was a long-time patron here. If Taylor demanded he be fired, Luc had the nasty feeling he’d be out on his ass. But it could conceivably be worth it, if getting fired meant he and Elle were together.

He watched Elle out of the corner of his eye. What had her decision been? He’d rather know quickly. Not that it mattered. His course was set. It was up to her now.

What was the old saying? It took seconds to have a crush on someone, and maybe a day to fall in love, but it would take a lifetime to forget. They hadn’t truly known each other for a whole day and yet he knew if she walked out of his life right this second, he’d never forget her. A broken heart might mend, but the crack would always be there.

He sent a casual glance her way. She was pacing on the patio, gesticulating, talking intently. Frowning. Then Conway appeared. The man took the phone she offered, listened, said something curt and shut the phone off. Handed it back.

Luc turned the bacon on the grill and added more, brought the carton of eggs out, added two more pieces of bread to the toaster. It looked like his cozy breakfast for two had just become breakfast for three.

The doors opened, bringing the sound of rain and the fresh, cold air in with the returning guests. Conway looked grim.

Elle pasted on a smile for Luc. “Mmm, bacon. God, it smells wonderful in here.” She returned to the bar stool she’d left, and Conway sat across from her.

Luc struggled to be polite. “Good morning, Conway. Breakfast will be in about five minutes. Would you like coffee?”

“Espresso. Single shot.”

“Of course.” Luc stood at the end of the island and braced his arms on the top. “After you tell me what that was all about. Talk.”

Elle cleared her throat. “It was Taylor. I texted him around four this morning, telling him I’d called off the wedding. That was him just now, letting me know he was landing in San Diego around one this afternoon.”

Conway shrugged. “Which is when I took the phone from her, told him to not be an ass, and to back off. He cursed and slammed the phone down. I’m pretty sure he fired me.” The agent cut his gaze to Luc. “Now, give me my damn espresso. I don’t deal well with a lack of coffee.”

Luc pulled an espresso and delivered the cup to Conway without knowing what to say.

Elle smiled faintly up at him, and she answered the question he burned to ask. “Yes, I’m sure.” She spread her hands. “I asked about the ring. Apparently he had it made for some other woman. No wonder it never felt right on my finger. It was never really mine.”

Conway set his cup down. “More. Please.”

Luc made a second espresso while trying to stifle a trembling deep inside. He set the cup in front of Conway, who slammed the contents down as well and winced.

“Hot. Damn. Good.” The agent wiped his mouth with a handy napkin and blinked a couple of times. “Okay, now I can think.”

Elle twisted her fingers together. “I’m sorry you got fired.”

“It’s only money, honey.” Conway sat back and looked at the two of them. “If you’re sure about calling off this wedding, then I’m behind you. If you, either of you, have plans to sell this story to the tabloids, then I’m against you.”

Luc took her hand, pulled her from her seat and into his arms. “Frankly, the thought never crossed my mind,” he said. He glanced down at Elle, brushed the hair out of her eyes. “I’ve waited a long time for the right woman to come into my life. I’m just damned lucky she seems to feel the same way about me.”

Elle murmured happily in her throat as he sealed his declaration with a kiss.

“Okay, now. Break it up, kids.”

Conway’s irritated voice penetrated Luc’s blissful daze, and he released Elle. “Another espresso? Or can I feed us now?” He put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows.

“Food is good.” Conway yawned. “And while you cook, we’ll think of a game plan. We’ve got to deal with Taylor when he shows up. To tell you the truth,” he said to Elle, “I thought he was going to leave you at the altar and run away with Clarice Desmond. I planned on being here for you to cry on my shoulder.”

“Clarice Desmond, the reporter?” Elle leaned her chin on her hand. “I didn’t even know he knew her. She’s a spitfire. We’re complete opposites. I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Conway advised.

Luc whisked eggs together. “So, you don’t want to keep him as a client?”

“He fires me on a regular basis,” Conway explained, a wry twist to his mouth. “I don’t mind letting him go, despite losing the payday. Some people are too much work.”

“The dress is supposed to arrive this afternoon,” Elle said. She gave Luc an anxious glance. “I suppose I can send it back.”

“I can tell Jamison to refuse delivery,” he suggested. “And we haven’t discussed food for Saturday, so there’s no charge for that.”

“And if we check out today, well…at least Taylor won’t be charged for the days we don’t use.” Elle paused and grimaced at Luc. “Unless he has to, since you all weren’t able to take any other bookings.”

“The more likely scenario,” Conway agreed.

Eggs hit the melted butter in Luc’s hot pan and sizzled. He pulled the bacon off the griddle and piled it on a paper towel–covered plate, stirred the eggs, and plucked the toast out of the toaster. “Elle, honey, please get the butter out of the fridge. Could you set the table, too? Just like you did last night, with the plates in the cabinet behind me and silver in the drawer in the island.”

Elle hopped to do as he asked, and soon the three of them sat down to eat.

“I would say let’s cut and run before Taylor can get here,” Elle said suddenly, stroking Luc’s forearm. “But it’s best to get everything out in the open right away.”

“I agree,” Luc growled, and he gave her a swift kiss. “I don’t think anyone here will care that the wedding is cancelled. We’ll just shut down for the holiday and spend time with our families.”

“I could get an earlier flight out to Fiji,” Conway mused. “There’s a thought. Great eggs, by the way.”

Elle looked at him with a laugh. “You’re not a Christmas buff? Color me shocked.”

“Ha-ha. What were your first three clues?”

“Well, let’s see. On the way over you asked the limo driver to change the all-Christmas station to sports talk. I think that was clue enough.”

“I love Christmas,” Luc spoke up. “Everything about it, but mostly the family traditions.”

Elle smiled. “I love Christmas, too. But I never really wanted to get married on Christmas Eve.”

Conway wiped his mouth. “I say it depends on your groom.” He paused. “Great breakfast. I’ve got to catch up on email. We have a few hours before Taylor drops in.” He pushed away from the table and sent a bright smile to both of them. “Now, please try to use the time wisely, kids. And practice safe sex.” Then he was out the French doors and gone.

Luc set his fork down, and he and Elle looked at each other. “Well. This is awkward.”

“You don’t want to have sex.” Elle wrinkled her nose. “If we get married, I’ll want sex. Often. Just so you know,” she teased.

“You know I want to make love to you. You know how I kissed you last night,” he pointed out in a murmur, and he brushed his finger down the silky curve of her cheek. “Do you really think I’ll be able to stop ‘in a couple of hours’?”

She smiled, gloriously. Took his hand in hers and kissed it. “Let me change the subject, then. Earlier this morning you were talking to the turkeys in your refrigerator. How come you have turkeys in your fridge without a full house here?”

“I’m cooking them for a couple of the local churches. They depend on donations to feed the homeless during the holiday season. I do what I can.”

Her eyes lit with interest. “Do you help serve, too? I’ve always wanted to volunteer for stuff like that but never knew where to start.”

Luc stood, clearing their dishes to the sink. “When I’m not working, I help out. And since it doesn’t look like I’ll be cooking a wedding feast for you, what do you say you come help me serve?” He leaned a hip against the counter and just drank in the sight of her.

“I’d really like that.” She fidgeted on her stool. “There’s so much to learn about each other.”

“We’ve got time—and I’ll start. My parents live in New Jersey, right on Pine Lake, in a rambling old summerhouse that they bought and fixed up. They live there year-round now. I have two sisters and a bunch of cousins, all of whom live back east. You?” Luc wiped the counter down.

“I need to tell you all the stuff I never told Taylor. The bad along with the good. Start this relationship on the right foot, you know?”

Luc could see her nerves, so he went to her. Put his hands on her shoulders, and bent to give her a kiss. “Let me make you chocolate. Life stories sometimes go better with hot chocolate. Then we can talk while I prepare the turkeys. Yes?”

She kissed his cheek and pulled away with a sigh. “It will have to do,” she said, a teasing light in her eye.

As Luc prepared two turkeys, she told him everything. He listened and learned about her movie-mogul father, her too-protective mother, and being an only child growing up in a tiny town in Texas.

“After we got engaged I told Taylor we couldn’t have sex again until we were married,” she finally confessed, and sipped the rest of her chocolate.

Luc laughed. By now he was finished, the turkeys were in the oven, and he and Elle were sitting side by side watching the rain stream down onto the gardens. “How did he take that?”

She shrugged. “It didn’t seem to matter. I think by then he’d found out about my father and so it was less important.”

Luc saw the pain she tried to cover up, and his heart ached. “And how do you know that I am not exactly the same?”

Elle lifted her chin and looked into his eyes. “Because you saw me when I first came here. You appreciated me, asked me about my goals and what I want out of life. You had no idea who my family was, nor did you care.”

“I thought briefly that you were a new kitchen girl,” Luc confessed. “I hoped it was true, because then I could woo you.”

“You wooed me anyway. With your eyes, and with the food you prepared, and with your kindness you wooed. With your love of books and roller coasters, and with your kisses you won.” She leaned forward and brushed a kiss across his lips.

The door opened to a rush of wind and a spattering of raindrops. Luc and Elle reluctantly pulled apart and turned.

***

“Well, little girl. I can see you figured out what to do without me. I’m Will Copperstone. You must be Luc Favreau. Nice to meet you.” Elle’s father shrugged out of his damp coat and opened his arms to his daughter. “Well?”

She hugged him, thrilled. “Daddy! You didn’t have to come all this way. Did you leave Mom at home? Or is she here too?”

“Your mother’s in our room. She wanted to get primped. We’re staying here for a couple of days in case there’s a wedding on Saturday. Your mother is quite put out with you,” he added, and hugged her again. “I missed you, pumpkin.”

“I’ve missed you, too. And I’m sure you’ll smooth things out with mother.” Elle laughed. “You always do. Now, Daddy, you must have some of Luc’s chocolate and a couple of shortbread cookies.”

She found a cup, went to the stove and poured some still-hot chocolate into it while Luc put some cookies on a plate. He brought them to the island and sat next to her.

“I’m glad you’re here, sir,” he said. “I’m told that Taylor Collins will be arriving soon.”

“What? For God’s sakes, why?”

Elle’s father tasted the chocolate and had a couple of cookies while Luc and Elle filled him in on the breaking of her engagement to Taylor, and the swiftness of Luc and Elle’s beginning courtship.

“But Luc and I, we plan on taking our time and really getting to know each other,” Elle said at the end of their explanations. She linked her hand with Luc’s. “There’s no reason to rush when you know it’s right.”

“The two of you look good together,” Will admitted. “I must say I’m glad you didn’t fall for whatever Collins was selling, honey. He’ll never be good enough for you.”

“I have a feeling he knew about our connection.” Elle reached across for her father’s hand. “I don’t know for sure, but I did what you told me to do years ago and brought up a pre-nup agreement. He didn’t seem to like that idea at all.”

Her father gave Luc a brooding look. “You’ll be signing one, too. Don’t think you won’t.”

“That’s fine. I’m never letting her get away from me. Besides, I’m sure your estate is entailed, and there’ll be precious little for me to ruin.”

Will frowned. “Favreau, Favreau…,” he muttered, and awareness shifted in his eyes. “Favreau-Petrou?”

Luc nodded. Elle just watched, surprised. Luc and her father were more alike than it seemed.

“It is very good to meet you,” her father said, formally shaking Luc’s hand. “I believe your grandfather and I did business together a couple of decades ago. An adventurous winery that ended up making a lot of investors very happy.” He eyed Luc with more equanimity. “You are no stranger to wealth.”

“No, sir. Just learning how to get along on my own. I almost have enough saved to start my own restaurant—up in Sonoma perhaps.” Luc put his arm around Elle. “We haven’t exactly talked about all the ramifications of moving,” he admitted, and Elle kissed his cheek. “But we will,” he added with a smile.

“Be happy for me, Daddy,” Elle said, her heart full. It was wonderful to see the two most important men in her life get along so well. “I believe I’ve found the only man in the world for me.”

Will waved his empty cup. “More chocolate will make me very happy. Then you, my girl, need to go up and see your mother.”

***

Taylor Collins eyed the Bidwell Estate through peeing rain. He had half a mind to have the driver take him back to San Diego International Airport. Clarice was due at LaGuardia around midnight, expecting him to pick her up. He’d have to text her.

He sighed, paid the man, and lugged his overnight case to the portico. Wind blew the rain on him even while he stood under cover.

He tried the door, but it was locked. So he rang the bell and waited. And waited. Checked his watch. Almost one-thirty. Where in the world was the staff? Lord knew he’d paid enough for them to hop to his tune.

Five minutes later the door opened, and Elle stood there.

Taylor shook off the chill he felt at seeing her and moved in for an embrace. “Elle. My darling.”

“No, Taylor. I’ve already told you we’re not ever getting married.” She stepped back, and he became aware of three men who stood behind her, one of whom was his agent. “I’m not your darling. Not your paycheck. Not your bank account. Go back to New York. I hear Clarice is willing to take you back.”

Taylor shot an accusatory look at Conway, who merely shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. Nearby, a rakish man with dark hair placed a possessive hand on Elle’s shoulder, and Taylor focused on him.

“Who is my rival?” he thundered, using his best theater voice that had yet to see an actual stage.

Elle handed him a box. “Never mind. Here’s the ring. I already sent the dress back, so you should be getting a full refund. And my daddy is paying half the cost of my week here at the Bidwell Estate. So go away, and be grateful.”

Startled, Taylor locked eyes with William Copperstone and gaped. The man could ruin his career with a single phone call.

A car pulled up behind him, and Elle gestured. “Your ride. And thank you for the compliment, however back-handed it may have been.”

Belatedly, Taylor realized his error. “Elle. Sweetheart. It’s you I love, not your father.”

“I’m sorry. But you never swept me away.” Elle shrugged. “I kept hoping, but nope. There was no true magic, and no love between us. I’m sorry. Maybe someday you’ll find the right woman.”

“You can’t just blow me off that way,” he blustered, but Elle was whisked aside by the man behind her, and the formidable figure of her father stood in her place. He was taller than Taylor, wider, and looked strong as a bull.

He took a step outside, and Taylor backed hastily into the rain.

“I’m William Copperstone. Not wanting to shake hands. Just get off this property and everything will be fine. If you harass my daughter in any way, or if you out her as my daughter against her express wishes, then I’ll have a battery of lawyers on you so fast you won’t be able to sweat for seeing their ink come out of your pores.”

Taylor blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“If you take that car,” William Copperstone continued, “that will be the end of it. There’s a ticket waiting for you for the next flight to LaGuardia.”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

“I hear you’re in the running for one of my films. I’ll be keeping an eye on the casting.” Copperstone stepped back inside and shut the door.

It opened again, this time with Conway appearing. “By the way, if you hadn’t fired me, I’d have fired you.”

The door shut again, and Taylor stood there, rain dripping down his face, his person and his bag getting soaked. He’d counted on Copperstone to help him start his own multimedia platform. The kind of money Elle’s family had made his multi-million dollar paychecks seem like chump change, and he’d learned long ago to never invest his own money into a startup. Losing Elle and her father’s money and connections just put his retirement plans back by a full decade.

Taylor looked at the driver of the Lincoln, who sat without even opening the door for him.

“Fuck it all to hell,” he muttered, and he picked up his bag and stalked to the waiting vehicle.

***

“Really, Elle. You could have prepared me,” complained Tess Copperstone. “I mean, I’m not sure I have the right clothes to serve Christmas dinner to the homeless.”

Elle lounged on her mother’s bed, ridiculously happy to see her. “Don’t be daft, Mom. Anything you wear will be fine. I don’t suppose you brought jeans?”

“Darling, seriously. I only wear jeans on the ranch, you know that.” Tess sat on the bed. “Are you sure about this chef of yours?”

“Mom.” Elle could feel the grin overtake her entire face. “Luc is, well, the most wonderful man in the world. I’m so looking forward to building a life together. Plus, he makes a formidable hot chocolate that will have you dreaming of your favorite Parisian chocolatier.”

“Bite your tongue. Really?” Tess rubbed her hands. “Your chef sounds better and better. Are you sure, my darling, that you don’t want to marry him on Christmas Eve? After all, that’s always been one of your dreams.”

Elle smiled and spread her ringless hands. “Mom. It wasn’t Christmas Eve that I dreamed of having the perfect wedding.” She lifted her gaze to lock with her mother’s. “If you know what I mean. But I do think this is the perfect place.”

Tess smiled and brushed the hair out of her daughter’s eyes. “I could use the extra time. Who is the concierge here, again? Jamison? Yes. He will do very well under the circumstances.”

Chapter Six

Christmas Day, a year later

“I love you, Mister Favreau.” Elle kissed her groom of twenty minutes as they sat at their Christmas wedding brunch.

“I have never loved you more than right this minute, Missus Favreau,” Luc responded, and took her hand. “You look radiant.”

Elle let out a happy sigh. She looked again at the simple diamond solitaire on her hand, nestled up against a plain, slender gold band. “Perfect.” Something she’d never have to take off.

“What’s perfect, my dearling?”

Elle leaned her head on his shoulder and heard her parents talking with Luc’s, while his siblings joked with her cousins. Champagne corks popped and Christmas carols played on the sound system. Such happy sounds. “Everything. This is so much more than I had ever expected. Our families actually like each other.”

Luc chuckled. “We’ve worked hard, but we’re almost there. Your studio, my restaurant, and our home.”

“Nestled in the Sonoma Valley.” She beamed up at him. “Who would have thought that I’d have to be heading to my disastrous wedding in order to find the man who was absolutely perfect for me? It’s like one of us wished on a Christmas star.”

“By the way,” Conway interrupted from across the table. “I heard that Taylor Collins is marrying Clarice Desmond.”

“Again?” Elle said, and laughter rang out around the table. She shook her head and wondered if the pair was really in love. Taylor and Clarice had gotten married New Year’s Eve, a bare week after Elle had sent him away. They’d divorced on Valentine’s Day and been engaged on and off since Memorial Day. The tabloids were making the most of the battling couple.

“I wish them well,” Luc said. Standing, he raised his glass. “But now I’d like to make a toast to my lovely bride. Her joy is my joy, her pain, my pain. She is the light of my life, my very breath. Elle, I love you. Here’s to making babies.”

Everyone cheered and clapped. “Babies,” they cried, and drank champagne.

Elle stood, stars in her eyes as she held up her hand for silence. “I, too, have a toast to make.” She turned to Luc, anticipation making her skin tingle. “I didn’t know what to get you for Christmas, much less for a wedding present. We’ve worked so hard on the house up north. But today I finally realized the perfect gift to both of us.” She turned to their families. “To the baby we’ve made, and all its siblings to come.”

Elle picked up her water and sipped, and the relatives jumped up to congratulate them. Apprehensive, she faced her husband, relieved and overwhelmed by the love and joy shining in his face. He leaned his forehead to hers, clearly surprised.

“You’re all right? Both of you?”

She nodded and blinked back happy tears. “So far, so good.”

He opened his arms, and Elle nestled in. This was the life she was meant to lead, with the man meant to be at her side. She recognized the Christmas carol playing triumphantly in the background, and laughed out loud.

Joy to the World, indeed.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christine Ashworth grew up listening to the sound of her father’s manual typewriter as he wrote and sold over 300 novels. Now, to her delight, she’s the one writing novels. But, as her dad is still writing away, she’s got some major catching up to do.

Christine is a romantic from way back, having first picked up Harlequin romances at the age of twelve, then falling in love with bigger books when she swiped her mother’s copy of Rosemary Rogers’s Sweet Savage Love. She’s happily married to an actor/dancer/guitarist/hippy, has two sons, and tends her garden and her family in Southern California. You can read about her cooking, gardening, and wine picks at her website at http://christine-ashworth.com.

AMY’S WISH

Joan Bird

This humble offering I dedicate to addicts and those who love them. To anyone hanging on to a gossamer thread of hope—hope that the cycle will end, the roller coaster will stop and they can find normal again.

Amy’s Wish—my first effort to open discourse, inspire research and promote recovery of the progressive and devastating disease of addiction—is a work of fiction, and perhaps unrealistically it delivers bright futures and happy endings. But if just one reader is positively impacted by Amy and Eric’s story, then it might not be just Amy’s Wish that becomes a reality.

AMY’S WISH

Chapter Seven

Morning, December 17, 2013

Amy was late.

Nothing new, she was always late. There were twenty-seven self-improvement books lining her shelves, some devoting entire chapters to curing lateness and how to avoid the sorts of things that made a girl proverbially tardy; one volume for each year of her life, reams’ worth of paper expounding a variety of formulas and tactics, all of it to no avail. She’d tried Post-It notes on the bathroom mirror. “GO, GO, GO, AMY, GO RIGHT NOW!” She’d repeated mantras like, “Being late is disrespectful to the person or persons you’re meeting.” There had been meditation, yoga, setting every clock in her bungalow apartment ahead; yet even with each timepiece purposefully set to a different increment of fast-forward—five minutes for one, three for another, ten on her clock radio—her brain was not fooled, and she was still late. All of it, every method, fell beneath the mighty art of procrastination.

An art she’d perfected by the fourth grade. Ms. Spagowski’s class. Ms. Spagowski, who gave the same project every year. Amy’s brother and two sisters had already been there, done that, so Amy witnessed the efforts and results, her mother’s patience, the time spent in creating a masterpiece that represented the great State of California. Was it because she was the youngest child? It mattered little now. The consequences were horrific.

Thinking about it was painful, near torture, but beating herself up was another well-honed skill for Amy. She had waited until the very last minute, as last as one could possibly get. The project was due on Friday, so naturally she started it on Thursday. Hair and teeth were brushed, face washed. In a favorite pink flannel nightie spattered with blue daisies she’d announced, “Mommy? California is due tomorrow.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” her father had roared. Amy smiled about it now, recalling his fake anger and her mother’s frustrated response.

“Oh, dear. I had a feeling that little project was nearing. Amy, sweetheart, what were you thinking?”

Well, she hadn’t been, not according to her father who cleverly used his child’s recalcitrance to succeed as a sign that he’d best be off to bed. But Amy had thought about it. For days. She always worked things out so much better in her head than ever panned out in reality. She wasn’t an artist like Cassandra. Not a maestro of disciplined goal-setting and achieving like Margaret, who would be headed for college next year, and she’d never be tough like her brother Ben. There would be no clay, no paints; if there were clay it would not dry in time to take paint. There’d be no plaster like Ben’s model, no quilted version such as Margaret spent weeks stitching together from their mother’s sewing scraps then stretched across a used wood frame in a perfect semblance of their state. And, even had Cassandra allowed the use of her precious oils to paint the state of California, Amy could never have created “art.”

Cass was practically famous now. New York art circle–famous. To this very day her 4th grade project hung in one of the glass boxes that marched along the wall to the principal’s office in Laguna Blanca K-8’s administration building. “How wonderful,” everyone had cooed when she announced in a press conference that one of her earliest works was being donated in perpetuity. Gag.

Well, none of that for Amy. She fit the moniker her father had bestowed upon her when she turned five, loving her, ruffling her hair and calling her his dreamer. Dammit. Tears slipped over her cheeks, spilling unwilled at the thoughts of her family.

“Oh great, redoing my makeup is so not going to help my schedule.”

As if chastising herself aloud against the sound of heavy wind at the windows would get her twenty minutes back, either.

Where had the time gone? Dilly-dallying. Again, her father’s words flitted into her mind to haunt her. “You keep dreaming, Amy. This family could use someone with their head in the clouds.”

Thank God she’d visited him that last Saturday afternoon. Her siblings had no clue Amy remained close to him, not after she’d run away the day after graduating from high school. She’d stuck by him despite his drinking and then his failing health. Though the hearts of her siblings didn’t slam shut right away—Amy was still nine when they buried their mother—eventually the resentment rose above the indifference, and the landscape of the Grainger household morphed into emotionless tundra.

Still, she’d visited, even when her father stopped recognizing her. Even when the dementia shattered memories, robbed his mind of the past and left him impoverished of family. In the end he’d had no recollection of any children, none of his children’s mother, nothing. Not even of his faithful Amy.

Once her father was gone it became somehow official. She had no family, no connection to her past except a few snapshots snuck from an album and a framed picture of her parents on their wedding day that Cassandra accused Amy of stealing when they were forced to communicate over the estate. Now both parents were gone, and ten years of trying to reunite with her siblings had slipped to a notch below pointless. And yet Amy had tried again this year, leaving a cheerful voicemail.

I did sound cheerful, didn’t I? She dabbed at a smear of eyeliner, a consequence of her little crying jag. She’d said it was Christmas, that they should all get together, and of course she knew Cass was in New York but…

Blah, blah, blah.

Molly Grainger had been the glue that stuck the four different puzzle pieces representing her children into a cohesive portrait. Without that special kind of mom-gel, they’d drifted apart. That’s what Amy repeated when the sadness crept in. But the reality was, even without the force of Molly’s hen-like talents, even without their father’s jovial albeit inebriated presence, Ben, Cass and Margaret remained close. Just not to Amy.

Not my fault, not my fault, not my fault.

But it was.

Gone. Her mother would never again be more than precious memories and a name on a headstone that professed great unified love from family and friends. Which was a big fat lie, chiseled as truth on the gravestone.

“What’s the point, Amy?” she asked herself. There wasn’t one and she knew it. There was no point in trying to put the family back together. No purpose in letting her siblings know she’d cared for their father until the end. No reason to disclose that she’d used her share of the life insurance money to augment his last year in that wretched home. What a crock! Happy Farms, my butt.

Thunder clapped, as if Thor himself had called a meeting on the street outside her apartment.

Meeting?

“Dammit, dammit, dammit.” Where were her keys?

She’d laughed at the suggestion from her ex-fiancé—okay, he’d never officially asked to marry her; there was no ring, no date set, but that wasn’t important. Like hell it wasn’t. But Hank’s idea of purchasing a Clapper that first Christmas had felt more like a belittlement than a helpful suggestion. Still, if she’d let him buy it, finding her keys right this instant could shave minutes from self-caused delays. But, she didn’t have a Clapper. She didn’t even have Hank. That she could think of him without anger meant she was healing. So there was that.

This time she caught the flash of light. The boom behind it announced the intensity of the promised storm and the delays it would cause in making her appointment. And she was already so effing late.

A last-minute check of her purse ensured a fresh set of pantyhose—she inevitably snagged her stockings on something—her brush and a few curlers in case her hair flattened beyond presentable. Also there was lip gloss, one retired mascara—for emergency use only—her wallet, her cell phone, charged; an address already mapped out even though she knew the place; the last chapter of her book, which was the reason she was so pathetically late, so she’d have it, that chapter, perfect—a tampon—better not need it!—and an apple.

“Umbrella? Check. Raincoat?” she continued, slipping one arm and then the other into the sleeves of her too bright canvas thrift store find and closing three of the four buttons. “Check.”

Wait. The dresser. My dresser.

Dashing to the bedroom, making a beeline to the mottled, beat-up pine drawers, Amy found what she wanted. “Aha, you little bastards.” She laughed at herself for labeling the keys as such, smiling smugly up to where Heaven would surely be. “See, Hank? I didn’t need the Clapper.”

She bolted for the street. Now what she needed was all green lights, the rain to hold off for the next fifteen minutes, and maybe, just maybe, she’d be barely late. She shouldn’t have re-edited the last ten pages of her manuscript, but she had, recognizing that her would-be editor’s suggestions had been…well, perfect. Insightful. Personal. He’d seen things she hadn’t been able to face but that were just what the book needed, though it had taken her some time to process the fact. So, having procrastinated as usual, she’d worked this morning instead of jumping in the shower as soon as the alarm buzzed. Which meant she’d blown that schedule, which meant she had a problem on her hands. There was no “acceptably late” protocol in any of the tomes that had taunted her from her bookshelf. Not for an interview of this import. Only one remaining prayer was left to offer up. “Please, God. Please, please, please, let my car start.”

The plea to a higher being was a mistake. Amy wasn’t entitled to God answering her prayers, never had been. That explained most of what had gone wrong in her life and provided the reason she shouldn’t have been surprised when arriving at the curb where she parked her 1968 VW Bug the night before to find it wasn’t there.

It just wasn’t there.

“I mean seriously, God, why wouldn’t my useless piece-of-shit only freaking means of transportation be stolen on the most important day of my life?”

It shouldn’t have surprised her any more than God’s answer to her whining. For, at the exact moment of realizing her paid-for, dented, patchwork-painted vehicle was no longer in her possession, the skies opened, dumping the end of California’s three-year drought squarely on Amy Grainger’s rain-hat covered head.

Chapter Eight

If he had to listen to one more loop of tired Christmas carols while nursing his scotch, even for a single minute, Eric was quitting; figuratively anyway. He did love his job, but why he’d agreed to his boss’s terms just before Christmas was beyond him.

“Mr. Peterson?”

Looking up, he saw a clearly anxious waiter hold a cordless phone tentatively toward him.

It’s not like I bite, kid.

Kid? When had Eric reached an age where busboys and waiters became kids? And when had he started sending off vibes that he was some kind of scary dude? Like he bit off heads of snakes and ate them for snacks.

But he knew. It had been about the same time Sally left.

What the hell was a biological time clock anyway? Eric didn’t remember making any bullsh…garbage promises about having kids. And screw Father Frank for even suggesting that Eric should have known. He wasn’t Catholic. Sally was, and she’d finagled a church wedding, but that didn’t magically baptize a man. Hard to believe that was three years ago.

She’d remarried, and in the church no less. He could only guess what her father paid some legal cleric to grant an annulment. Probably enough to restore St. Peter’s in Rome. Kelly had that baby she needed six months later.

He ignored the math. The fact of her cheating wasn’t his problem anyway. They were split-ski, finished, au revoir, whatever. He should celebrate, in fact. He was single, and hell, they’d never really been married anyway, not according to the annulment documents. Sometimes he wondered if he’d missed something else; a signal. Sipping the drink, he was sorry to see the bottom of the glass.

“Sir?”

“Okay.” Holding his palm out flat for the phone. “I’ll take it, and another scotch rocks.”

“You drinking?” The voice on the phone was confident, if maybe concerned. Jake Willis was a good man, even a friend. He was also Eric’s boss.

“One, and I’ve sucked on it for forty minutes.” He had no reason to mention the second double that had not quite made it to the table.

“She’s a no-show again?”

Happy his employer and friend had let the whole drink thing go: “Looks like it.”

“I want this book, Eric.”

Eric wanted it too. Or he had before today’s shenanigans. It was his acquisition, and it mattered. It was sweet, brilliant, sad, funny. But: “At what price, Jake? This chick is clearly a flake.”

“It’s her first. And it’s…so different. Also, Eric, she’s not a ‘chick.’ We’re going to have to nurture. To reinforce a little.”

“Coddle an unknown commodity? I think maybe you have been doing this too long.” Never sure of the exact limits of Jake’s patience, Eric held his breath. To be fair, the man had mentored him since he arrived at Bennett & Willis Publishing enthusiastic and fresh off his Master’s in literature. Oh, and optimistic. So much for that.

“Hush, Sam,” came his boss’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hang on, let Daddy finish his call.”

Even Eric had to smile at the visual of a man like Jake Willis captive to a toddler.

“Jake,” he said. “How’s Liz?”

“Sorry, she’s fine. Due in about 5.7 days.”

“Sh—” He stopped himself from swearing again. “But you’re not counting or anything. Wow, a Christmas baby. That’s spectacular.” Surprisingly, Eric found he meant it.

“I appreciate that. Maybe we’ll name him after you—to provide a little inspiration.”

Eric shook his head. His boss was letting him know without a confrontation that he thought the company’s newest senior editor needed love, kids, the entire ninety-nine yards. Again. “Let’s not go there.”

A warm chuckle preceded Jake’s next remark. “You know, one day when you’re not looking, when you don’t expect it, you’ll get bit. I’ll be your best man. Well, when you ask me, of course.”

“Okay, boss. Listen, how long do you want me—? Wait, this might be her. Our wannabe may have just sauntered in.”

“Hewo? Unca Ewic?”

Damn you, Jake. His boss had put his daughter on the phone. So he hadn’t even heard Eric’s last announcement. “Hello, sweetheart. I’m here. How you doing? You being good?”

“Oh, yes. Vewy, vewy, good. Excewent, E.”

Oh, that tiny voice. He could see her: little Annie, a.k.a. Sam Willis. Her short stint as Annie Samantha Willis had ended as soon as she could put a sentence together, having apparently determined at the ripe old age of two-something that she preferred her middle name over the “Annie” that her parents had initially thought to be a perfect moniker for their daughter. Pigtails fashioned after Pippi Longstocking, Sammy had fire engine red hair, bright green eyes and freckles everywhere. She stood as straight as an arrow, her father’s stature from her very first steps. The opposite of her mother, Sam was very serious, and ever mindful of consequences.

“I’m sure that Santa and his elves have noticed, Ms. Willis,” he said. It was a game he and his boss’s daughter played, calling each other “E” and “Ms. Willis.” At the same time Eric motioned the waiter to seat the woman who’d arrived almost an hour late to her second shot at an interview and potential publication of her first novel. Which would definitely happen only if she could convince him that she was trustworthy to finish it the way it needed to be finished. He wouldn’t tolerate anything but the best for the book, and…well, hell, he wouldn’t even have made this extraordinary effort except for the insistence of Jake, a man who often dismissed the norms of the publishing world.

His boss’s words echoed in his head, “Hell, Eric, you’re just south of her anyway.” Right. He was. And he really really wanted this book. But then there was that single email confirming she’d received the contract but was mulling over another offer. And she hadn’t immediately returned his assistant’s calls.

“Are you okay, Unca Ewic?”

“I’m fine, Sammy, BFFL.” He smiled without meaning to at the giggles on the other end of the phone. “Sweet dreams, baby girl.”

“You still not coming back east before the twenty-eighth?”

Jake again. Eric should be used to this kind of phone switch-up where the Willis clan was concerned. “No. Well, it depends. A couple of things with the studio might still pop….” He drifted off, staring at the woman being led over to his table.

“She’s there, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Eric. This is worth the trouble. I read what you sent, and you’re right. Lizzie agreed, too. She loved it, says it’s something special and different. She also agrees you’re the one who needs to edit it. You. No one else. For the book.”

It was good to have the affirmation from his boss. And his boss’s wife.

“Hi, Eric! Love you!” That was Lizzie Willis’s muffled voice, probably from behind Jake’s shoulder. Sammy squealed in the background, no doubt simultaneous with being captured by her mother for a bath.

“Hey. Eric?”

“Sir.”

“This property is NOT going to our competition. You were right about the promise it holds. Get her to sign.”

Chapter Nine

Eric couldn’t breathe, which was absurd. There was no reason to be nervous, but he was.

She fell, the author; she stumbled on the uneven floor of the touristy Mexican restaurant in Santa Barbara. He’d no doubt had better food. And she’d grown up here, probably knew where real Mexican fare could be had, but he’d needed hard alcohol to take the edge off. Besides, the choice had to stay his. For control.

He was only in this neck of the woods to see her. Santa Barbara, not Southern California. He’d moved here just under two years earlier to open the satellite publishing office, and he’d tried to acclimate, but there was no way he was giving up his apartment in New York. It was an assignment, not a change in residence. The entire time here he’d been too busy to venture forth from the triangle of trendy, sometimes weird but necessary locales that represented Hollywood, Burbank and Santa Monica. This satellite office was needed because a handful of their publishing properties were being made into films, and he handled those concerns along with his regular editorial workload, which had left him too occupied to venture north, south, east or west of that conclave of executives, agents and studios until Jake did the asking.

“Hi.”

Something had to be said about her stumbling and nearly flying into his lap. Something had to fill the gaps he couldn’t, because he was, in fact, taken aback. Ms. Amy Grainger did not appear anything like the way she wrote. Prim, sedate, little makeup, skinny…but haunting. Something unusual. Needy? No, enigmatic. He’d figure it out eventually.

The act of her pushing glasses up her nose and focusing on him sent an impulse up his spine. Again, it had to be nerves. Why? He held the power, evident as tiny beads of sweat broke out across her forehead.

Sipping at his drink set down seconds before by the waiter: “You okay?”

“Fine, fine, thanks for asking. I am so sorry about this morning.”

He motioned, and she took the seat across from him. “Your car was actually stolen?”

“Gone. They suspect a scrap heap somewhere. I mean, I keep asking myself, why? Why would anyone steal a 1968 VW Beetle, really?”

“Probably Disney’s men.”

She looked as befuddled as most people were by Eric’s obscure movie references. Then: “Oh, The Love Bug.” Her fingers air-quoted the title. “I liked that movie.”

Eric was surprised. “You’re what, twenty-five?”

“Close. Two years on the other side of it. I know, it’s forty years old. I saw it a bunch of times, though. Long story. It was one of the movies my dad would watch, even at the end— Never mind. So, I am truly sorry about this morning.”

“And tonight?”

Her stricken look said enough. She’d obviously been hoping that her excuse for completely blowing the scheduled breakfast meeting—a torrential deluge, one that had everyone looking around for Noah, and a stolen car—would handle everything. As if these events allowed being forty-five minutes late for the rescheduled appointment this evening.

“It’s still raining,” she pointed out.

“Yes. It is.”

Eric wasn’t sure why he was hell-bent against letting her off the hook. There was no need for it. The book she’d managed to somehow get onto his desk was good. Damn good. Truly amazing. So amazing that he’d had the courage to forward it to his boss to drum up even more excitement and the offer of a big advance, and all of this before the damn thing was completely finished or he got an acknowledgment she’d take it where it needed to go. Maybe his current curmudgeonly attitude sprang from the season. Maybe somebody needed to pay because it was Christmas. He was alone, and if he’d own up to it, that made him mean.

“I still don’t have a car,” she said.

“Tragic,” he replied.

“Have you always been a complete jerk or did someone do this to you?”

Great Scott, she was going to cry. Still, Eric said nothing.

The sudden angry scrape of her chair on the tiles turned heads. She stood and gulped water—Shit, and I didn’t even offer to order her a drink—and fled the restaurant.

Slamming his second double, Eric signaled the waiter and threw three twenties on the table, calculating in his head: chips and…well, basically four drinks. The money was too much for the bill, but somewhere in his mind, despite his surly behavior, he realized the kid-waiter had lost a table for over an hour. That might have been two meals, two tips. And this was, after all, the holidays.

Racing to the restaurant entrance, he nearly plowed down an elderly woman with blue hair and called out, “I’m sorry, sorry, so very sorry, ma’am,” but he didn’t wait for a reply and pushed through the heavy doors. “Damn it, where is she?”

Thunder rumbled overhead.

This is So Cal, for pity’s sake. Nine years out of ten—or so he’d been advised—it would be eighty-four degrees on the Southern California coast, nothing but sunshine Christmas Day. But, plop. Tap, tap and ping. Plop. Warning drops of worse things to come only half-registered in his mind as a flash lit the street and he caught a quick glimpse of her silhouette a half-block away, running, inattentive.

Technically, there wasn’t enough air in his lungs to gasp when she bolted out against a Don’t Walk sign, and he was too far away to grab her back. Eric was going to die of a heart attack at thirty-five, thus sparing Jake Willis the need to strangle him for losing this book deal. Of course, cardiac arrest seemed appropriate punishment for being the reason a young woman who’d clearly had a really bad day got struck and killed by a car in a freak flood in sunny California, at Christmastime to boot.

His coat was still checked. He at least had his wallet—which did no good, really, since there wasn’t a cab in sight and he was damned sure not hopping into one of the myriad rickshaw contraptions all around. Glorified bikes? No thanks.

With an expletive unfitting for Christmas, Eric tugged at his collar and ran after the girl who could never be his first best-seller if she got flattened by a car.

Chapter Ten

“I’m fat, fat, fat.”

“You’re beautiful, Mrs. Willis.” But his wife was fat. Not everywhere, just incredibly pregnant. “Are you feeling okay? Twinges? Pain? Anything?”

“Jake.” Turning from her obvious disdainful self-assessment in the full-length closet mirror: “This baby will come when it comes. I don’t feel like it’s going to give me much warning.”

“You want to camp out? There’s a park across from the hospital and only light snow expected the next few days.” He dodged the tennis shoe she threw and said, “Your aim is off.”

“That’s because running shoes have thicker heels. Screws up the trajectory.”

Sparks flashed in those green eyes into which Jake could still fall for hours without complaint, and the smile that followed, an inviting grin, made him hard, which was ridiculous and proved her theory that she’d married a dirty old man.

“You know, handsome,” she said, moving toward him in an awkward way that turned him on even more. “I have a green light for sex from Dr. Halpern, at least if I’m comfortable and my water hasn’t broken.”

“That supposed to make me feel less like a complete cad for even thinking about it with all you’re going through and are about to go through?”

“No, it’s supposed to reassure, to let you know you’re not a complete wacko for wanting it from the beach ball on chicken legs I am today.” Peals of laughter poured from Lizzie, filling the room and Jake’s heart as his wife fell prone onto the plush bed.

“God, I love you,” he said.

“And I you, Mr. Willis.” Slender fingers caressed his jaw. “But I’m going to change the subject.” Brows knit, worry lines creasing a perfect forehead, she said, “Eric was drinking, wasn’t he?”

Nothing escaped Lizzie, nothing. Possessing a special intuition, she could root out the most closely held secret, embarrassment, truth. She always got to the truth, even about the rawest emotions.

“Well, yeah.”

“But…?” She tapped a finger against his heart.

“Well, he said he’d only had one scotch, had nursed it for an hour.”

“Without details, Jake, that statement lacks commitment. A double? A triple? Was he drinking before he got there?”

“God, Lizzie, I don’t know. It’s Christmas, he’s in Santa Barbara for Chri—for pete’s—sake, and, well…”

“You were thinking about the book and not the fact that our wonderful Eric is developing a serious problem with alcohol. Baby, I love him too, but that’s why we need to do something.”

“I know you’re right. I do,” Jake promised. “But, Lizzie, I can’t do anything tonight.”

“No, no, I get that. But we’re agreed it’s time to broach this with him? Jake, I want him happy, but this spiral since Sally left…? It’s eating him alive and—”

“He’s filling the hole with scotch. I know.”

“It’s a disease, babe. A horrible disease.”

Jake studied the worried countenance on the woman that had pulled him from a dark despair, the very place Eric seemed insistent on visiting. “God, Liz, let me say it again: I love you.”

Her kiss still swept the rug from beneath him; on a bed, standing, it didn’t matter. Allowing his heart the luxury of the sensations attached to her touch, her tongue, her skin, Jake ignored the scratchy sounds of his daughter singing horribly off-key from her room through the baby monitor.

“I’ll never stop saying it, Jake,” his wife replied, her lips floating the words against his. “I love you too.” Then she pulled back to focus and said, “But Santa’s elves are watching, so take me quickly while they’re still distracted by whatever Sammy’s up to in her room.”

Suddenly concerned, Jake flopped on his back and listened to the house sounds and those of his daughter. His wife’s side touched his. It comforted them both, knowing that the baby monitor still kept tabs, though Sammy was growing up fast. Her new room was ready. They’d painted it in pale blues and greens, an ocean-themed sanctuary with pillows covered in whales and shells. Per Liz, “Not pink. Never. Not for my little girl.”

But the situation worried him a little. Would Sam be okay with it, with a new baby?

Listening, he heard her humming “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and…what else? He didn’t know, maybe pretending to be a great dancer, something she did often enough. Still, he couldn’t quite peg the other noises. Once every few stanzas a word or two of the lyrics would come across on the monitor; then she was back to humming.

“I’d better go check on her.”

No answer.

Turning on his side: “Liz?” Her eyes were closed and she snored lightly. He kissed her forehead, whispering, “Sleep, sweetheart. You need it.”

Carefully extracting himself from the bed, he tiptoed across the area rug and the hardwood floor. At the door to the hallway he turned back to glance at his wife. She was so beautiful, one hand, fingers splayed, across her humongous belly. The other held another shoe to throw at him if necessary. Jake hadn’t noticed her sneak it from the closet floor, and he had to bite his tongue not to laugh out loud.

He opened the door, remembering that he’d forgotten to tell her his hopes for that brilliant new writer might be on the rocks, at least per Eric. That, and to agree with her concerns that Eric was settling into angry and bitter as Jake himself had nearly done before meeting her. And, Lizzie was right about Eric’s drinking being at a critical level. His protégé had definitely lied to him on the phone about how much he’d had today. Jake knew from the sound of the man’s voice: off, slower, an interruption in his speaking here and there for a sip or a gulp. Well, after the first of the year, when they were all settled back into a working mode, he’d face it head on.

With a final glance at the most remarkable Christmas present Jake had ever received, he said, “Like I said, I love you, Lizzie.”

His words floated beneath his wife’s soft snore, and he carefully shut the door behind him, headed down the hall to check on his perfect if precocious daughter.

Chapter Eleven

Thanking the God he didn’t believe in that Ms. Porter was still in the office and could give him the girl’s home address, Eric was now beginning to be more rational. That perspective did not mean he hadn’t remained just a little pissed off. And it wasn’t the scotch. If Ms. Amy Grainger did not answer her door in the next thirty seconds, Eric was kicking it in.

He again lifted a fist to pound on the heavy door, even as it swung away from his knuckles. The momentum behind his planned assault resulted in an inevitable tumble forward.

“Dammit!”

The pain in his knee was instant. Worse, it rang familiar. He didn’t need a doctor to suspect he’d reinjured his ACL. Worse yet, landing on top of the writer he wanted to sign was not in his playbook.

Her nose twitched. “Armani Privé.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re wearing Vitiver Babylone.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You are. That and eau de scotch.”

Derision, eh? “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Observation, that’s all. Just an observation.”

A snide one no less. Her attitude would ordinarily be the only thing necessary for Eric to make excuses and run. Yet, for some reason he had no idea how to disengage. Not from her frank appraisal of him less than a foot from his own no-doubt-surprised look, not from eyes that suggested an ocean within, not from freckles that seemed spattered across embarrassment-reddened cheeks, and definitely not from the pouty lips that he could brush against his own with little effort.

“Maybe you’re calling me names,” he suggested.

“You’re wearing it. Vitiver cologne.”

“Oh,” Eric said. “It’s some yellow something or other.”

“Aptly said…for an editor.”

He caught the hint of a smile at the end of her remark. “It was a gift.”

“An expensive one.”

“I’ve no clue. I don’t usually grill a person giving me a gift on the amount spent,” he said, thinking to make her uncomfortable and questioning his own motives simultaneously. Why do I feel this need to goad you, Ms. Amy Grainger? Especially after chasing you all the way to your house to apologize? “Like I said, no clue.”

“And it was last year’s present, right? I mean, Christmas isn’t here yet, so…”

“I’m failing to see,” he said, shifting his weight, surprised that she made no move to slip from beneath him, “how my aftershave—”

“Cologne. Armani doesn’t make an aftershave. Not in Vitiver, anyway.”

“Ms. Grainger, this is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, that can’t be true. Inane banter’s such fun. Aren’t you having fun, Mr. Peterson?”

“It’s Eric.”

“Amy, then. I’m charmed.”

“Somehow I find that a little hard to believe.”

Bluish eyes, more aquamarine than blue-blue, stared intently at him, and he wondered what had happened to the bottle rim–thick glasses she’d worn earlier.

“How do you know so much about Viv…via-via…whatever the hell it is I’m wearing and will not now likely ever wear again?”

“I could say research, but that would be a lie. I don’t lie. I hate lying. I detest people that lie.” An intensity flashed behind her widened pupils. “I threw the last liar out of here.”

“And he wore it, I assume.”

“Yes, he did. It was, in fact, a Christmas gift.”

“From you. Ah.” Little more need be said. Eric now knew some of where the angst came from in her writing, why the hero needed to be redeemed, and why that was something the reader knew almost immediately about the character.

“Astute, impressive.” A near smile flashed on her face. “And you should wear it again. It smells delicious. Frankly, I’d only smelled it on one other asshole in my life, and it’s a bit lovelier”—a blush heightened her already pink cheeks—“on you. Seriously.”

Why couldn’t he move? He needed to do something, and the farcical urge to flip her across his lap and spank her was out of the question. She wasn’t some Mrs. Jones-type, like from that old song, and despite one particularly hot passage in her book she didn’t seem the type for a Playboy write-in column. What she was, however, was distracting, clever, skinny… No real boobs to speak of. Athletic, lean—and very possibly a world-class bitch.

“I bet you’re practically smoldering, and deservedly so. I was late. Well, no, I was a no-show and then I was late, and then I made you chase me through the rain. I suppose that makes me something of a brat.”

Finding his brain, surprised it was still somewhere between his ears, Eric said, “You’re not imagining things. You are, in fact, being a royal pain in the ass. But at least you have the insight to realize it.”

“You were thinking a different b-word, I reckon.”

Reckon? The word gave him pause. She wasn’t a hick; in fact he’d pegged her as practically Elizabethan in some ways. Then she moved beneath him, just a little comfort move, and something happened to that line of thinking.

“Well, whatever you might be, Ms. Grain—”

“Amy.”

“Amy,” he corrected himself. He needed to focus. “Well, whatever or whoever you are, one thing I do know about you? You can write.”

Something shifted in her, softened. She seemed almost kissable—but that was impossible.

“I’m curious,” he began.

“About?”

“How does someone lose their car when it’s parked in front of their duplex on a quiet, well lit street of a nice neighborhood situated in a bucolic berg like Santa Barbara? ’Fess up, you left the keys in it, right?”

The crack was worth the pathetic jab to his groin with her knee, but greater pain came from sucking in his gut to avoid injury and leveraging his weight on his already banged up knee. “Shit, I hurt my leg.”

“Serves you right.”

Daggers formed in pinpoints of her pupils, wicked little blades stabbing him everywhere, and he felt like a Voodoo doll. “You enjoy other people’s pain?”

“Like I said.” She finished the sentiment through clenched teeth. “Asshole.”

“Maybe, but this particular asshole is currently in the driver’s seat—if you don’t mind the reference.” He shifted discernibly to enforce his point. He was on top, both figuratively and literally.

“Oh. I get it. Not only are you a complete jerk, you’re an insensitive lout. No, wait, let me correct that. You are an unmitigated shitheel, and you’re drunk, which makes further conversation pointless.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Strike three, you’re out. Liar. Add liar to your resume.”

“Do you think we should start again?”

“Like press the fast-backward button and then you manage to zip your lip before you say something hurtful?”

“Don’t forget ‘insensitive.’”

Despite being pinned, she shrugged. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

“If he’s listening you’re safe. He’ll smite me from above if I misbehave.”

“If?”

“If I’m being a—what did you say?—insensitive lout. Right, well, I am that.”

“Honesty is finally in the building.”

“You’re funny, Amy Grainger.”

“You’re not, Eric Peterson.”

“Come on, give me a break. You want me to lose my job?”

She glared at him. “Have you considered that in your current state and with the attitude you wear like, like…some bigwig, maybe you should lose your job?”

As bizarre as it was, Eric realized he was having fun, and try as he might, the memory of the last time he’d had a conversation that challenged him—discounting business meetings with the studios—well…he couldn’t remember one. Not after seven years of dating, living together and being married to Sally; never with Sally, his wife, er, ex-wife. He wished he’d tortured her just a little and refused to sign the papers for a few months. But the thought was an instant reminder of his purpose here.

“I need you to sign, Amy.” He’d abandoned all need for her to prove herself. The book was that good. He could admit it. He’d never felt so connected to an author.

“So I imagined after you chased me through the rain. Sure got a weird way of sealing the deal.”

“Like I said, this encounter, all of it, from the restaurant, to the rain, to…uh”—inclining his head in the direction of his chest, her breasts, and their absurd position—“this scintillating discussion, we should can it and begin anew as they say.”

“But I love discourse with someone that uses words like ‘scintillating.’ Humbled, I’m truly humbled.”

“You’re truly sarcastic. That seems a more accurate a turn of phrase, Miss—”

“Amy. Please.”

“‘Amy, please.’” He couldn’t help himself. “You know, one could emphasize that just a tad differently and it takes on a remarkably different meaning.”

“God help me, I’ve been flattened by a semi-intellectual lying asshole of a lout who—Whom? No, who—tries to make innuendo from plain-speaking.”

She sighed in dismissal, but her expression was unreadable. Eric wasn’t sure whether it was his weight, she was tired of jousting, he had perhaps irrevocably pissed her off, or maybe, just maybe, he got to her the way she seemed to be getting to him.

Thinking it best to roll off of her, to get some control of the situation not just her body beneath him, he was stopped by a sudden sharp jolt against his ribcage.

Hiccup.

Damn, she was adorable.

Another one. Another hiccup. His captive needed water, or deep breaths, or maybe sugar; whatever it was people did to cure diaphragmatic lurches that arrived uninvited. With a sneeze, at least there was usually some warning, a hint, an itchy nose, watery eyes, something. Not true of hiccups. They were the worst.

He should let her go. Yet he remained, motionless except for the fact that, with each of her hiccups, her gut punched a little against his belly. Something extraordinary, some kind of invisible Velcro, kept him there despite the increasing throb in his knee, and as the cadence of the hiccups began to follow a pattern like some wicked metronome, those rhythmic eruptive pulses against him settled as an ache in, of all places prone to disastrous circumstances, his groin.

He should explain his immobility, but other thoughts distracted him. Focusing on her face he saw that she now seemed intent on never breathing again. Passing a slow count to twenty, he began to feel actual concern. I am a lout. At six-two, Eric carried his 180 pounds well. He was fit, trim, but she too must have bruises and bumps; after all, she’d cushioned his fall. He needed to fix this. He also needed her to sign the damned contract.

Blocking his spinning mind’s revolutions, he settled his sights on her face once more. “Good Lord, Amy.” She was turning a different color blue than her eyes. “You need to breathe.”

She shook her head left to right, rejecting his suggestion. The rain had coaxed defiance from the severe pony tail that bobbed behind her as she’d entered the dining area of the restaurant, and now those light brown curls emphasized her adamant no.

Hell, yes, he’d been surprised at her appearance. She didn’t write the least bit uptight as she’d appeared in those first few moments, the only moments of their acquaintance. Maybe it was her hair’s betrayal that made his right hand do what it did, reach out and tuck one ringlet behind an ear, even as a current sizzled up his arm of a type he’d forgotten existed.

“Please breathe, Amy. I bet your hiccups are gone now. Please.”

Since when do I beg?

Since he’d flattened a brilliant wannabe writer beneath him.

Her head again shook vigorously from side to side.

“I have a cure,” he said, waiting out another hiccup. “For that. If you take another breath, I’ll tell you.”

What little air she had left whooshed out. “Really? God, say it’s true, otherwise I’d have to get up from this perfectly wonderful interlude—hiccup—and drink a half-gallon of water upside-down.”

Was she being sarcastic? Her eyes were intent, unwavering, and that increased his discomfort.

“The cure. I’m waiting.” Hiccup. “The cure, Eric. Please.”

There was nothing of Sally in her, about her. No shadows in her glances, no gold tint in brown eyes. Not a voluptuous curve interrupted the near straight lines of her wiry form, and round breasts…? He doubted it, though it was hard to say given her current pose. Somewhere between slamming her door against the weather and the idiot editor yelling from her front stoop through the storm, she’d shed her heavy coat. This might have shed some light on the subject of her shape, except that in place of that disguise was a bulky cable-knit sweater he’d not seen the likes of since Jake sent him to chase down a drunken old cuss of a mystery writer holed up in a shack near Clonakilty in West Cork, Ireland, and the sweater hid everything from neck to waist.

Come to think of it, that Irish adventure had ended badly. Instead of producing his final chapter, Waller O’Donovan had divested himself of a hefty advance by “investing” his money and time in fine Irish whiskey and corn beef pasties at the local hostelry. Eric had arrived to find him facedown in a bowl of stew and no end to the third in a series of murder mysteries anywhere in sight. Which was yet another good reason to always see the final chapter of a book before buying it.

But, recollecting a wobbling O’Donovan was no excuse for not dealing with his current situation, so he refocused on the girl beneath him, realizing that sexy curves would have been all wrong on the intrepid Ms. Grainger, anyway.

She was holding her breath again.

“No cure if you don’t breathe, Amy.”

“Well, damn it, Mr. Peterson, sir.” Hiccup. “I’ll breathe but—”

So he kissed her.

Not a peck, not a smooch. Eric found her mouth and fell in.

After a start, a tiny gasp, her hand slipped behind his neck, fingers running circles there, and she nipped at his lower lip. Her eyes opened, and the longing there grabbed at Eric, leading him to a conclusion that the only fix was more kisses.

Thunder shook the walls, though he doubted either of them had seen the flash that foretold the boom; the gods fighting behind the clouds knew he certainly hadn’t. And how could he? He wasn’t even sure how long they’d kissed. Her touch was seductive, addictive despite everything he’d judged her by; the heat emanating from her slip of a body had him teetering on an edge he dared not topple from.

Reality slammed him to his senses.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He buried his face between her neck and shoulder, vaguely aware of mumbling those three words into soft skin that smelled of rain. No, more like dusty streets after a water truck went by. Not perfume-like at all.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s too bad, because you cured my hiccups.”

Humor laced her tone even as she scooted out from under him, putting a few feet between them on the ground. He instantly missed the heat, longed for the cradle created at the apex of her jaw line and neck. Pulling himself to his knees he said, “Ouch.” Then he brushed off the reminder of his injury and dared her scrutiny to add, “I feel like a schoolboy.”

“Yeah?” She’d moved to lean back against a couch that seemed all there was to the room beyond the front door, a sectional backed by built-in bookcases running the length of one wall. Oh, and there were a small Christmas tree and a coffee table. She tossed a pillow at his head and said, “Don’t even think about calling me ‘ma’am.’”

“If the shoe fits…,” he suggested, unable to help himself from joking again.

A grin lit her voice. “—unless you can afford an F in Tackling New Writers 101.”

He stared into those bluish eyes again. There was light in this Amy person, light overshadowing some secret sorrow. Whatever it was, the seeds of it twisted like vines into her writing. She was exceptional.

Quirking a smile, she nodded past him. “Maybe we should close the door.”

A sensible suggestion. He’d lost track of time and the fact that when he fell into her apartment neither of them had even thought to shut out the wind and rain—or even anyone who passed by for that matter. Getting to his feet and limp-walking to the door, he secured the latch. Turning, he motioned to the puddle that had formed near the threshold. “Towels? I should mop this up.”

“Right.” She pointed beyond his shoulder to French doors on his left. “An armoire. My bedroom. Top shelf.”

This time, her staccato half-sentences were spoken between clenched teeth, as if the Queen Mum herself were granting a hall pass. Frightened the hiccups will come back, or of me, Amy? Or maybe it was the invitation for him to foray into her sanctuary. The urge to kiss her returned.

She added, “Go on,” and flashed him a crooked grin. At that point Eric thought he saw an invitation.

He squelched it. First and foremost, Amy Grainger needed to sign the contract. Tonight.

* * *

“Thanks,” Amy found herself saying.

“Anytime.” Mr. Eric Peterson held up a wad of wet towels.

“Kitchen sink.” She pointed to an opening behind where she sat. It had been her Christmas present watching him, amazing behind and all, mopping up that puddle at her front door. He’s gorgeous, tipsy, he kissed me and he wants to publish my book. But the fact that these things in combination might be a recipe for heartbreak stopped her. She didn’t want to be responsible for another death, and the last time she threw someone out…?

Hank died.

So not your fault, Amy. Really.

He’d been killed in a skirmish on the Iraqi border. But it felt like her fault. He’d joined the Marines right after she threw him out.

“So, tell me about ‘the asshole’…if you want.”

She hadn’t sensed his return. Eric moved away from the kitchen opening—there was no door—and a waft of his cologne proved that his presence was real.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why, too painful?” Settling on the couch beside her, pointing at the coffee table. “What’s in the box?”

“Cheap wine. Surely you’ve guessed that.”

“Well, any port in a storm.”

“Is the port part a joke?”

His quizzical look was so disarming that she slipped a notch off the couch. They really should sell sofas equipped with seat belts.

“Like I said, you are a funny girl, Ms. Grainger.”

“Amy,” she reminded him.

“—Amy,” he said simultaneously, in tandem, her response and his matching. What the hell was going on here? Unable to speak, she sipped at her water and pointed to a wine glass on the table. “Please.”

“Well, okay. I’m not much of a wine drinker but…”

Somehow Amy doubted that, and it frightened her. To be honest, people that drank anything scared the snot out of her. She only had the box of wine and the wine glass because once in a blue moon, literally, someone came over; another teacher, a friend from college. Liar. Lying to herself had to be the worst character flaw. The truth? She kept something on hand in case one of her ridiculous fantasies ever came true. Just in case Ben or Margaret popped over, deciding the last decade was too long and—

“You’re beautiful. Did you know that?”

An ungodly snort escaped her. Perhaps it would send him packing, and then she’d be safe. No heartbreak, no terror, no… “I’m so not. Beautiful.”

“You don’t like yourself much, do you, Amy?” He moved closer to her on the couch, his glass filled from the ridiculous spigot on the boxed wine, his knee brushing against her thigh.

“Can you blame me?”

“I can’t figure you out. The way you write? It’s like a different person lives inside those fingers.” He took her right hand, lightly caressing each digit from tip to crook to the vee between and then running his touch lightly up to the top of the next. Four times he did this, an exquisitely slow and intentional process. He was going to have to scoop her off the floor with a pail if he kept it up.

“So, about the contract,” she managed to say.

Focusing, he straightened on the couch. Thank God someone could sit up straight. It sure as hell wasn’t Amy.

“Right.” Sipping, reaching, he refilled his glass. “And what about the last chapter?”

“Done.” Single words, she could at least manage those. “Revised.”

“Where? Here? Is it here?”

His enthusiasm couldn’t be ignored. “Yes, it’s here.” Leaning forward, reaching beneath a magazine, she pulled the once pristine but now crumpled and drying pages from their hiding place. “Here.”

“Wow.” He was suddenly looking around. “More light?”

Brushing his shoulder with her breast—completely by accident or completely on purpose, she wasn’t sure—Amy turned on a single lamp that occupied a spot behind her favorite reading place. Then, despite having to pee, for twenty minutes she sat still. For twenty minutes she watched as he turned the pages over, trying to figure out his expression, wondering if the final chapter was a complete letdown, wondering if he’d kiss her again.

“It’s great.”

“What?”

“Amy, it’s a great ending. Better than I imagined.” He reached forward and pushed a lock of her typically ridiculous hair behind her ear. “What happened in your life that made you so full of loss?”

“Oh, I just write that way.” She laughed, hoping he didn’t notice that if he got any closer, said anything kind she would rip her clothes off and…she wasn’t sure, but every nerve ending between belly button and knees was screaming for another of his kisses, for his hands, for his—

“He must have been a supreme asshole.”

“He’s dead,” she said, then considered Eric’s quick reaction. Some inner chastisement ticked in his cheek, then he went back to deadpan.

“Well, I don’t want to make you mad, not again, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t an asshole.”

“Now that sounds more like the first Eric I met. For a minute there I thought maybe you were going all sensitive on me.”

“Your prose does that to a man.” He leaned in, and Amy could count the flecks in his eyes, feel his scotch-and-wine breath on her face. “What happened?”

“That’s not a big story, no eleven o’clock news. We lived together, I thought I loved him, he cheated on me, I threw him out.”

She’d hoped her perfunctory delivery would push him away. He didn’t budge.

“That’s it?”

“No.”

“So…?” His lips found hers and lingered in a soft, sensitive kind of way. “What happened?”

Pulling back, she dared to look into his eyes, though his nearness made him blurry without her glasses. “He joined the Marines, shipped out to Iraq, sent me one postcard. Snide, clever, typical Hank.”

“Hank. I don’t know, Amy… You with a Hank? Seems wrong, I’m not sure how, but somehow.”

“Well, it was wrong, you doofus; completely wrong. Do you know why he cheated on me, Mr. Editor-Eric-Peterson-Person?”

She watched as his insanely sexy Adam’s apple swallowed a chuckle. “No.”

“Because he said I was a prude.” She had to look away; Eric’s gaze was too intense. “A prude.”

For a while they sat in complete silence, the rain pattering away as if in its own world and Eric seemingly lost in a study of her Christmas tree. Then: “What’s with the ornaments? All clear glass and a number painted on every one? I don’t get it.”

Okay, she’d been kind of looking for a “You are so not a prude, Amy Grainger,” and his sudden change of subject busted down to private what little confidence she’d been working on. She forced herself to say, “That’s an entirely different tragedy.”

“You’re not a prude.”

“I—”

His kiss swept away all self-doubt. Almost. But, then, none of this was real. Not the offer of the contract, not this handsome man who loved her work and found her attractive, not any of it.

Breaking away she said, “I signed the contract you sent. It’s in the other room. I have to tell you that before you kiss me again because…” One of his eyebrows crooked up, forcing her to continue. “Because it’s bad enough being a prude, I couldn’t stand to be a cheap slut as well.”

His laughter filled the small room. Her tree lights twinkled behind those glass ornaments with a sequential number on each, the rain unleashed again in a deafening way overhead, and none of it mattered because Amy found his laughter the most remarkable tonic.

She watched as he again filled his fat wineglass to the rim. She didn’t need a drink, why did he? Well, she wasn’t going to judge; not tonight. Maybe for once her Christmas would be amazing. Maybe for the first time in almost eighteen years, the lifetime since her mother died, the holiday could be magical. And when he kissed her again, when his fingers flicked at her nipple beneath the bulky sweater, she swore not to fret about his drinking despite the disaster she saw headed her way with every gulp, decided to give in completely.

“The ornaments are numbered for each year I’ve tried to get my siblings to allow me back into their lives.” She lowered her voice, her mouth not an inch from his. “The numbers are for each of the years I failed.”

“Wow.” He drained his glass and filled it again, rising from the couch. “Wow.”

He stood before her small tree, sparsely festive with its handful of lights and the clear glass ornaments the sum total of her decorations. The sum total of my life.

“One, two, three…” He paused, and she grimaced as he wobbled a little. “Six…” His hand brushed the ornaments and jiggled the tree, his finger tapping the last ball. “Nine? That’s pretty shitty, Amy.” Flopping back on the couch, he slugged the glass dry. “Wait a minute, though, that makes you… You would have been, like, what? Ten? You couldn’t live alone at ten.”

“Nine.”

“You live on the streets or something?”

So, she was going to talk about her past? She’d known it was coming, though. She’d enabled it, even. I’m a weak suck. “No, at home. But it was miserable, and I left the day after graduating from high school.”

“That’s”—he glanced up at her, stopping her heart with a soft expression—“sad.”

This time, she kissed him. She wasn’t sure why. To get him to stop drinking, to get him to love her before he passed out? “I should get you to bed.”

“Hmmm, nice thought, but ain’t gonna happen, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry. I meant that you’re about to pass out.” Nice save, but a big fat lie.

“I’m the editor, you’re the writer,” he continued. “Can’t be.”

“Why did you kiss me then?” Tears were lining up inside her; crying for seventeen years tended to clue one in to the signs. And yet, despite all the practice, she could still be ambushed by the emotion.

“Not sure. Seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. Plus there was that hiccup thing.”

So, it seemed brutal honesty was apparently not the best way to have a man fall head over heels in love with you. Nor was it the best way to prevent his sucking down another two or three glasses of cheap wine and morphing back to his natural shape, a toad, a drunk toad, one that got sloppy, whose kisses turned into slobbery gross pawing, and one that despite all of that, was capable of offhand rejection. A rejection that hurt for more reasons than she cared to examine.

His hand slipped from her cheek to her shoulder with a thump. His eyes were rheumy. “You are hot, though. I can’t explain it, but you are a really sexy girl.”

An excuse. Clearly.

“But, you writer.” His index finger touched the end of her nose. “Me”—he touched his chest—“editor.”

No. You asshole.

“I’m sure,” she said, pushing him back, jumping up and standing a few feet away, trying to summon any tucked away resource. “I’m going to get a blanket, a pillow and some water, and you’re going to sleep this off, Mr. Peterson.”

“Mr. Peterson?” He actually looked stricken…until he turned green.

“Eric, you don’t look too good.”

“See? Obser…vant. Observant. You are remarkably astute for a prude.”

It couldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t let it. He was drunk.

But that’s when full reality set in and the lights went out on the fantasy that had been running through her brain on a repeating loop since catching sight of him in the restaurant, precisely when her potential editor and never-would-be-lover vomited all over her couch.

Chapter Twelve

Some kind of ridiculously bright light blinded Eric. He searched his brain…but that wasn’t true. He didn’t have a brain. If he did, it was on vacation. All that occupied the space behind his eyes, between his ears, was a relentless pounding.

“I never should have offered you the box white.”

“Box…” His right arm felt numb, but he let it prop him on his side anyway. Shit. He was on some kind of absurd flotation device. It wobbled like the raft he’d floated in for three days when he tried that survival gig, just one of the failed attempts at a remedy for what he felt when his wife left him.

Fled. She fled, Eric.

The thought registered in some corner of his mind that he should share his pain with someone, that years of therapy or that kind of honesty might lift the emptiness that descended when Sally announced a ten-month affair with her riding coach. But he’d never do that. He never had. What happened then was his and his alone. He’d only announced anything when the world insisted. Rules of divorce: an uncensored public airing of the cruel end to marriage. Thinking about it was useless, because he’d never admit to the hurt. Not to anyone. Not with anyone. Not ever.

“Box what?” He responded to the figure—or was it three people?—who spoke to him from across the room, trying to get a handle on the lurch in his gut.

“Well, technically it was a Chardonnay.”

He focused on the voice from the figure in the doorway. What mother-effing blessed maid had dared open the drapes so early in the day, anyway? This suite he’d booked was costly, over $600 per night, which meant he deserved better than the backlit figure was offering. But when Amy Grainger missed the breakfast meeting leading to his reluctant agreement to meet her for drinks, maybe even dinner, and to discuss an unpublished unfinished book…? Well, having a room booked had seemed sensible.

“I get the feeling”—the figure was speaking again—“that you usually imbibe from something a little finer than Bob’s Box-O-Booze. He’s local, campy, I’m told, and you…well, I couldn’t beat $11.99 a gallon.”

Where am I?

The Biltmore, he was at the Biltmore. He had an ocean-view suite, there was excellent scotch, Glenlivet 21-year-old single malt on the wet bar. Where was the wet bar?

“And, really, I should have never offered. I’m now officially a codependent. I was going through the phone book for AA meetings when I heard your groan. Interested?”

“Miss…whatever your name is, shouldn’t you be in uniform? Where’s your nametag? You can pretty much forget a tip. I need a drink. Get me a scotch rocks, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

“Hair of the dog? I don’t think so.”

As bright as it was, the far side of his room was shadowed. The voice, though, sounded familiar. Nothing made sense. Maybe he was sick? But his mind was okay; the service was lacking was all.

This is so unaccep… What’s the word I want?

His tongue had no connection to the thought. That was something he needed to review after a run. He needed a run. And a drink.

“Well, you can’t have one.”

She was a mind reader and a maid? “Says who? If you care about your job, missy, you’ll wake up a bartender and get me that drink.”

“You know, you lost your cookies on my Pottery Barn sofa. It was my first ever real purchase of something I wanted, and something I finally felt like I’d earned. Finally believed I deserved.”

“What? When?”

She steamrolled right over his question. “Then God decided to send a royal jackass into my life, and for my book. My book, mind you. Do you know what that means, Mr. Peterson?”

It was coming back. Why he was in… Where was he? Right, Santa Barbara. Why he was in Santa Barbara. He watched helplessly as she stepped out of the door frame and spun in a circle with her skinny-ass arms above her head.

“You want my book. Say it out loud. Say it!”

She stopped spinning to scream at him. Good thing, because Eric was going to repeat what she’d said he’d done earlier and “lose his cookies.” Maybe if she carried on long enough, the need to hurl would pass.

Leaning against the wall, she slid down and landed on her butt; long legs stretched out, and for a minute or two there were three images again. Swallowing bile, forcing his brain into gear, he tried to remember her name. Amy something.

And, sobbing. She was sobbing.

What the f—?

For some reason Samantha Willis popped up in his head like a hologram, in dinosaur pajamas, flashing her three-year-old smile, and with the arrival of the image so went the cussword.

“Hi, Unca Ewic. You don’t look so good.”

If this hologram godchild even hinted an accusation about his drinking, she could forget about those Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots wrapped in Despicable Me paper and already stashed in the back of his New York apartment closet. But with that thought, the image of Sam was gone.

“Has anyone…ever…sug…” Snuffling jags and sobbing interrupted the girl whose new couch he’d apparently ruined. “Suggested to you that you drink too much? That…it…will…kill you? Ruin…your life?” Sweeping one forearm below her nose in a futile effort to stop the sniffles, she pressed both palms into her eyes, either to blot him out or to stop the tears, Eric wasn’t sure.

“Destroy,” she continued, looking up as if she expected something from him, “everything—everyone—you love or care about?”

No. And there is no one. Had he said that out loud? He didn’t think so. He didn’t love anything. So why did her words make him squirm?

Dammit, this is so not what I need right now. What he needed was Alka-Seltzer in club soda and a double scotch. But this wasn’t a hotel. It wasn’t his hotel, she wasn’t a maid, he was in her house, and the light that had nearly blinded him a few moments earlier could be nothing less than the sun.

“The rain stopped,” he muttered.

“Duh.”

Eric found himself wishing for his hallucination of Sammy Willis back, anything that distracted him from what he must have done to this girl last night. Sometimes…well, apparently sometimes your roots came back, for he suddenly found himself praying to all that was holy, any saint that would have him. There were saints for everything these days, so surely there was one for girls on crying jags that he may have—

Shit. He couldn’t have. Didn’t. Had he forced himself on her? That didn’t sound like him. He could be a royal asshole—wouldn’t even run from that admission—but he’d know if they’d been together.

Trying to take stock of his surroundings, he heard the blood in his skull pounding incessant and louder all the time, a full drumlin in his head that beat a rhythmic message trying to convince him, No. No. No. Glancing down at the body that in theory was attached to the drumming, he felt assurance try to creep back in, as he was at least fully clothed. So, apparently the couch she was lamenting had taken the brunt of his…cookies. He’d have to remember that phrase.

“I’m sorry about the couch. I’ll get it cleaned or buy you a new one.”

“It’s not about the couch, and it sure as hell isn’t about you trying to fix things.”

Her intensity fired at him across the room, and suddenly he remembered something. Her eyes. He remembered drowning in her eyes, shades of a mountain lake going from bright sunny sky–blue to thunderstorm grey, or the shallow sandy-bottomed green water of a Caribbean reef fading to that haunting blue when you sailed into deeper water. He recalled her mouth, pouty, animated, her high cheekbones and long neck… Eric suddenly heard his own groan.

“Are you alright?” Concern surfaced from her crying.

“You said it wasn’t about me. You were right, and I’m fine. I’m probably going to puke, but I’m fine.”

“Serves you right.”

The phrase sounded familiar. Of course it was, but he’d heard it somewhere recently.

Silence.

A clock ticked away that he didn’t remember from the night before, and with each passing second he tried to remember everything that happened. The restaurant, he had that. The image ran through his brain on a strip of imaginary film, and he could check off each frame. Then there was the run through the rain and the pounding on Amy’s door. Then he fell into her, onto her. She had the hiccups and he kissed her. And his knee—

Okay, he hadn’t needed that reminder, for the ache caught on again. The memory and pain jolted him, and a lurch of nausea followed a wavelike motion beneath him. A waterbed? He hadn’t even known they were still making the things. A fleeting thought—only in Santa Barbara—tried to connect to his mouth.

So, after the knee, then what happened?

Amy’s face was hidden, her forehead resting on crossed arms supported by knees pulled tight to her chest, a sort of upright fetal position, but her shoulders weren’t wracked with sobs like five minutes earlier. Maybe she was going to be okay. Maybe he was off the hook.

Maybe he didn’t want to be off the hook.

“It’s all my fault,” she said, looking to him as if he had some answers. Tears deluged her cheeks and rushed down her chin. “It’s always my fault.”

Wait. If he’d done something wrong, how was it her fault? She seemed so lost, so wounded, but knowing he should do something and moving in an effort to even try were thoughts inside his head versus muscles and joints that ran in parallel universes; there was no connection between his intention and his extremities.

“Amy.” Right, definitely Amy. Eric managed to get his legs to the side of the ocean craft, wondering if the Loch Ness monster was about to bite his ass, which would be redemptive in its own way since the pitiful girl ten feet away was right about one thing: It would sure as hell serve him right.

“Amy, why are you crying?”

But he knew. There was only one thing that would explain such a woeful state. She was crying because he, Eric Peterson, editor, usually a self-professed good guy, was an unmitigated Grade-A jerk. He wasn’t in his hotel room. He’d apparently yacked all over her cherished new Pottery Barn couch. And—

“I killed my mom.”

Chapter Thirteen

December 23

Amy had never been in New York City. Truth? She’d never been east of Nevada, only having gotten that far because a girl had to be at the wedding of her best friend.

Actually, it wasn’t even really “east.” It had been Vegas. She’d hated it. The place was not user-friendly for unpublished writers with glasses. People probably knew Dick Patterson or Nora Roberts if they ever sauntered through the lobby of the Bellagio, but not so much Amy Grainger. And it wasn’t people-friendly in her view. Nobody seemed terribly enamored of girls sans big boobs and battable eyelashes. There was no such word, of course, but she liked it: battable. The entire city was loud and smoky, and people appeared to have no inhibitions about their behavior. After that grand adventure, the idea of going anywhere else had never really appealed to her. She’d settled into her teaching job in Santa Barbara, running on the beach, meandering along State Street with the panache of a local—she was exactly that—and spending all the rest of her time writing, rewriting, and rewriting again her first novel.

New York. She was in that noisy giant now, freaking New York City. Like the salsa commercial, it rang in her head. Thrilled, at least initially, to be cold, she stopped to stare up at the buildings surrounding the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center.

Should I try it? Skating?

No. Not today. She had one more place to be, though she lacked the courage. But she’d done so many things in the six days since racing out of her apartment that one more terrifying moment wouldn’t kill her.

Well, it might destroy her, but she’d survive. She always had.

And, Eric was in New York. Is that why I’m here?

As if the place where the buildings disappeared into the low clouds threatening snow would answer, she stared upward. But Eric wasn’t the only reason she was here. She was here for her book.

Still too afraid to say her other reasons aloud, even if just in her head, she thought back to the day after Eric, which was what she’d taken to calling it; like A.D., only A.E. Amy hadn’t ignored his calls, but she hadn’t picked up, either. Still, before she left for LAX she’d listened to the voicemails on her phone, message after message of his voice, funny in some, woeful in others, apologetic, sexy in every single one, surprisingly strong in his pleading, never needy.

It had been a different phone call that got her to New York. A single phone call. Jake Willis had landed her here because like some ogle-eyed fish she’d taken the bait. How the hell she’d opened up to him was still a mystery. Five minutes of his straightforward proposal over the line and she’d spilled her guts, things she’d kept forever inside—well, at least until she’d shared her stupid past with a still drunk then ridiculously hungover Mr. Peterson.

It had started with his insisting that she call him Jake, segued into an apology for his editor’s behavior with promises it would never happen again, and then turned into a simple invitation.

“Amy, come to New York for Christmas. We’ll put you up. You said there’s nothing for you in Santa Barbara. School’s out, so you don’t have to think about teaching again until next year. If you aren’t having a great time then we’ll fly you back first-class. No matter what, at least you will have seen New York at Christmastime, and we will get you back with enough time to settle in, do laundry, do whatever other things you do to get ready for your students…”

What he’d meant by that was, she could go back to her life. Or maybe that’s what she wanted to think, though it wasn’t true. Because one thing was certain: After kissing Eric Peterson the way she had, after confessing her darkest horrible secret to him, after praying for him incessantly, after longing for him—God, after reliving his touch his touch every night—and since abandoning him in her apartment, she was never going to be the same.

Manhattan. She was headed someplace in Manhattan. Lower Manhattan, really. But not really “Lower Manhattan,” just not quite Chelsea, though almost not Hell’s Kitchen…

Fudge.

She’d spent five hours on the plane studying her Frommer’s in an effort to memorize New York City, trying so she wouldn’t be a complete idiot when she arrived. It hadn’t helped much, other than keeping her fear of flying a dull background buzz.

Liar. It hadn’t even done that, and she’d broken her first rule of no hard alcohol and invested in a double scotch. She’d hated it, though, and wondered why she’d ordered it—until she recalled a certain editor. The first sip set her stomach on fire, but then she relaxed, barely, allowing the taste on her lips to remind her of him, of his kisses. The good ones. The early ones.

“Oh, God help me.”

“Miss? I’m sorry, do you need something?”

Out loud, I said that out loud?

Turning, she focused on a police officer who’d offered assistance. His hat was square on his head, his cheeks ruddy, but it was so cold that everybody had red faces. Amy couldn’t feel her toes and, because she hadn’t taken her jacket off when she checked FAO Schwartz off her list of places to visit, the perspiration that settled beneath her hair at the base of her neck had turned to icicles.

“No. Well…no.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, fine. It’s just…it’s so cold.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, it is that, miss, but you don’t have to stand out here. Do you?”

“What?” She wondered if there was something she didn’t understand about his question. Did policemen try to trick people? No, of course not. How foolish. “Oh, no. I have a hotel, all of that, I…well, I just don’t see winter weather, and isn’t it supposed to snow? No, it is, it is supposed to snow.” Her emphasis somehow supported the vast knowledge she had of New York. Like a native.

“Indeed. But it’s going to get even colder before it does that. Can I hail a cab for you?”

“Oh, no. Thank you, officer. I’m going to walk.”

“Where?”

“West 25th and 10th.”

“That’s over two miles.”

“Two-point-six.”

“Frommer’s?”

“Huh?”

“That’s what Frommer’s said, right?”

“Well…” Amy sheepishly looked down at the volume she’d been clutching since ten a.m., the big awkward version of the guidebook, certain the title didn’t show. Why hadn’t she picked herself up one of those smart phones? She was a book and highlighter kind of girl; that’s why.

The cop shook his head. “Hate those people, really.”

“If you’ve never been here,” Amy said meekly, “they help a little.”

“I suppose that’s true enough. So, West 25th and 10th? Isn’t there a haunt for a bunch of elitist artsy fo—?”

“A gallery,” Amy said, then mentally kicked herself for interrupting the officer. “It’s a gallery. But they probably are elitist. And artsy.”

“Well, if the shoe fits. You an artist?”

“No. Well, sort of. A writer.”

The policeman looked her up and down. “Good. I like writers better. I mean, a good book and a noisy old steam radiator? Nothing like it to warm a soul.”

His smile almost caught her off guard; not quite.

“Officer…” She peered at his badge, fairly certain her eyelashes now had bits of ice hanging off the edges. “Mack. Officer Mack. That was a quotable observation.”

“I’m not paid for that, ma’am, but I don’t mind sharing.” He must have pegged her frown, because he immediately corrected himself. “Miss.”

“Thank you for that. I’m headed for a test of sorts. Going fortified with youthful vim and vigor will help.”

“You’re a funny woman, miss.” He was acting as if he would now be on his way, but it was a departure she seriously doubted.

“I’ve been told.”

“Do you write funny?”

“Yes and no.”

“Hmm. Meaning?”

“Funny mixed with misery and tragedy.”

“Wow, so fiction that you lived.”

“Now you’ve gone beyond simple observational skills to astute, sir.”

“Well, you give yourself up just a little.”

Raising an eyebrow, even as a snowflake floated down between them, she stared at him. “How so?”

“A lot of little giveaways, but the one that stands out most is your willingness to be miserable for two-point-six miles. Not that people don’t walk that far all the time in New York, but not many will do it under the promise of a snowstorm.” He seemed to be pondering something, maybe deciding whether some little detail would change her mind. “And West 25th does just that. It heads towards the Hudson, which means about the time you make that right turn, the wind will be whipping up those streets with a chill factor you could never imagine out west.”

“How do you know where I’m from?”

“That part’s easy, Miss…?”

He wanted her name. Well, he was a police officer, so he could ask for I.D. just because. The fact that she’d admitted her plan to head into a blizzard on foot, alone, with no reason to eschew the benefits of modern civilization, could justify locking her up, so there was no point in being secretive. Besides, when the book was published she was going to need word of mouth. An autographed copy to a fine upstanding member of New York’s finest seemed as good a starting place as any. “Grainger. Amy Grainger. That’s my name.”

“Well, Ms. Grainger. It’s not really difficult to spot someone out of their element.”

“Okay. So if I go…” She turned in the direction she thought she should be headed.

Officer Mack encouraged her to take the subway. He even gave her a tiny folded pocket schedule and explained in great detail how to get within a block or two of the gallery she sought. Despite that sage advice, Amy stuck to her plan.

Of course, she paid a hefty price for the stubbornness ingrained by genetics and upbringing. Her hair was drenched despite the hat; light flurries when she started out became earnest snowfall after she cleared 39th; and when she was convinced it could get no worse, she’d slipped twice so her butt was double bruised and soaked. But of course that wasn’t all that would go wrong. She was Amy Grainger after all. Bad stupid stuff happened to her every freaking day.

So, why wouldn’t the parka she’d put over her thick sweater stop being effective? There was a reason for it, but she’d bet it wouldn’t happen to a real New Yorker. Her scarf was catching snowfall and producing moisture that slipped beneath the collar of the down-filled jacket, a recipe for pneumonia. Due to the wet scarf, she was now partly soaked beneath her outer layer, and her pace had caused her to sweat despite the cold.

And her face was numb.

So, she likely had body odor, her hair was stuck to her head beneath a silly hat, and as a consolation prize? She reeked of wet wool.

As she turned onto 25th Street, Officer Mack’s words pounded in her head as if echoing through those giant speakers at an outdoor sporting event, the words West! West! West! means the Wind! Wind! Wind! comes off the Hudson-son River, and it gets fun-fun-funneled like a tunnel…

“Stop, it head!”

That she heard herself over the onslaught of frigid air reassured Amy she was still alive. It didn’t stop dialogue from Disney’s 101 Dalmations from forcing out the wind announcer and replacing it with the speech of that fat puppy, though. What was his name? Rolly, yes Rolly. And what did he say? “And my tail’s froze, and my nose is froze, and my ears is froze,” and what else? His toes, of course. His toes were froze. Checking all systems, Amy found all of those same parts were indeed frozen on her; figuratively speaking, anyway, for surely Darwin would qualify her rear end as a tail.

If the little pup could make it, so could Amy. Thank you, Rolly.

Ridiculous thinking, of course, which meant only one thing: She was freezing to death, slipping into the throes of hypothermia. They’d find her—maybe it would even be that nice Officer Mack. She’d have fallen asleep under some stoop, of course, and simply “froze” to death. But maybe she’d sell more copies of her book dead.

Chuckling to herself then stumbling again, she grabbed a street pole. Looking up, she was overjoyed to find the numbering. She was on 25th and 9th. One more block remained. One frigid, wicked block.

“And then what, Amy? You don’t really think you’re walking into this gallery opening and all will be right with the world do you?”

A girl could dream. She’d get there and then worry about it. Get there and then deal with it. And everything would have been fine, really fine, until the cab doused her. It blew by, swerved around something—what, Marley’s ghost? It mattered not, as the end result was a flying wall of water that rose like a wave off a favorite surfing haunt below the Rincon. In a gracious, giving-back-for-the-holidays way, it broke over every inch of already wet parts of her and found everything that had by some miracle stayed dry. The newly adventurous and world-traveling Amy Grainger was officially soaked.

When the cab pulled up in the very next block she had a brief moment of delusion that the occupant was so distraught over what had happened that he, she, they, whatever, were coming to Amy’s rescue. Instead, a tall handsome man with a lush Burberry ran around the yellow beacon of hope and, opening the door, assisted a stunning woman in a flaming red, full-length coat, a dry red coat, out of the car. He held her elbow, gracious man. Offering support and protection? From what?

Adoring fans no doubt. Or unwanted siblings.

Amy approached the building, her own destination as well. Behind the solid glass windows, people swirled in dazzling haute couture; colors flashed from too many fabrics to name—greens, reds, even blues and of course black; champagne glasses clinked. Amy could imagine the sound. Everything about the vision looked warm despite the wind and snow outside, warm and inviting. The gallery opening of this specific artist’s show was everything the paper said it would be. And, as she walked closer, for once in her life Amy was on time.

A local artist was being honored. That artist stood a few feet away on a slippery sidewalk in a fabulous wool coat. In the bright light bursting from the gallery, Amy watched as the woman, smiling, tossed her thick hair and almost accidentally glanced in her direction, and when their glances met, every terror connected to this hare-brained scheme suddenly became a reality. Every nightmare about this moment ran on a slow motion reel before Amy’s eyes.

What had she been thinking? How could this possibly be anything but a really horrid, wretched idea? Jake Willis had said it would be okay, but kind-hearted as her new publisher might be, he didn’t really know what had passed between them.

Standing there, an imaginary boxing ring materialized in Amy’s mind. The woman with amazing hair and a dry, warm coat, with equally dry black leather boots disappearing beneath the straight hem vs. the soaked mouse sweating and freezing simultaneously beneath a never-been-skied-in parka. Amy had stepped into a vintage Japanese monster movie and she was Godzilla.

Pain. So much pain. Eric hadn’t understood. Hell, he’d been drunk. Beyond drunk. How did that ever help anyone? It didn’t. It was false courage that deteriorated into blackouts, risky behavior that led to— She shook her head. Eric had no place in her head, not now, not when Amy was about to hug her sister for the first time in forever, when she was about to make true the one Christmas wish she’d harbored for so long.

But, sometimes God just did stuff to keep folks humble and aware of his absurd power, like at that very moment. For whatever reason, the streetlight under which Amy had paused to get her bearings, standing dripping in dirty melted street snow, now flickered to full-incandescence, putting Amy on a stage she’d never desired to star upon.

There was no opportunity to approach, gentle-like, to offer an olive branch first. God, not even to beg. Cass, it’s me, Amy. Instead, fury replaced her confident smile and the woman—the sister Amy was once closest to—closed the gap between them. A daunting fierceness puckered her mouth and squinted her eyes, and that meant time and distance had done nothing to lessen their estrangement.

“You little bitch! What are you doing here? You are so not ruining my show. You’ve already ruined my life, all of our lives. Get the fuck out of here, now!”

“Cass, I…I just wanted…” Every speech she’d practiced, every plea, every letter Amy had ever written to her, to Ben, to Margaret, those eloquent words slammed to a screeching halt short of her vocal cords. “I thought if you understood, if…”

“Shut up, Amy. Shut up and go back to your pathetic little schoolmarm job. Leave us alone.”

“Sweetie, what is it?” The handsome man who’d escorted her from the taxi slid up on the slick sidewalk like Sir Galahad himself. “Is this”—sizing Amy up like a slab of beef—“creature bothering you?”

“Bothering me? Call the cops. Do something, Lance, this little bitch killed my mother.”

Chapter Fourteen

Nathan Willis drooled, burped, farted and then closed his eyes. Eric was relieved. Relieved but edgy. He wanted a drink; damn, but he wanted a drink. Well, he wouldn’t have one. He’d gone to his sixth meeting this morning, tomorrow was a one-week chip, and that seemed worthy of the wait. And if there was hope for Amy’s forgiveness, to get to know her the right way, he couldn’t be drinking. That part of the equation was easy.

Also, Lizzie would kill him.

“Thanks, Eric.”

Speak of the devil. Except, Liz Willis was an angel. She produced angels, like the one in his arms that sighed, stretched and mouthed little sucking motions at the sound of his mother’s voice, a skill honed to perfection after only five days on the planet. The baby had surprised them all, arriving the day after Eric and Jake spoke and almost a week early.

“It’s so nice to shower and actually see my toes again, let alone have a few minutes in a towel to contemplate the universe,” she said.

“I kind of miss Christmas Eve at the house,” he replied.

“Yeah, we do too, but with the baby due and the remodel stalled it seemed best to stay here through spring. The apartment’s okay.”

Okay? It was a fabulous place, but so was the place Liz had taken to calling The Country Cottage—right before she laughed at the gentrified nature of the title.

She put a club soda with lemon on a coaster down beside him. “Thanks, Eric.”

“For what?” He resituated the baby a little on his lap; the little monster had started to squirm.

“For not making me get you alone to give you the ‘you’re killing yourself’ lecture. We love you. You know that, right?”

“I guess.”

“It won’t be easy, so just know we’re right here. I’ll be here if you fall, too.”

She had a way of getting him. Hell, she got everybody. She wasn’t a psychic—that stuff was B.S.—but she’d done her time in purgatory here on earth and, on that road somewhere? She’d picked up compassion and faith instead of embracing the baggage that came with blaming the world or her God for everything.

Jake had been pretty disgusted with his story. And Eric himself? Well, the behavior of a week ago had led him to that first AA meeting. He’d gone, nauseated, some shade of green and uncertain, but he’d gone. Then he’d cancelled all of his appointments in L.A. on short notice. No big deal, no one cared anyway. It was almost Christmas, and everybody he knew even casually had something else going on. Everyone except Eric. His holiday plans had included a self-celebration for signing Ms. Amy Grainger. This he would have done with a steak dinner and a couple of perfect cocktails, but his plan went to shit when he walked out of her house without a signed contract. She’d said something about signing, he remembered, when he finally started remembering things, but he hadn’t taken the document. So he’d blown that. Now he carried one with him. Just in case.

In case what? I run into Amy in New York? An Amy who for some reason had decided to accept his apology?

Closing his eyes, he heard her tearful soliloquy, that confession, those things about her he hadn’t asked for but which she’d shared. In hindsight he realized she hadn’t really been speaking to him. He was just a nearby jerk that represented all the truths about the evils of alcohol she wore around her neck like some damned medal.

Except, that wasn’t fair. And she’d left him fending for himself in her apartment. Oh, he’d waited, once his body recovered enough to get off that archaic waterbed, found his way to her compact bathroom, showered and dressed. In the previous day’s clothes no less, planning to apologize. He’d waited two hours then, but she clearly wasn’t coming back. He’d imagined her outside, watching the apartment, patient for his departure. No, she wasn’t coming back, not while he was there. And some teenage kid showed up about noon, a football player–type, muscling Eric out and locking the door.

That she’d been inaccessible this entire week of his conversion was enough to send him back to Ireland and O’Donovan’s favorite establishment. But he’d said no. Each morning he woke up to the decision: Just don’t have a drink today.

At least the kid hadn’t found the note before throwing Eric out. Maybe Amy would use the money he left to clean the couch. Maybe she’d call the number he’d left. His number, his personal cell. Few people on the planet had access to it. He’d tried to reach her, but eventually there was no room left on her machine and her mobile went straight to voicemail all twenty-some-odd times.

All of which explained why, even if he’d wanted to leave out the details when Jake grilled him about what went wrong, there was no point in lying. Eric might be a drunk, a cad, an uncaring lout—even now Amy’s words haunted him—but he’d always been honest, maybe too honest. And he wanted Amy to hear his apology and sign. He wanted her happy, and he wanted her book published—for her sake, not for his—and that was something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. So he’d owned up.

He’d expected an explosion, even termination. Instead, his mentor was thrilled. Oh, Jake was pissed off about not signing Amy, but he was overjoyed about the not-drinking thing. In fact, the unexpected joy expressed by Jake and Lizzie had added to Eric’s remorse. Weirder still, something during telling of his shameful behavior had put a smile on both of their faces. Like they had a secret, something they shared. So-called “knowing” glances that made him tempted to yell, “What? Out with it!”

“You’ll have to ask Jake about our first meeting, Eric. I get the feeling he never told you the whole story.”

Liz. Her comment pulled him out of his shorthand recap of recent events; wallowing in reverie risked pointed inquiry from Jake’s intuitive spouse. So, maybe she was a little psychic, or maybe women in general could read men’s thoughts. He would never have noticed, because he was inattentive when he drank and he drank all the time. Or he used to.

“No,” he admitted. “Jake just said that it was a bit rocky at the start.”

Liz snorted a laugh. “Um. That’s one way to describe it.”

“So, do tell, Mrs. Willis.”

“No can do. Men have a different perspective on”—she lifted her fidgeting infant from Eric’s lap—“such things.” Winking, she turned and spirited little Nate away for feeding.

“Unca Ewic!”

If he thought he’d spend a moment trying to figure things out, he was wrong. A pig-tailed, Ninja Turtle pajama–clad Sam Willis flew into his arms. Little girls weren’t supposed to be linebackers, but this flannel dynamo had all the makings.

“Sammy—oof!—sweetheart, you trying to kill me?”

“No.” She giggled. “Silly goose. Daddy said you were here, but I had to be tuck-in-able first ’cause the elves are watching.”

“Well, they are. They must be,” he said, catching a whiff of toothpaste and strawberries. “This close to Christmas they dash about double-checking on boys and girls one last time.”

The little girl’s gaze scanned the room, wide eyes searching, then landed on Eric’s face again. “What about big people?” Intent eyebrows arched, parts of her so much the spitting image of his boss. “Don’t they check up on you, Ewic?”

“Well, I hope so. Otherwise I’d be in big trouble.”

She snuggled into him. “Shhhhhhhh.”

“Why should I be quie—?”

Her hand covered his mouth, but she didn’t look up, keeping one ear pressed hard against his chest. “I’m listening to your heart.”

Okay. No clue as to how they shifted from Santa’s elves to the condition of his arteries, but with Sam he’d learned patience; she’d connect the dots eventually. Almost afraid to take a breath, he was rocketed back to the entryway of a postage stamp apartment, the rain pounding on the roof, a certain smile… It was the memory of Amy Grainger, her banter and quirky grin. But he’d blown it.

God, he’d blown it.

“I don’t think Daddy’s right.”

“About what, Sam?”

“About your heart, silly.”

“What about my heart?”

“He said your heart got bit by a bug.”

Huh?

“Daddy said”—turning her face up to his, her brow creased with worry—“you got bit by the bug. And he said it might make you cranky, and that it was why you quit having drinks with ice cubes in the glass, and that there’s no real medicine like VapoRub, which is stinky gross but it stops my nose from running, and Daddy said that once you got it, once it bit you, there was no hope.”

“Did he?” Eric looked across the big living room, sensing Jake nearby, maybe even eavesdropping from the front hall. “Uh, well, Sammy, I’m okay, really. Did you hear any bugs in there?”

She shook her head vigorously from left to right a few times.

Again, Amy turning blue, holding her breath, making the same motion in answering his request: The image flooded over him, but he could feel Sam’s gaze still locked on. “Well, then, I’m okay, don’t you think?”

“No.”

Summary judgment passed on him by a three year old.

“Why not? I’m telling you I’m fine, Sammy.”

“Because Daddy’s super smart and he says—”

“Nobody’s smarter than your dad, Sam, that’s for sure, but I’m okay, really. Like I said, you didn’t hear any bugs.”

“Don’t interwupt me, Ewic.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Never.”

“Alwight then, you need to listen. Carefully.” She crossed her arms, waiting.

“Okay, scout’s honor, you have my complete attention.” He marked an X over his heart and the subject of their conversation.

“The bug.” Sam Willis lowered her voice, nearly whispering. “Daddy says the bug is very sneaky. He said it just settles in your heart, waiting.” She pressed her forefinger into his chest. “And then it bites you.”

“Oh, I see.” And he did. He understood the secretive smiles now, the knowing looks and solicitous attitude for bad behavior. For pity’s sake, they had him in love. Jake and Lizzie pegged their sworn bachelor, the godfather of their first child, him, Eric Peterson, as heartsick. That’s what Sammy meant about the bug.

“Eric.”

“Sir?”

“Really? ‘Sir’? I don’t think so. I’m glad you’re not drinking, but let’s not go overboard.”

“Jake. Sorry.” Still, he was a little leery at the idea that his friend, his mentor—hell, his boss—and the wonderful Liz had him hooked up with a crazy writer that lived in Santa Barbara. He ticked off the rest of the negatives in his head, too, like being eight years older, he the editor, she the writer. Well, there were Jake and Lizzie in that situation, but there were so many other reasons not to be in love, at least not with Amy.

Despite the distraction of Sammy, he had a momentary flash of deep pain, Sally just walking out with a, “You figure it out, Eric.”

“‘Itsy, bitsy, spider…’” Jake’s daughter giggled as her fingers crept up his arm.

“Aw, cut it out, Sam.”

“Samantha Willis.”

The little girl’s head snapped up. “Yes, Daddy?”

“Bedtime, sweet pea. The elves.” He touched the face of his watch. “It’s late. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and we’ve got a lot planned.” Then, looking stern: “And you, princess, need your beauty rest.”

“Daddy, I have to stay with E ’cause his heart is sick.”

The look on her face reminded Eric of one of those ridiculous soap opera doctors, so serious and yet so comical, and he had to swallow a laugh. Sam Willis was Emmy-ready. And when a momentary flash of chagrin darted across Jake’s face, Eric couldn’t help thinking, She so busted you, boss.

“I think he’ll live, Sammy. Besides, the cure will be here tomorrow.”

“There is a cure. I knew, knew, knew it!” Leaping from his lap, Sam Willis jumped in place on the thick, down-filled sofa. Eric grabbed a pillow to protect his favorite body parts as she cried, “Unca Ewic, there’s a cure after all. Your heart will be fixed!” Her pigtails kept flying until her father caught her mid-jump.

“I bet,” Eric said, turning his attention to his boss. “What’s the cure, eye of newt?” He hadn’t intended to be snide, but his words sounded so, even to his own ears.

“Nope, nothing so complicated.”

Dread rushed Eric first, but he swallowed his words. He found himself wondering if he had misunderstood the metaphor, that Jake and Liz weren’t really convinced he’d fallen for one Amy Grainger and was now heartsick. He wasn’t sure about being in love, but she certainly had him preoccupied. That much he could admit.

“Amy is coming to Christmas Eve dinner. No big deal.”

No big deal? Amy Grainger? No effing big deal?

Vaguely aware the phone was ringing, Eric heard Liz call out from the kitchen, “Hey, somebody get that.” Jake reached for the portable that sat on the end table.

“Hold on, hold on,” he said after answering. “Slow down. Where are you?” Juggling Sam against his shoulder, he cupped the receiver under the other ear. His expression was attentive, but Jake still seemed to be struggling to understand the other party, who, from what Eric could hear, was yelling on the other end.

Eric thought the tone hysterical, but his mind had been playing tricks on him the last few days. The doctor he’d seen yesterday because his hands shook in the morning had supplied a matter of fact answer and a prescription that helped what she described as misfiring nerves, explaining “essential tremor” as part of withdrawal. Toss in that it might be a full year before all the alcohol completely cleared his brain, and for a few seconds he’d almost thrown in the towel. Almost.

A year. Fifty-two weeks, less six days. The initial verdict seemed insurmountable. He’d tried arguing with the doctor, but the woman specialized in addiction and had no reason to lie. Her practice and reputation were built on understanding the disease. But, he wasn’t an addict.

Nope, you’re not.

Thank heavens she’d agreed with him on that point. “You’re an alcoholic, Mr. Peterson. Pure and simple, it’s a disease and you can’t drink.” Her thoughtful expression signaled something else was coming, so he’d waited. “If you want to pretend it’s not an addiction, that you have power over alcohol…? Well, I’ve little more to offer except the hard medical facts. If you don’t stop it will kill you. It may take some time, but it will kill you.”

“Eric.”

“Sir?” He ignored Jake’s reproachful scowl at the form of address but said, “Sorry, Jake. What?”

“It’s Ms. Grainger. There’s been an incident of some sort, and I can barely understand her she’s so upset.”

He was on his feet, no thought to show aloof restraint. “Is she hurt?”

Jake lowered his voice despite muffling the phone against his chest. “She’s crying. I’m not really getting a clear sense of it. She keeps breaking into sobs.” Then, with the receiver back to his ear: “Slow down, Amy. Where are you? We’ll come get you.”

Eric watched Jake’s expressions even while pulling his cell from his pocket. Looking down, he scrolled through his contacts. Was it the New Yorker in him, or was it his addiction that had resulted in having five separate car services in his favorites? Either way, he didn’t want to risk finding a cab in this storm, so he barked an address at the dispatcher who answered and promised a driver out front in five minutes.

“You’re going?” Jake asked.

“Shouldn’t it be me, sir?”

Jake didn’t balk at the title this time. “Damn straight it should.”

“What I figured.”

“She’s under an awning at West 25th and 10th.” Jake smiled as Sam snuggled into him even further. “Her teeth were chattering between sobs, Eric. Don’t waste any time.”

“I’m on it. Say my goodbyes to Lizzie, and I guess I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“No guesses about it. You’ll be here.”

Okay, so he’d be there, but right now he had the chance to maybe fix things and get Amy Grainger to sign without Jake’s coaxing and coddling.

Screw the signing, asshole. Okay, he had a disease—that was the alcohol—but recovering from assholeism might take some work, too. He was being given a second chance. He’d go save Amy from whatever was going on, and maybe in the process he’d earn her forgiveness for that horrible night in Santa Barbara.

In the elevator, he punched the button for the lobby then slammed first one and then the other arm into his wool coat. His fingers finding the gloves in his pocket, he wished he had done more than entertain the thought of a scarf.

Chapter Fifteen

Barely allowing Fred to get the doors open, Eric mumbled thanks, trying to be friendly and acknowledge the doorman’s remarks about the weather, but once outside the second door he realized how tremendous the storm had become in the hour spent upstairs.

His concern about waiting on a taxi was short-lived as a car pulled around the corner and hugged the curb on approach to the apartment complex. Yanking open the door, Eric jumped in and barked his destination, then recognized immediately that the startled driver could just as easily throw him out as complete a fare.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “Didn’t mean to shout that request. West 25th and 10th, and it’s kind of an emergency.”

The driver, head wrapped in a Pagri, turned simultaneously to glance at Eric over his shoulder while slapping the switch on the meter. “Is someone ill?”

“Frozen is more like it.” He sat back, knowing he couldn’t put his foot on the gas pedal, but seeing the snow flurries swirl, settle and then swirl again with each gust of wind, he just wanted to get there. “Wet, frozen and alone.”

“Oh, well, that’s no good then. We must hurry as you say.”

“With caution, if that’s possible,” Eric added. “We won’t do this young woman much good if you and I are in a wreck.”

“No, of course not,” the driver said, putting the car in gear. “But we can be cautious and go lickety-split also, you shall see.” A grin, and then the man was all business, looking over his opposite shoulder as he pulled away from the curb.

There was no point in trying to read the name on the license clipped to the visor; the interior of the car was dark now, and besides it was probably a long Indian name that Eric would butcher anyway. “I’m Eric Peterson, and you are?”

“It’s most unusual that you should introduce yourself, but okay, I’m Ramesh”—a wave of his right hand as he finished—“lots of things in the middle, Singh.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ramesh.” Eric studied the storm, his driver, trying to be patient.

“Is the fair maiden we are rescuing friend or foe, Mr. Eric?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. I’m certain of one thing, though…”

“The damsel is in distress.”

“Indeed.”

Eric wasn’t sure how much time passed, he’d been semi-mesmerized clicking blocks off in his head despite the horrible visibility, when Ramesh cleared his throat.

“It’s not a good thing to be—in distress, I mean. Perhaps rescuing her will help with whatever is wrong between the two of you?”

“Well, I…” Was the entire planet psychic? Or was he just too damned readable? “Maybe. I hope so.”

“Me too, Mr. Eric. For your sake, I hope so too. But it’s Christmas. This is the time of year for hope to spring eternal, as they say.”

“Not ‘they.’ Alexander Pope, actually.” Eric recalled his freshman year. “‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’ I don’t remember the rest, I’m afraid.”

“May I?” The cabbie glanced back then refocused on the street before him. “‘Man never is, but always to be blessed; the soul uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.’”

“You are an educated man, Ramesh?”

“Perhaps in another life, not so much here. Ah, I think I spy your fair damsel.” He slowed while passing a building lit like a Christmas tree behind windows, revelers within.

The ride had either taken forever or been supersonic, Eric wasn’t sure. Through the snow he caught a glimpse of the storyboard at the entrance:

PRIVATE SHOW—

FEATURING THE PAINTINGS OF CASSANDRA GRAINGER

Shit. The things Amy had divulged to him that night came tumbling back, whirling in his mind like the sideways sleet and snow outside the cab’s windows. She’d been rejected by her sister. And for the ten years since she left what must have been a dark and unhappy household, she had tried. She’d written, called, been hung up on, snubbed, rebuked, chastised by Cass and her other two siblings. He remembered asking her about the ornaments on the tree: clear glass globes with numbers, one for each year she’d wished for her family back. She’d been brokenhearted ten times if he didn’t count the anguish she’d faced from years nine to seventeen.

Most of her life Amy Grainger had believed it was her fault; that she’d killed her mother. And why wouldn’t she? Cassandra, her sister, had belittled, accused, and ignored her for years before Amy fled. Glancing again at the big sign of artistic success, Eric wanted to smash it. It stood there, a heartless sentry against a sister’s heart.

Go.

She was huddled in the snow, needed help— Needs me. He shelved the resentment that wasn’t his to harbor. Unclicking his seatbelt, hurrying to button his coat, Eric was stunned by a feeling he couldn’t recall having in…ever. His heart ached. It actually ached. Not for him, either. It ached for Amy.

Stashing his analysis, Eric jumped from the cab. “Ramesh, crank the heater up as hot as you can make it.” He slammed the door, yelling the rest through the slightly open front passenger window. “I’m coming right back with Amy.”

Slumped against a stucco wall, hunkered down between a dumpster and some scaffolding erected probably to work on the façade, she’d found a small slice of shelter from the howling wind. He ran to her.

“Amy!” Her eyes fluttered open. “Amy, come on. I’m taking you home.”

“I’m”—chattering teeth clipped her words—“not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes, darling, yes, actually you are. You are going to make it to that nice warm cab right over there and we’re—Ramesh and I—going to get you home to a warm shower, hot chocolate and…” Good Lord, what did he have in his refrigerator? Oh, right. His choice to get healthy had paid off quickly. This afternoon he’d picked up cheese, yogurt and some apples from the deli on the corner, all part of his planned transformation from careless party boy to the new, theoretically improved I-want-to-live persona, though he hadn’t taken to the plan as dramatically as Hayward had in the movie. “I’ll get you something decent to eat, or did you have enough of those catered canapés and champagne?”

“You’re still an asshole.”

Oh. Maybe he should lose his penchant for thinking in obscure one-line film references. “I am, Ms. Grainger, a perfect asshole.”

“See?” She shivered but let him pull her up from the frozen cement wall. “You’re still convinced you’re perfect, and what’s with the darling”—burp—“bullshit?”

“No, I’m not,” he said, almost laughing. “I’m nowhere near perfect. But—”

“There’s no buts about it, Mr. Perfect. You’re perfect and I’m a bony schoolmarm.”

He’d have to figure out that statement later.

“Amy, you’ve been drinking. Where’d you get a drink?”

“From a non-asshole.”

He took her under her arms and stood her upright, still out of the worst of the wind. “And your purse, your cell phone?”

She patted her parka pocket. “Phone’s here. Right here. You’re…not Mr. Willis.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, surveying her. “Shit, Amy. You’re all wet.”

“I called Mr. Willis. You are so not invited to my soiree. And I have NOT been drinking.” She tilted a little, so he propped her up again, right about the time Ramesh came running from the other side of the cab.

“Let me help you, Mr. Eric.” The man yelled over a gust, surprisingly agile for what Eric had pegged as sixty-something.

“Oooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Spinning away from Eric, Amy fell on her ass in a small snowbank. “Fu…dgsicle.”

Flashes of the night in her apartment flooded Eric’s newly cleared head, flashes previously forgotten. The girl shivering in a snow bank had somehow managed to get him from the couch to her bed. Ms. Amy Grainger had stripped down to a slip, hair unleashed, candlelight… She’d wanted him, and with his memory returning he recalled part of what happened. She’d offered, and he’d rejected. And not just once.

He’d rejected her first advance in the living room before vomiting on her new couch. Now he recalled her second offer. He couldn’t get it up, so he’d been cruel. He’d called her bony—but not schoolmarm. At least, he didn’t think so.

“I don’t know why you would ever forgive me, Amy. But I would really, really like you to try.”

“Why, Mr. P.?” She peered up from her restful snow-pose, her nose bright red, her eyes glossed over just a bit, but she was in there somewhere. Then, giggling: “Mr. Peeeeee…” She trailed off into a fit of laughter.

“Eric, we can’t be sure how much she had to drink, but it’s wicked out here,” said Ramesh. “How long have you been out here, Ms. Amy?”

“Do I know you?” She squinted her eyes at the driver, waving uselessly at the snowfall to clear her vision. “It doesn’t matter. You’re nice. Nowhere near asshole.”

“Whatever else, we have to get her warm,” Ramesh said. Reaching Amy, the man tugged off one glove and expertly squeezed her wrist. “Her pulse is strong, so maybe no hospital.”

Eric didn’t question the statement or the science behind it. But, he’d been right about the driver’s past, about him being educated. A doctor maybe?

“A nice man came out of the party…,” Amy was saying. It was too dark to see the subtle hue of her gaze, the color he had chased from his dreams for a week; her irises now reflected the gallery lights, the streetlamp and the cab’s headlights. But watching Ramesh speak to Amy quietly made Eric ever more certain of his future sobriety.

“He…urp…said he was sorry for Cass’s behavior, that she was really”—hiccup—“a nice person, which, truth be told”—one finger went up, but then her arm crashed back into the snow bank, “is a giant cargo hold full of horseshit.” Amy gave a crooked smile. “But he brought me a big plastic cup of red”—she searched for the word, her expression frustrated—“wine. Yeah…yes. Red wine.” She burped. “And a cheese puff.”

Eric had joined Ramesh at her side. Squatting down to lift Amy up, he felt her hand brush his cheek. The touch—no, she—ignited a heat in him that was impossible to deny. Why had he been so stupid? Why had he wasted any time denying how he’d begun to feel, no, how he felt about her?

“Imagine that, Mr. P. He came all that way…” She hiccupped, her arm sweeping in the direction of the gallery. “From that nice party and brought”—hiccup—“me…” Tears. They started down her cheeks and froze there. “A cheese puff.”

“Baby, come on. Let’s get you up again. Now. It’s below thirty degrees out here.”

“I’m not your baby, buster, and where did you come from? I didn’t”—hiccup—“call you.”

“I was at Jake and Lizzie’s. I went to see the new baby.”

“A baby?”

“Yes, sweetheart, a baby.”

“Adorable.”

“Amy.”

“Don’t even think about buttering”—hiccup—“me up. I’m not adorable at all. The baby is.”

“Don’t let her fall asleep, Eric.” Ramesh, now stationed behind her, put his hands under Amy’s armpits and yanked her unceremoniously from the cold ground. “Amy?” he said, spinning her; then he slapped her cheek.

“Owwwww.”

“Ow is right, missy, it’s almost Christmas Eve, I’m turning into an iceberg, and whoever those people in that gallery are…” He nodded toward the glass-fronted building. “They mean nothing. They are not even worthy to be the beetles under cattle dung.”

Eric almost burst out laughing, but Ramesh was all business, all medical-like.

The cabbie slapped Amy’s other cheek. “Now! Wake up and stay awake, Ms. Amy.” He was saying this even as he settled her into Eric’s open arms.

She weighed nothing, not really, and seeing himself in the building windows carrying her rattled him. Clutching her against his chest, he picked up his pace. This close, her non-stop shivers vibrated against him. “Sweet Jesus, Amy…”

“He is sweet. He’s very sweet. At least God gets me.”

Pieces started to fall into place, an understanding of what made her tick. How could any of them—not the least of whom, her horrible siblings—have missed who she was, the price she’d paid for wanting a perfect relief map of the State of California when she was nine? The price she’d paid for not yet understanding her mother and father never went out at night because they both drank, that her mother was an alcoholic and might have killed Amy too, except she’d somehow managed to buckle her in. Stealing a second to study the raging party, he pegged the confident figure holding court and brandishing her champagne glass as Cassandra Grainger. Amy had been right; her sister was beautiful and talented. All the things the girl he was now carrying in a snowstorm thought she wasn’t. But she was wrong, and Eric intended to prove it.

This analysis rushed him across a distance that now seemed twice as long, the storm’s intensity building, but he kept concentrating on the task of saving Amy and that spurred him the last few feet. Wrestling her near dead weight into the cab made her seem less fragile than she’d appeared when lying in the snow, but that didn’t fool him. She was broken.

So was he.

And I am in love with her. He was no longer terrified at the realization.

“Let’s go, Ramesh,” he said, staring once more at Cass Grainger, her shoulders back, a champagne flute in one hand, giggling and soaking up compliments. “I’ll deal with that bit—”

“Yes, Mr. Eric,” the driver said. “We may both get the opportunity to speak with her.” Then he raced around to the driver’s side.

Eric was tugging on the door handle as Ramesh pulled away from the scene. The heater blasted away in the cab and helped blot out the noise of the storm—Blizzard is more like it—but it was hot, Hell hot. Shedding his coat he focused on Amy, tugging off her useless parka, yanking her sweater over her mop of hair, surprised when her only protests were a burp or two and the hiccups. Then he slid her arms one by one into his coat, wrapped it up tight and began rubbing her shoulders, her back.

“Mr. Eric.”

Looking up at his new friend, for Eric had little doubt he and Ramesh would meet again, he accepted a heavy dark thermos.

“Coffee. Black. Hot. You had better blow on it first.”

“Thanks, friend.”

The taxi shook in a gust of wind. “I hope you mean that, Mr. Eric.”

Amy sighed, snuggling up and trying to become a part of his right side. Eric said, “You’ll see me again, Mr. Singh. Maybe we’ll visit a gallery together.”

The cabbie chuckled, and then like old St. Nick he set about his task without another word. He navigated puddles, potholes, and seemed to coax red lights to green at every intersection.

Eric gave him the address to his apartment. There was no way he was taking Amy to her hotel or Jake’s. Oh, the Willises would be kind, helpful, any number of things, but they would also interrupt his plans. He had a mission tonight, and that mission was in his arms, still shaking but snoring lightly, her breathing less shallow, her chest rising and falling evenly. Watching, he made a vow he would earn her forgiveness—and hopefully, somewhere in there, her love.

Chapter Sixteen

He prodded her, cajoled her, and rubbed Amy’s shoulders all the way to his place. There, unceremoniously, absent what should have been an honest male reaction, he managed to prop her up in his walk-in shower. The endeavor involved his getting wet, so he stripped down to boxer shorts. It wasn’t easy, especially divesting her of the soaked jeans, and she kicked him twice.

He would have reacted to her—Amy was truly beautiful, and it astounded him she didn’t know it—but her survival forced his hand. He simply pretended he was an EMT or something, and followed the parting advice of Mr. Singh.

Five minutes in, revived and warm, she turned feisty enough that she batted him away with an, “I’m fine,” so he left her to stand under the hot water until every pore opened, warmed, and the chill that had settled in her bones was banished. Going into his bedroom, he hung the only things he had that might work for clothing for her on a hook: an old spa robe, a wife-beater t-shirt he’d never worn, and a pair of flannel boxers that came equipped with a drawstring. The last two had been gifts from Sally. Wrong gifts.

While Amy endeavored to become a warm prune, he changed out of his soaked underwear into apartment casual. Smiling, he dared to look in the mirror, at a long-sleeved flannel shirt, jeans and socks. Yeah, he looked okay.

Amy emerged around the corner from the hallway, wobbling her way to the kitchen chair he pulled back. He noticed that she’d graced her feet with his Ugg slippers. If anything would warm her from the inside out, it would be those damn things. Personally he experienced claustrophobia when he wore them longer than it took to get the newspaper from the corner.

Once she was settled, a little bit queen bee-ish, he placed a cup of chocolate in front of her, warning her that it was hot.

“No marshmallows.”

“I only have the chocolate sauce and milk on hand this time of year because Sammy comes one night to watch the Grinch, which we sing aloud to at the tops of our lungs.” He paused to see if Amy would heed his warning, which she did; she didn’t reach for the mug right away. “Sometimes she comes one or two other times, if Jake or Liz need a sitter while they wrap or shop for Christmas.”

“Sammy.” A frown settled on Amy’s freckled face, and Eric hoped her reaction was a touch of jealousy.

“Samantha Willis. Jake and Lizzie’s dau—”

“Sam’s gift.”

“Yeah, well, I’m never sure. Frankly I believe Lizzie is the true gift, Sam is the legacy.” He’d been mulling the phrase over for quite some time. “But how’d you know that?”

“Jake—I mean, Mr. Willis—shared it with me. What a tragedy! But one with a silver lining, or happy ending. However you want to look at it. I believe that shared confidence was part of a clever ruse to get me out here to New York for Christmas. ”

“Back east.”

“What?”

“‘Out to New York’ is a little incorrect. Usually it’s out to California.”

“Oh.” She stared at her cup. “You’re probably right. I’ll never be a New Yorker.”

“You might surprise yourself,” he found himself saying. But, could she? Would Amy consider living here instead of the west coast, the place she’d lived all her life?

“Hell,” he said, “if he told you about his first wife you can definitely call him Jake.”

“But I think I should still call you Mr. Perfect.”

“I thought you were sobering up…,” he muttered—and then he saw it, the spark in her eye. She was teasing him. “Shit, Amy, you had me there for a second.”

“Maybe I’d like to have you there for a long time, Mr. P.”

Trying to figure out her thoughts was making Eric about as crazy as he’d ever been. “You mean, getting my goat? A little good old-fashioned retribution?”

“Not so much. I leave the eye-for-an-eye stuff to the man upstairs.”

“So…” He studied his hands, curious as to why it wasn’t making him nuts not to be holding a drink during this conversation. “I can’t tell. Are you still mad at me for Santa Barbara?”

“Was I ever mad at you?”

“Damn, Amy, this is another one of those crazy conversations. Do you ever have normal ones?”

“Decidedly yes. With myself, and with my students.”

That quirky grin was back. It settled and forced dimples from hiding, but also an askance shift of her eyes, making her even harder to read. So Eric asked, “Do you remember that night, when I asked if we could start over?”

“I’m sort of amazed you remember anything about that night.”

“I deserved that,” he said, searching her gaze for some hint of her feelings. He didn’t see contempt, happily. He saw a beautiful, vulnerable, girl.

“No, you didn’t,” she replied. “I’ve been angry about a lot of things for a very long time. I’m quick to judge, especially where alcohol is involved, and ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas, turns out I’ve no right to do that.”

“Yeah, you do. You did with me. I…” He wanted to open up to her, wanted to share every part of him that hurt, that needed fixing, that wanted to do the right thing for the rest of his life. He couldn’t quite get the words out.

“Maybe we’re both a little broken, Eric.” A tear slid down one cheek, and Amy tried to brush it away as unseen.

“A little?” He was never washing that bathrobe again—which was easy enough; it hung in the closet three hundred and sixty-five days a year. He wanted Amy to wear it, to cry and laugh and watch ridiculous monster movies on TV in it. He wanted to make love to her in it. Heartsick, stupid in love? He was pretty much ready to announce it to the world.

Without hesitation and ignoring his earlier warning, Amy now took a big swallow of the steamy drink he’d given her, blanched and snorted hot chocolate from her nose. Eric didn’t mean to laugh, but it couldn’t be helped.

“You shit. I burned my nostrils,” she complained, laughing with him. “Now they’ll never flare like an artist’s. And my tongue? Yikes.”

“Amy Grainger, you are one funny girl.”

“So they say, Mr. Peterson. So they say.”

Maybe it was inappropriate, but he had to know, “Will you sign?”

Her face darkened, her lids lowered, and Eric felt so many forms of panic he wanted to suck the question back out of the air. He wanted to work with her on this project, with all of her projects in the future, to see her genius grow and—

“Of course.” Wiping chocolate from her upper lip, she said, “I would have pulled the signed contract from my dresser drawer that first night, but then you yacked all over my new sofa and…” She gave a shrug, her watery eyes glistening.

He wanted to crush her with kisses, but first he had to set something straight. “I didn’t reject you because I didn’t want you, baby.”

“Don’t go calling me baby,” she replied. The words seemed laced with a touch of disdain.

He plowed forward anyway. “I made a lot of excuses in my head. I was still making them this evening when Sammy thought I was going to die because I got bit by a bug.”

“A spider?”

“You.”

“I’m confused.”

“You should be. I’m still chewing on it myself. Jake told Sammy my heart had been bitten by a bug, that I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“And the bug?”

“It’s you, Amy. You know, in a literary family they can never seem to get away from metaphors. This is a metaphor for—”

This time when she choked on the warm milk it spewed in his direction, spattering his clean shirt. “Oops.”

“You see? And that’s what I was trying to get to.”

“What, me evening the score by spitting hot chocolate all over your shirt?”

“No.” He pushed his chair back and sat up straight. “By starting fresh, starting over.”

“Oh…” She swayed a little in her chair.

“Are you okay?” He jumped up, taking the cup from her. “You look a little funny.”

“I think a crab-stuffed cheese puff, cabernet and hot chocolate might not be a good combination,” she replied. Her face was definitely turning green. “Uh-oh.”

Superman wouldn’t have been quick enough, though Eric tried to get the hot chocolate pan from the sink under her face before she—

Too late.

“Okay, Amy, let’s get you back to the bathroom.”

She just nodded and let him lead her there.

He hurriedly cleaned up Ralph #1, later titled as such because it was only the beginning. Sitting beside Amy on the blessedly heated floor next to the toilet, for over an hour he held hair back from her face each time she puked. The reversal of fortune—that this time it was Amy that, to borrow her phrase, continued to “lose her cookies”—was not lost on him.

Something told him that this wasn’t just a bad crab puff. It was more likely the glass of wine that nice “non-asshole” had delivered. It probably hadn’t been one “glass,” but more likely one of those sixteen-ounce cups set aside for people that like to sit outside. And in his gut Eric couldn’t help feeling that it had been done on purpose. It gave him fits of being totally pissed off, after which he got chills thinking about the consequences if Amy hadn’t called.

Eric used the time to study her form, from her hairline to her shoulders, her noises, the little bumps that followed the spine from neck to her bottom, showing through the flimsy t-shirt because she’d tossed the robe aside sometime after round three. Once or twice he let her have an ice chip, two tops, to help rid the taste of vomit, and placed cold washrags against her forehead knowing he would stay for ten hours if that’s what it took.

Finally—done, exhausted, nothing left in her that wanted out—she simply laid down on the floor with her head on his knee, repeating, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

For a long time, he wasn’t sure of how long exactly, he simply ran two fingers back and forth along the top of one shoulder.

“Well, that was fun.” Weak but determined, just like that, Amy stood and splashed cold water on her face. Spying his mouthwash, she gargled over his protests.

It was a close call, but she swallowed her resultant gag and with a simple “Now what?” She would have wilted back to the floor, except Eric caught her and carried her to his bed. Uggs off, he swung her feet under the covers and set her against several pillows, hoping the position would stave off any returning nausea. In seconds, exhaustion won. He would have worried, remembering Ramesh’s words, but her breathing was steady. God knew there couldn’t be any alcohol left in her stomach, and it had been over six hours from her phone call to this current rhythmic inhale and exhale beneath the covers in my bed.

He loved her. Hell, he’d tie her in a bow and accept the gift of Amy Grainger any day, except she had to love him back first. Tomorrow.

The numerals flipped on the clock on the nightstand. 2:35 a.m. Christmas Eve Day. So it was tomorrow. They’d start over when she was awake.

Shit. He’d miss his one-week chip ceremony at 6:30 a.m. He needed a meeting, too; so new to abstinence, the risk was too great to go without. There’d be a meeting somewhere else at noon, he supposed, somewhere else at 5 p.m. He had the list.

Brushing her hair back against the pillow, he spoke the words he had only learned to say this week. “Hello, Amy. My name is Eric and I’m an alcoholic.”

Maybe she was dreaming, he wasn’t sure, but her fingers stretched out and squeezed his left hand. Then, with a closed-eyed smile that he took as a good thing, she started snoring.

With that reassurance, Eric laid down beside her, certain he’d watch her for another few hours, but he gave in much quicker and drifted off.

Chapter Seventeen

She’d slept through the night, she saw. And she wasn’t cold anymore.

“Oh, good. I died. Sa-weeeet.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She sat bolt upright, noticing her near nakedness. “Shit, where am—?”

“Here. With me.”

She slammed back against the pillows, looking around at a giant bed with space on either side of it, a giant bed with a down—real down—comforter and sheets that felt like butter, not silk. Eric Peterson was in the bed next to her. “Egyptian cotton, right?”

“You are one strange girl, Ms. Grain—”

“Amy,” she corrected, and heat raced from her neck to her hairline. The truth was, he could call her whatever he wanted as long as this was real. But, she hadn’t slept with him, had she? No, she knew that much, though she remembered little else.

“You scared the bejesus out of me—us—last night.”

“Us?”

“Jake, Lizzie, even Ramesh.” Eric’s eyes were intense, and she felt naked. Oh, she half was.

“Oh, God.” Covering her eyes with one forearm and using it as an excuse to sniff an armpit she said, “Mr. Willis. I called him, hysterical.”

“So he says. I wasn’t on the receiving end of the call.”

“Thank you, Jesus.”

“I’ve been elevated above Mr. Perfect then?”

Amy swallowed a chuckle, trying to get her bearings, trying to recall how she’d come to be in one Mr. Eric Peterson’s bed. “No. I would have hung up if you’d answered.” Peeking from beneath her arm, she looked for some evidence of her fairy godmother.

“Rats,” Eric said. “I was certain I was”—he held up a thumb and index finger barely an inch apart—“this close to sainthood.”

“You might be, but that’s not my call.” It was difficult to read him from her limited view; still, she left her arm where it was.

“If you had the power, Ms. Grainger, hypothetically speaking—”

“Okay, strictly hypothetically?” she interrupted, curiosity forcing the temporary shield from her eyes. I’ll humor you, Mr. P. But what all had she done last night? Her hand glanced his thigh, and though still mostly covered with blanket and sheets, the contact burned her fingers. Gulp.

“If you could make someone a saint, would you?”

“Good heavens, no.” What little courage she had took hold. Shifting, she too lay on her side, bravely meeting his gaze. “Why would I saddle anyone with such a heavy burden?”

“Well, you seem to feel Cassandra’s a saint.”

Tears—dammit, unstoppable, first one, then two—escaped, sliding down her cheek. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You nearly killed yourself last night to see her, to be forgiven, but you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His thumb swiped away the moisture on her cheek even as her eyes riveted on the shape of his hand, even as goose bumps volunteered for duty along her arms. A jillion hungover nerve endings tingled—no, sparked—thousands of miniature tongues of fire tripping over every inch of her skin. An involuntary moan slipped out, which was only met by his lascivious grin.

Studying the hemstitched border of the sheet, she wanted to explain, wanted to reply to his blunt assessment of her behavior. “What I did…” How did one explain a whole life gone wrong? “Every Christmas since I left…” She felt the blush return to her cheeks. “I told you this already, but I can’t imagine you remember.”

“But I do. Because when you told me, if I recall, I was still upright—mostly—despite being on my way to inhaling a gallon of cheap white wine.”

“Chardonnay.”

“I stand,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat, “corrected.”

“Who’s Ramesh?”

“Our cab driver.”

“Oh, double God.” She shut her eyes, knowing full well it wouldn’t erase the last fifteen hours of insanity. “Did he slap me?” But she knew the answer; her cheek stung at the memory. Maybe it had been Ramesh who put her in the skimpy t-shirt, removing all but her lace underpants. Somehow she doubted that.

“I remember your wish, Amy. I remember the clear glass balls with nail polish numbers, one for each year you tried to reunite your family at Christmas, one for each year that it didn’t happen. I’m sorry I got so…blotto.”

He spoke of her pain with reverence, and with his apology whatever hurt and anger she’d felt at his rejection flew out of her head, just sailed off like the pods of a fat dandelion bending beneath a breeze. He didn’t need forgiveness; he needed understanding. For the first time in her life Amy had stood inside drunk and stupid. It had graced her with confidence, briefly, allowed her to behave ridiculously and even to fall uncaring on her ass in the snow. While it was nothing she wanted to repeat, she saw that very few people would do that to themselves on purpose.

Ugh. “I must have been quite a spectacle,” she realized. And, shit. “I lost my cookies, didn’t I?”

“I lost count.”

“You were there?”

“Same bathroom floor.”

He wasn’t lying. Sensations pummeled her: a wet cloth, a strong warm hand on the back of her neck. “Was I at least entertaining?”

What else had she forgotten? Worse, what else had she done? Her thinking cap failed, but why wouldn’t it? The man barely a foot from her, prone in a bed, prone in his bed, was absurdly gorgeous. She’d been thinking about him for so long.

“You’re thinking about changing the subject from last night,” he accused.

That Eric was insightful might have ticked her off, except…“Am I?” she asked. “Not really. Not if you accept that we are talking about you.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “But the subject of me is a bit tangled up with the subject of you at the moment. You didn’t take any of my calls, not one.”

“I…” Emotion welled in her despite having successfully tamped it down seconds earlier. “I couldn’t.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

His directness didn’t fail, but she didn’t remember his eyes ever being so intent, so focused.

“Amy, I wanted to start—”

“Over?” Her barked response was harsher than intended, but she couldn’t take it back; nobody could take things back, not really. A done thing was just that.

He looked like a small boy, one who’d been caught doing something forbidden. “Well, yes.”

“Would it make a difference?” she asked.

“I hoped so.”

“You said I didn’t need forgiveness. Neither do you, Eric. People just do stupid shitty things sometimes.”

“What did you really do to be this hard on yourself?”

She gave a snort, not meaning to be derisive. “That’s simple. I killed my mom.”

Silence. She could romanticize it, but it was in fact a pretty big turnoff. She studied the top of Eric’s head, liked the few tiny flecks of gray in his hair, her fingers twitching with an impulse to ruffle it.

“Maybe you should look at it a different way,” he finally said.

“How? She was only out that night because of me.” This time emotion didn’t put the brakes on at tear one, didn’t cease at tear two or even three. This time water pooled then spilled over Amy’s cheeks and rushed everywhere. “Me.” A sob wracked her. “Me and that stupid California relief map project.”

“You should blame Ms. Spagowski.”

A hoot of laughter escaped Amy despite her despair. “You remembered her name?”

“Like I said, I remember it all.”

She must have made a face, because his expression turned even more serious. “Once I accepted that I wanted to remember it, back it came. All of it.”

“All of it?” She didn’t want to put any stake in the answer, but in ten minutes of conversation, of lying next to him, of realizing every cell in her body was geared toward needing him, being needed by him, Amy was alternately petrified and overjoyed that he remembered the time spent with her. She didn’t need his apology and the magnitude of humility that necessarily accompanied his recitation of wrong doing deserved her patience. Her pride wasn’t worthy of penitence from anyone.

“Yeah, even the part where I turned down your advances,” he said, worry settling as furrows above his eyebrows. Yet, he was so handsome, with a day’s growth of scrapable beard, thick hair rumpled, strong shoulders and enough of his torso showing that a spatter of dark curly hairs teased from his chest. “Both times.”

“I was almost hoping you didn’t remember that.”

“Not making love to you that night was a good thing, Amy. Not only was it physically impossible for me, there’d be no chance for us now if I had.”

A chance for us…? He’d best be careful or she was going to sprout wings and start flapping around the room like some tripped-out angel.

“What floor are we on?” she asked.

Not seeming to mind her non-sequitur he said, “Twenty-three, why?”

“We’re practically in the clouds.”

“Like I said, you are an odd duck, but you can’t segue yourself out of this discussion.”

“Which discussion is that?”

“You didn’t kill your mom. She must have been totally ripped when you begged her to take you out—for what, some poster board and rubber cement? That isn’t something you would be capable of spotting, not then, not when your father helped her cover up the problem.”

“Other kids get it,” Amy said. “They see it. Why didn’t I? I never should have even mentioned the project. If I’d just let it go, accepted an F, I still would have passed fourth grade.” She croaked out the words, “I’d still have my mom. I’d still have my family, Eric.”

Somewhere beneath that raw admission Amy sought an excuse for a lifetime of regrets, wanting to yank the albatross from inside her head, using him to do so. She couldn’t blame this need on the night before, although she’d never known a hangover came with extras like heated seats in a higher-end car model, like all her nerves seeming attenuated to his touch; and hot, she was hot. Amy’s logical brain was losing ground to the ache between her thighs, the sensation of liquid heat. Worse, her body was offering to betray her again, choosing Eric over the old standby of self-preservation.

“That stuff you crammed down, the real feelings, the rock-bottom emptiness shit,” Eric said. “That stuff will end up killing you, sweetheart, or leading you to something that will. It’s in your writing, but you don’t need that pain to be brilliant. It’s part of you, not all of you.” He paused then, seemed to wait for her to throw up a stop sign.

“Go on,” she said. She could do this, could hear him out.

He continued. “Maybe if your mom hadn’t died that night things would be different, but I doubt it. She was on self-destruct, and your dad couldn’t have been far behind. My guess would be he felt so guilty about not being the one to take you to the store, he quit drinking for a while.”

There was nothing to say. Eric was right. A-plus right.

“But the sobriety didn’t last. It couldn’t. Not if he was drinking to kill the pain and he couldn’t admit…”

Eric trailed off, but Amy was surprised by the astute way he’d pegged her family and her childhood. “When did you become an expert on the lives and times of alcoholics and their families?”

Reaching out, Eric pushed a chunk of loose hair behind her left ear. “The minute I accepted I am one.”

Electrifying. Stop it. Stop it right this instant, Mr. Peterson. You are my editor. I signed, so now you have what you want…

“You don’t have to torture me,” she said.

“But, don’t you see?” he asked, again swiping an errant tear from her cheek. “I do.”

Her reaction to him would be no less obvious even if her nipples hadn’t chosen that moment to poke through the flimsy t-shirt, even if an involuntary shiver hadn’t raced beneath her derma accompanied by a whispered moan. His finger slid from her cheek to her jaw, traveled the trail of her jugular and came to a stop above her right breast.

“You cold?”

Guttural, his voice vibrated beneath the surface of her skin, and he knew damn well she was anything but. Speaking was not an option, and she didn’t think she was up to miracles. But, being in Eric’s life would be the miracle. Oh, she’d thought about it, fantasized for a week about a moment like this, but then she’d crossed it from the list. It wasn’t possible.

But I’m here. He’s here. He was in New York, ruggedly handsome if—counting on her fingers—eight years older. She was here, a waif, a sappy unhappy stick of a schoolteacher, totally messed up emotionally and—

“Stop putting yourself down,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Even in your head.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can read it in your face.”

“Listen, Mr. Peterson—”

“Eric.”

“No. Right this minute I need to stick with ‘Mr. Peterson.’” She sat up, crossing her legs Indian-style beneath the covers and said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, I’m hungover”—an admission she was none too proud to make—“and, well, I mean, what…? Well, what’s happening?”

“All of your life, at least since your mom died, what, eighteen years ago?”

She just nodded, biting her lip, which was a useless trick because her tears flowed free, not the least bit fooled by false bravery.

“All of your life you’ve been in a self-made hell, and ever since your dad was put in the home and you left, struck out on your own, you’ve been praying for this one thing, this one simple request of your God.”

“He’s your God, too, Eric.

“You can work on that, I promise, but hush for a minute.” Her face surely telegraphed a multitude of yes, buts, because he lifted the flat of his palm and said, “Please, baby, just listen, okay?”

Baby? She nodded a yes, wondering at the endearment, but it sounded sincere. His baby.

“All that time you’ve had one Christmas wish, right down to those solo decorations on your tree, all of it with the hope you could reunite your family; that they’d forgive you. But you didn’t do anything that needs forgiving. You didn’t make your mom drink. You didn’t make her decision to get behind the wheel when she no doubt knew somewhere in that inebriated brain that driving was idiocy. Hell, Amy, you almost died.” The idea of it seemed to shake him.

“And your siblings?” he continued. “They were old enough. Your sister… Margaret, right? She was, what, eighteen to your nine?”

Getting to his knees, apparently for emphasis, Eric moved and the covers fell away, revealing his sleep attire, which consisted of Santa-hat boxers. Amy swallowed a giggle, immediately chastising herself for finding something funny in the moment. “Yes,” she said, gripping her hands together, trying a prayer.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re laughing.”

“No.” She ducked her head, revisiting the perfect stitching on his sheets.

“You are so, laughing. Too much?”

“Not your passion for my wellbeing, no.”

“What then?”

“Your boxers.” Emotional rollercoaster: She’d heard the phrase, but it had meant nothing until this moment. “I just didn’t know Santa’s hat could be such a, such a…” She had no clue if teasing him right now was the right thing to do, but it felt like it was. “Turn on!”

Daring a direct connection, matching her gaze to his, Amy tumbled, spinning somewhere between elated and terrified, and she fell head over heels in love. Someone—Eric—was distraught at her unhappiness, at the grief she’d endured, at the loss she’d suffered, and he wasn’t angry or grinning. He was flawed but kind, brilliant and handsome…

“I know,” he said, lowering himself to the bed, serious again and unwilling to be distracted. “I know you’ve held your wish a long time, but I have a wish too.”

“You do?” she asked.

“I do.”

The return to solemnity, that seriousness of demeanor set against a muscled chest and a fit body attired in those Christmas-themed boxers was to die for. “Do tell,” she whispered, again unable to quash her smile.

He donned a new expression, slipping into mischievous, and reminiscent of an NFL tackle he was suddenly above Amy, leaving the unenviable choice of direct eye contact or a study of the high ceiling.

“I didn’t know you had a skylight.”

Braced on his elbows above her, though not really touching, if she didn’t count that his left knee was between her thighs, she sensed his intensity. “Look at me, Amy.”

“It’s snowing.”

No retort, just silence. She shifted her eyes, which was a mistake. A huge mistake. There was no way to dodge his nearness, there was no place to run. But she didn’t want to.

“My wish is your wish,” he said.

“Now you’re a genie?”

“Amy.”

“How do you figure?” she asked, melting, simmering, burning, craving. God, how many descriptive adverbs could she get to before he answered?

“Because my wish is to make your wish come true.”

“Oh. And you have a proposal to make that a reality, Mr. Peterson?”

“I do.”

“And it’s…?”

“Let me be your family, Amy. Let me be your wish.”

She took a single composing breath. Then: “You’ve been my wish from the moment I stumbled into that stupid restaurant you picked out.” His lips nuzzled her neck, but she didn’t stop. “From the second you annihilated me with your words. Wow, talk about a messed-up personality, though. Are you sure, Eric? Are you really sure?”

She didn’t want to doubt him, she wanted to believe. It was Christmas Eve. Things happened on this day; amazing things.

“Never in my life have I been so sure of something,” he said. His kiss was long, deliberate, and he tugged gently on her lower lip with his teeth. A thumb was circling her right breast—no her left; Lord, she had no clue—but every synapse in her brain was building bridges over any gaps and the nerves were rushing about, readying for something, something only the man who’d offered to be her family could provide.

“Eric… Mister…” She kissed his forehead, his ears. “Mr. Peterson.” She returned to his mouth, wrapping her legs around him and feeling how badly he wanted her—needed her—by the hardness pressed against her, and by the pleading look when she dared to open her eyes again. “Saint Eric…”

“Enough. You can,” he said, his voice so resonant it echoed the need expressed by his body, “saint me after I take you to Heaven and back.”

He made her laugh and cry and feel safe. He was making her feel things she’d never known existed. He’d slipped down her body, kissing, touching… Oh! Her fingers raked his hair, tugging below his ears, and she wanted him; no, she had no clue what she wanted, but what he was doing now was making her so insane that surrender was the only option.

“Eric,” she gasped, pulling on his hair, forcing him back up to her chest. “What are you doing to me?”

“Showing you what it’s like to be wanted.” Their bodies motionless, their eyes locked and she saw her future. Then he said, “I love you, Ms. Amy Grainger.”

She opened her mouth to voice another concern, but she simply couldn’t remember what it might be. So she said, “I love you too.”

It was so simple.

“Okay then. That’s settled.” His expression shifted into a sort of let-me-show-you mode, and he moved to go back to work. “Now, please shut up so we can get on with our Christmas present.”

She had no further objections. There was nothing more to do or say, so Amy Grainger stopped dreaming and wishing and began to live.

Epilogue

Christmas Eve, 2014

Jake and Liz Willis watched the crew in their living room from under the mistletoe hung in the hallway, at last back to Liz’s “Country Cottage.” They’d returned in June, just in time to throw a spring wedding in the backyard.

Sammy had made the most delightful flower girl, except of course for the occasional directive. Liz wasn’t entirely sure how she was going to handle her supremely confident and somewhat bossy four-year-old, but they’d figure it out. Nate, on the other hand, had been content with a bottle, a rattle and staring cross-eyed at a butterfly that landed on his nose.

Amy had barely showed that day, despite the lovely empire-waist wedding gown. Now she was as big as the box that housed Sam’s first trike, disguised beneath six rolls of wrapping paper and labeled, Special delivery from North Pole, didn’t fit in sleigh.

Raising an eyebrow, nudging her husband in the ribs, Liz whispered, “What do you suppose the story is behind that ornament?” She was watching Amy lumber from her chair to hang a clear glass ball with what appeared to be the number one painted in red nail polish on a center limb of the tree.

“No clue. I suspect we’ll get the details one day.”

“It probably doesn’t matter.”

“Probably not.”

She sighed and leaned against him, remembering the celebration just yesterday. Eric’s first year of sobriety. Milkshakes and French fries at the local breakfast house with Amy insisting on an outside table. At least they’d all been bundled up. And, although the waiter appeared to lose what Christmas spirit he might have had at such an absurd seating choice, the jovialness reemerged when Eric gave him a crisp one-hundred dollar bill and suggested—jokingly, of course—he go and un-Scrooge himself.

Resting against her husband, she rubbed her belly. Telling Jake about child number three had to wait until after all the Santa items were put together and safely under the tree. But Eric’s questions about Sam’s gift teased inside her head. He’d been sitting with her in the kitchen, helping by grating two pounds of four different cheeses for what was fast becoming their favorite on Christmas Eve, lasagna.

“You were early,” she’d noted.

He’d laughed. “No kidding. We are never late, anywhere, for anything.”

“I thought Amy had sort of a…” She thought for a moment. “Late thing.”

“Past tense,” Eric said. “I don’t know how it happened, but she doesn’t even keep all the clocks on different times anymore.”

“You happened, Eric.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, shoveling mounds of parmesan onto wax paper. Then he’d looked her in the eye. “Can I ask something? It’s kind of personal.”

Uncertainty seemed to tug at him, a new trait for the once cocky editor, so she’d quickly nodded a yes.

“I know about Jake’s first wife Sam and the South Tower, but when I ask him about what that gift is or was, he brushes me off. I mean, to me it seems like you’re Sam’s Gift, but then there’s Sammy…” His face remained a question mark.

“Hmm.” Liz wondered how to explain it: Fate, God, the living vs. the cost paid by those who died. “It’s simple and yet complex.”

“Right,” Eric said. “Jake’s words exactly, but then he drops the subject.”

“Because he’s moved on, Eric. Still, Sam’s dying was a horrible tragedy. It nearly destroyed him.”

Eric nodded.

Liz waited a few moments. Then she said, “But Sam’s death was also a gift.”

“I’m missing something, Lizzie.”

“No,” she disagreed, “you just have to think about it.” She reached for a sugar cookie and nibbled off Santa’s feet. “If Samantha Willis hadn’t died on 9/11, there’d be no Jake and me, there’d be no Sammy, there’d be no Nate and”—pausing to free the cookie of its head—“in reality…?” She dusted crumbs from her shirt into the sink. “There’d be no you and Amy.”

Her recollection of the conversation was suddenly cut short as her husband tugged on her chin with an index finger. “You can’t keep secrets from me, Lizzie.”

She glanced at him. “I don’t.”

“Liar.”

“Really, Jake!”

He kissed her, and his hand moved to her belly, eyes sparkling when their gazes locked, and she’d swear Santa incarnate had slipped into that deep blue she’d loved from that first meeting. Her book, his contract, that damnable broken Jimmy Chou heel….

“What?” she whispered.

“When were you going to tell me, Liz?”

“Tonight, when we were alone.”

“Wow, three?”

“Yes, darling, three. You’re an old man, are you up for it?”

“Not so old, you vixen,” he said. And his kiss confirmed everything she’d known in her heart for the last five years.

Sending a prayer out and above the rafters, up to the stars where she knew Sam would be, Liz thanked the woman as she did every day for the gift of Jake. There was good and bad in the world, but Sam’s gift, like their love, was and always would be a forever thing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A fourth-generation Californian with roots in (among other places) Ireland and Wales, Joan Bird is a daughter, sister and the fourth of six children, a black sheep, a musician and songwriter, a poet, a gardener, a lawyer, a woman of great faith and the mother to two stepdaughters and five grandchildren, gifts of the loud-in-a-good-way and loving husband whose jokes she vowed always to laugh at. She’s been writing since she was ten, not always successfully, married twice, not always successfully, but faith in something greater than herself keeps her looking forward, never back. Her philosophy? The past offers lessons. It may shape a person, but it’s the future that holds all the promises.

HER CHRISTMAS COWBOY

Adele Downs

For members of Adele Downs’s Convertible Crew Facebook street team.

You’re the best! Thank you for your enthusiasm and support.

HER CHRISTMAS COWBOY

Chapter Eighteen

“I never want to hear the word ‘but’ again!” Daisy said to Musket. “You did a great job, girl. No buts about it.”

She loosened the cinch that secured the saddle to make the horse more comfortable, planning to walk Musket the last half mile to the police stables at the edge of the city park while the mare cooled down. “At least our partnership is ending on a positive note,” she added, giving the horse an affectionate pat.

Musket had performed well during their chase and apprehension of a burglar in the business district. Fortunately, no shots were fired before backup was called and Daisy arrested the suspect, but her sergeant’s words during their morning meeting still rang in her ears. “We put you on notice weeks ago that Musket wasn’t meeting our standards of performance. We warned you this might happen. You and Musket are both good police, and we’re not blaming you, but…”

The quarter horse continued to underperform during crowd control and remained skittish around loud noises, so she was being sent to an expert for additional training. If the mare couldn’t adapt to the demands of police work, she’d be returned to her donor. The sergeant advised that a two-year-old thoroughbred mare had been promised to the department…but wouldn’t be ready for partner assignment until its training was done. Daisy would be relegated to desk duty over the Christmas holidays and into the New Year.

Not everyone—equine or human—was suited for mounted patrol. Daisy wondered sometimes if she and Musket were kindred spirits whose attachment was based on their fear of failure.

“I’m sorry I let you down.” Daisy placed a hand on Musket’s smooth neck while they strolled side by side on the park trail. The sound of her boots and clomp of the horse’s hoofs made a lively percussion that failed to lift her mood. “A more experienced rider might have helped you improve.”

Daisy knew better, but she couldn’t help feeling responsible for Musket’s lackluster performance. Though she was barely out of equestrian training herself, and in no position to teach, she understood the complexities of mounted police work. Despite being an experienced cop, she’d had to start over when she transferred from Pennsylvania to Texas to join the mounted patrol. The learning curve was greater than she’d anticipated, and some days she wondered if moving to Houston had been a mistake.

A mistake that might be rectified by the email she’d received two days earlier.

Daisy rubbed the folded printout of the message in her pocket like a worry stone. She’d read the invitation so many times she’d committed it to memory. A friend, who’d sympathized after her partner in her former unit was killed, knew of an opportunity in a department not far from the place she’d once called home. If she got the job, she could return to Pennsylvania and start fresh there. The offer was time sensitive, though, and she had to apply by the New Year.

How different her life might be if the opportunity had come months ago, before moving to the south! She’d never been further inland than Ohio, and the Texas landscape looked as foreign to her as the earth did to the moon. Only Treymont Woods, the sexy hard-bodied cowboy who’d helped restore her confidence after she’d almost fallen to pieces, seemed convinced she’d made the right choice by coming to Houston. The riding lessons she’d taken from him at Breezy Meadows Ranch had prepared her for the toughest police training of her life.

Falling in love with Trey had been the easy part. The blue-eyed, sandy-haired ranch hand had done something no man had ever done, on or off the force. He’d looked into her heart, identified the wound, and found a way to stem the bleeding.

Daisy’s step lightened with thoughts of Trey, and she relaxed in companionable silence with Musket until two young girls on sparkly purple bicycles rode up beside them.

“I like your Smokey the Bear hat,” the smaller girl said. She had a freckled nose, green eyes, and bright red hair, and she smiled, showing shiny braces.

Daisy smiled back. The girl could be her miniature.

“I want to be on horseback patrol someday, too, and wear a cool uniform like yours and carry a gun. I’m glad girls can join.”

Except for support staff, Daisy was the only female member of her unit, but she didn’t mention that. Time changed all things. “I bet you’ll be great.”

“Can we pet your horse?” the other girl asked. She looked taller than her friend, but just as lean, with long black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin.

“Sure,” Daisy said. The mounted police were trained to allow citizens access to their horses and barn, so she brought Musket to a halt while the girls parked their bikes. Musket flipped her ears and made contented chuffing sounds while the children hugged and petted her. Daisy’s heart sank at the reminder that she’d no longer have this gentle equine partner by the end of shift.

The girls finished oohing and aahing over the mare and returned to their bicycles. “Merry Christmas!” they shouted. They waved good-bye and rode away.

Daisy waved back and continued her trek to the barn. Christmas. With only a week to go, the holiday spirit had failed to find her. Houston was a nice place to live and work…but it still didn’t feel like home. Though the lampposts in the city park were wrapped with garlands, the trees were strung with twinkle lights, and the shops were draped with green and red, she longed for the crisp, cold air of a Pennsylvania winter. Hot chocolate by the fire after a day of skiing, warm gingerbread from the oven after building a snowman, or a simple walk around the park with snowflakes spinning through the air spelled Christmas. The temperate winds and Texas sunshine warming her cheeks couldn’t compete with old Jack Frost.

Her only Christmas bright spot was Trey.

But…she wasn’t sure he loved her back. They’d been dating since her summer riding lessons, and though their passion burned white hot, the biggest L word in the universe hadn’t come up. Daisy had bitten her tongue more than once to keep from saying it first. After her partner was killed, she was blamed and vilified until her emotions bled and she learned to hold tight to her surviving sliver of pride. Dignity was the guardian of shame—and all that she had left. Telling a man she loved him without knowing if he loved her too was an emotional risk she couldn’t take.

Daisy squared her shoulders. “I’m banning the word ‘but’ from my vocabulary.” She raised her face to the sun and submitted to its warmth before stepping inside. “We have to believe things will work out the way they should.”

She gave Musket an affectionate scratch behind the ears before removing the mare’s saddle, inspecting under her coat for bruises, and checking her hooves for stones or burrs. When she was satisfied, she brushed the animal from head to tail. Then she rested her cheek against Musket’s soft mane.

“Merry Christmas, my friend. Be happy.”

She guided the animal to the pasture behind the barn to graze. Musket turned her head and gave it a shake, as if returning a farewell wish before joining the other off-duty horses.

A lump formed in Daisy’s throat and heaviness surrounded her heart at their parting. Once again, she’d let down a partner who needed her.

Daisy swallowed, raised her chin, and made her way to her car past busy fellow officers without making eye contact. It wasn’t until she sat behind the wheel that she allowed her tears to fall.

Chapter Nineteen

Treymont Woods stripped off his shirt before nailing another porch rail into place. The muscles in his arms and torso flexed with the movements, reminding him how good it was to be whole again. Beads of perspiration trickled down the hollow between his pectorals, over his stomach, and along the hairline leading into his low-slung cutoffs. He wiped the moisture off his brow and chest and tossed the shirt aside. Hard work and the Texas sun could make a man sweat even in December.

Trey didn’t mind manual labor. He’d waited a long time as his rodeo injury healed to finish building his house. The porch was the crown that he would lay upon his home with his own two hands. He stepped back to check his work and admire his progress. Another two rails and a coat of stain and the place would be ready for Christmas.

He swept out an arm toward the coal-black stallion grazing nearby. “Whadaya think? Look good?”

Big Blue kept his head down and chomped another batch of clover.

Trey inhaled, lifted another board, and set it into place. Noontime sunshine glinted over the thoroughbred’s back, painting sapphire pools that never failed to take his breath. “Okay, be like that. See if you get sugar when my nieces ride you Christmas Day.”

He looked sideways at Big Blue and had to laugh when the horse looked up and snorted. “Thought so. Can’t deprive a horse of his sugar, especially on a holiday.”

He pressed the nail gun against the board and squeezed the trigger twice. Boom, boom. The nails slammed into place. His grey and black barn cat, Shady Lady, screeched at the sound and skittered past his feet. She circled and bumped his shins.

“Whoa, there, kitty! You’re gonna get hurt up here.” He lifted the chubby tabby and carried her down the steps and back to the barn for safekeeping. The cat mewled softly in his arms but didn’t resist.

Shady Lady would have to stay off the porch for another couple of days until the work was done. If he finished staining the wood within twenty-four hours, the porch would dry in time for his family’s holiday arrival. He’d invited his parents and grandmother, his brother and his children, a couple of guys from Breezy Meadows Ranch, and Daisy’s sister, Rose, to Christmas dinner. Rose was an Afghanistan war widow who had invited Daisy to move in with her when she joined the Houston Mounted Patrol. Trey would always be grateful for that.

Daisy. His Christmas guest of honor. Every time he thought about her, his insides did a crazy leap and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. Even rodeo couldn’t match the excitement he felt when she came near.

The beautiful cop had changed his life. He’d fractured his back in what would become the last rodeo of his life, and his future had looked uncertain. Then he taught her to ride, and Daisy made him feel more like a man than he ever had before. Her faith in him, and her acceptance, had hastened his recovery. It wasn’t long after he’d fallen for her that he returned to full duty as a ranch hand and was able to finish building his house.

The six acres he’d bought at the edge of Breezy Meadows Ranch with the money he’d earned, saved, and inherited from his grandfather had been divided into sections: One for his four bedroom, two-story house. Another for a barn with four stalls, and the rest for grazing. In time, he’d add a garden with flower and vegetable beds and build a chicken coop. He’d always known he’d raise a family here with plenty of room for his children to play. It was just a matter of finding the right wife—and of being the right husband for her.

Daisy. A forest green Jeep Wrangler approached, kicking up dust along the dirt road leading to his property. Trey put down his nail gun, pulled off his work gloves, and moved to the steps to greet the woman he’d know anywhere, even from a hundred yards.

She pulled into the lane leading to his house and parked next to his pickup. Trey watched her long legs step from the vehicle and eyed the curve of her hips, the cinch of her waist, and the press of her breasts against the blue fabric of her uniform. His gaze lingered on the exposed flesh above the top button of her blouse and then rested on her lovely, freckled face. How many times had he kissed that determined chin? That luscious full mouth? That adorable nose?

He could hardly count the times he’d held Daisy in his arms and brushed her cheek with his or stared into those expressive green eyes that had captured his heart bit by bit until it was completely hers. And yet, though he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything, including this house or a return to his old way of life in the rodeo, he’d never told Daisy he loved her.

Once he said the words, there was no taking them back. For him, love and commitment meant “forever,” and the single thing that prevented him from taking that leap…was Daisy. Fear and indecision flashed in her eyes whenever she talked about staying in Texas. He’d seen that look a thousand times in the horses he’d trained, just before they bolted.

Daisy’s adjustment to Southern life and the mounted police had been spotty at best. Her unsuccessful pairing with Musket had only added to her misery. Even if she loved him too, he couldn’t make her stay. He wanted his love to free her, not bind her. She’d have to come to accept him, his land, and his home state in her own time and on her own terms.

He watched sunlight play over the natural mix of copper, blonde, and auburn streaking Daisy’s shoulder-length hair. She smiled at him with her approach, and Trey grinned, knowing she’d untied her hair for him after taking off her hat and removing her gun. She rocked a uniform like nobody’s business, and he knew he was the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet to have her, for however long.

Daisy held up a big brown bag and gave it a shake. “Ready for some lunch, cowboy?”

At the sound of paper rattling, Big Blue lifted his head, blew through his lips, and began walking toward the fence that separated the house from the pasture.

Trey’s stomach rumbled. “Can’t say I’d mind.”

Daisy strolled toward the steps and Trey continued his descent until they met at the bottom. Trey leaned in and laid a deep, welcoming kiss on Daisy’s lips. She kissed him back, tasting like sweet mint and smelling delicious, like vanilla.

He cupped a hand on her bottom and pulled her closer, gently squeezing her backside while he pressed his body tight to hers. Sensations and sounds disappeared outside their mutual breaths, the texture of their tongues, and the feel of her mouth against his. Weariness that had crept over him dissolved with the brush of her breasts against his chest. Desire took its place.

When they finally broke the kiss, Daisy’s eyes widened. “Wow. I should bring you roast beef sandwiches more often.”

Trey had to smile. “I like seeing you in the middle of the day. Desk duty has its perks. At least you get an actual lunch break while you wait for your new horse.”

Daisy ran a hand over his bare chest and thumbed a nipple, immediately bringing it to attention, like the rest of him. “You keep showing up for lunch half-naked and you’re going to get me fired. I only have another forty minutes.”

“Two things a man should never do fast is make love or eat a meal.” He gave her another kiss. “Rain check?”

She made that low, sexy sound deep in her throat that always turned his blood on fire. “Rain or shine, cowboy.”

Trey took a deep breath and let it out when she stepped back. This woman was driving him mad. He wanted to spend more time with her, both in and out of the sack. “Deal.”

She looked past his shoulder at his handiwork. “The porch looks great. Need some help adding the stain?”

“I’ve got it handled, thanks. Should be done by tomorrow.” He took the brown bag from Daisy and looked inside. “Mmm. Chips. Fruit. Iced tea too.” He planted a kiss on her nose. “You’re the best.”

Daisy reached in and pulled out an apple. “I brought an extra for Big Blue.”

Trey set the bag on a step and they walked together to the fence to greet the horse.

“Remember when I was afraid to touch him?” Daisy asked, laughing, and the pale pink splotches that formed on her cheeks made Trey grin. Terrified was more like it, but she’d overcome her fear and learned to ride like a champion.

Big Blue gave Daisy an affectionate nudge, and she stroked his face. “Hey, boy. Wish I had a horse like you to partner with. Trey says you’re the greatest horse that ever lived.” She placed the apple on her palm and held it out for the stallion. He crunched the Red Delicious between his large square teeth and swallowed.

“Sorry things didn’t pan out for you and Musket,” Trey said. He put his arm around Daisy’s waist and walked with her back to the house. “I guess jelling with an equine partner is as hard as working with a human. The fit has to be right.”

As soon as he said the words he wanted to kick himself in the head. He winced and then glanced over at Daisy. “I didn’t mean to open old wounds.”

She didn’t reply right away. She bit her bottom lip and then looked up at him. “Musket was my horse and I miss her. I feel like I’m jinxed. Anyone who partners with me, human or equine, is doomed to fail. At least this time my partner didn’t die.” She choked on the last word, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Jesus.” Trey pulled her close. He kissed her forehead and rubbed her back. This thing with the horse couldn’t have come at a worse time. Daisy was still raw over the shooting death of her partner in Pennsylvania but had appeared to come to terms with her guilt. Counseling had helped. Or, so he’d thought. Seemed the barn door hadn’t closed on that subject.

“You haven’t jinxed me, right? I’d be your partner in a millisecond.” He closed his big mouth over his loose tongue. Had he said “partner” out loud? As in life partner? ’Cause that’s what he’d meant. His Christmas spirit had brought his feelings for Daisy front and center and he was finding it tougher to hold them back. The time had come for a serious talk.

She tapped his chest with the palms of her hands and stepped away. “You’re being sweet, and I appreciate that. Now let’s eat those sandwiches. I’ve got to get back to the station.”

Sweet? Trey gritted his teeth. Women always liked to use words like that, and he hated them. Sweet was almost as bad as cute.

He wasn’t about to let her dismiss his confession so easily. He tucked two fingers under her chin and met her eyes. “I was being serious. About being partners.”

Daisy’s eyes widened for the second time. “Oh.”

He wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed that she hadn’t given his comment a second thought, or mad at himself for not making his intentions clearer sooner. “Now you know.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Let’s wash up and eat the food you brought.”

*****

Partners. The word and all its implications rang through Daisy’s head. Their relationship had taken another meaningful turn…and she liked it. She liked it a lot.

Daisy sat beside Trey on the front steps of his porch after cleaning up for lunch because she didn’t trust herself to sit close to him inside his house. She might tear what little he wore straight off his body and drag her tongue over every hard surface of his skin. Hard. Surface. Yum.

No. Then she’d be late getting back to work and her supervisor would write her up. As a rookie she couldn’t afford mistakes.

She let her gaze wander over Trey’s naked chest and fall to the zipper of his cutoffs. She’d bet a billion dollars he went commando under those shorts. Tingles trickled along her shoulders, down over her breasts, and traveled to her center.

Clearly, the man had no concept of his effect on her. When she’d pulled up to his house and saw him standing at the base of the steps to greet her in nothing but low-slung cutoff denims and work boots, she’d found it hard to breathe. Suddenly, Jack Frost and his Pennsylvania winter lost their appeal. Who needed snow when a smokin’ hot cowboy waited for her? Welcomed her? Wanted her?

If she hadn’t come to Houston, she wouldn’t have met the handsome ranch hand who filled her dreams night after night. Trey had become her single compelling reason to work through her personal pain. That and the fact that she’d never give up police work. She’d find a way to succeed, one way or another. It was hard for a cop to be flexible, since theirs was a structured world, but she was trying her best to adapt to her new environment.

Daisy took a bite of her chicken salad while Trey munched his roast beef. They ate in companionable silence while Big Blue grazed beyond.

Trey took a swallow of bottled ice tea and then spoke. “Would you like to spend Christmas Eve together, here? Maybe help me trim the tree?”

Daisy’s spirit lifted again with the invitation, though she tried to stay cool. She and Rose had already been invited to Christmas dinner with Trey’s family, and she’d promised to bring homemade pumpkin pie and oven-fresh bread. Rose was making apple pie and a side dish.

Daisy hadn’t expected to spend Christmas Eve with Trey too, but she was glad he asked. “Sure. I’d like that.” The heaviness around her heart seemed to break free, and her mood lifted. She imagined the two of them in an embrace, making love beneath the twinkling lights of Trey’s Christmas tree, and realized she was…happy.

It had been so long since she’d known the feeling it took seconds to realize what had come over her. She smiled and savored the moment. Trey made her happy. Spending Christmas with him was the best gift the season could bring.

There would be no snowfall in Texas. Or winter’s chill. No downhill sledding, hot cocoa, or ice-covered boots. There might not be snippets of holly gracing the table, but there would undoubtedly be mistletoe. And with that final thought, Daisy leaned over and gave Trey a deep, gotta-get-back-to-work kiss.

He smiled at her, and just like that Daisy found her Christmas spirit.

Chapter Twenty

Text messages:

Trey: Bring your pretty face and appetite to my place @ 4 PM Christmas Eve. Wear riding clothes and boots. We’re taking Big Blue up to the ranch.

Daisy: Sounds like fun, cowboy. See you then. Xox

*****

In her lightweight, long-sleeved cotton shirt, stretchy jeans, and cowgirl boots, Daisy had to admit she liked her casual new lifestyle.

As she pulled her Jeep into the parking area at Trey’s place she remembered her outfit last year. She’d worn stiletto heels with a slinky green cocktail sheath, clutch bag, and faux emerald and diamond chandelier earrings for a Christmas Eve party at an upscale restaurant with her colleagues. Though she’d held her chin high and looked her best for the event, she might as well have well been invisible to much of the crowd. Despite Internal Affairs clearing her of any wrongdoing in the shooting death of her partner during an armed robbery, her coworkers had been less forgiving. Cops were expected to take control of a scene. They weren’t supposed to choke under stress. Flinching was not allowed.

There’d been more frost inside that party room than the weather outside. She’d stayed less than half an hour and submitted her resignation the day after Christmas. By the following spring she’d landed a spot with the Houston Mounted Patrol, said good-bye to the friends she’d grown up with, and moved-in with her sister. That summer, Trey Woods prepared her—a greenhorn—for police equestrian training.

The warmth of the Texas evening matched the reception Trey gave her when he opened his front door, looking ready to ride in denim and boots, and walked outside to greet her. The air was so clear she could almost see across the state, and the country scents of grasses and hay, rich soil and clean air filled her with anticipation. She glanced over at the barn, where the doors had been propped open, and heard Big Blue whinny from his stall as if greeting her too.

Trey took quick steps in her direction and sent her a dazzling smile. Daisy never got tired of that welcoming, handsome face. Trey knew everything there was to know about her career-ending disaster and shame, and he cared for her anyway. He was strong and kind, patient and steady. She couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be over the holidays than with him.

Wait. Had she really just had the thought that Trey was enough? What about snow? Ski trips to the Pocono Mountains with friends she’d known since grade school? Cups of hot chocolate by the hearth?

Trey’s smile warmed her more thoroughly than a blazing midnight fire.

She moved forward to meet him on the lawn, holding the pumpkin pie she’d baked for Christmas dinner. “Hey,” she said simply, not letting her mouth spill her conflicting holiday musings.

Though she’d confided her dark past to Trey, she kept most of her feelings of homesickness to herself. Separating from the only home she’d known had added layers to her emotional pain, but there was no use longing for something she couldn’t have—at the moment, at least. And she wouldn’t dream of insulting Trey by implying that Christmas in Texas couldn’t measure up. She almost laughed at the thought. Texas not measure up? A proud cowboy like Trey would never believe that.

He kissed her hello and carried the pumpkin pie to the porch. Daisy followed but stopped to admire the completed construction and the walnut-colored stain and sealer he’d applied to bring out the fine wood grain. A set of matching wicker rocking chairs sat side by side near a softly lit bay window. Shady Lady lay on one of the seat cushions and lifted her M-striped head when their boots knocked the floorboards with their approach.

Daisy gave the cat a scratch behind the ears and then ran her fingers over the arm of the chair. “It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it. Trey had created an idyllic spot on the outskirts of Breezy Meadows Ranch.

He seemed pleased by her compliment. “We can sit out here after supper, if you like. Shady Lady won’t mind.”

He held the pie container in one hand and reached to open the door for her with the other. A large pine Christmas wreath dotted with pinecones, dried flowers, sprigs of baby’s breath and wrapped with red plaid ribbon graced the front door. Daisy took a moment to admire the beautifully woven adornment, which looked to be artisan-crafted.

“My mom made that for me.” Trey’s gaze flicked in explanation to the gold-glittered pinecones at the bottom of the wreath where the oversized bow had been tied.

“It’s gorgeous.” Daisy’s insides did a little dance when she remembered she’d be meeting Trey’s parents and the rest of his family for the first time over Christmas dinner. No pressure there.

Trey led the way inside the house to the living room with its hardwood floors, open concept dining room and stainless chef’s kitchen. The smell of something yummy roasting in the oven made her mouth water. Daisy had been here many times over the months they’d been dating, and made herself at home on the couch while Trey brought the pie to the kitchen. The Christmas tree stood by the picture window, ready for decoration, opposite the fireplace Trey had built with river rocks before his rodeo accident.

He returned to the room moments later. “The ham is in the oven. I made cornbread to go with it. How about we take Big Blue to the ranch and then come back here for supper? There’s something I want to show you.”

They made their way to the front door, and he grabbed his Stetson from the hat rack on the way out. Inside the barn, Big Blue was saddled and ready to ride.

“You’ve been busy,” Daisy said. She hadn’t given their trip to the ranch much thought but suddenly wondered what Trey had in mind. As far as she knew, the ranch was deserted save for a skeleton crew to care for the animals.

Trey led the stallion out of the barn and mounted with an easy slide over the saddle. He held out his hand to help her up and then offered a wry grin. “Remember the last time we rode double?”

Daisy nodded. His fractured back wouldn’t support him, so he’d leaned against her while they rode through the fields to visit his house for the first time. Despite his injury, it was then she wondered if Trey was The One.

“You sure Big Blue won’t mind?” she asked.

Trey continued to offer his hand, so she grabbed hold, slid into the tight space behind him, and wrapped her arms around his solid chest. The press of his back against her breasts sent warm tingles to her belly.

When she laid her head against his shoulder and breathed his unique, familiar scent, contentment filled her. Trey had a way of soothing and arousing her at the same time, creating a heady emotional mix she’d learned to crave. She let out a satisfied sigh.

Trey gave a flick of the reins and they trotted toward Breezy Meadows Ranch in utter silence, save the sound of the stallion’s hooves on the dusty path and the rustling of birds in the trees. When they reached the ranch, Trey led Big Blue inside the corral and tied his reins.

“Wait here,” he said, after securing the opening. He made his way toward the stable where she’d taken her first riding lesson—she’d been so scared of horses he’d started her out on a saddle tied to a gate. Daisy smiled at the memory and turned back to watch Big Blue inside the enclosed space. Watching the spectacular creature now, she couldn’t imagine ever being afraid of a horse again.

A soft equine chuff sounded behind her, along with the unmistakable clomp of hooves against hard-packed earth. Daisy turned to see Trey leading a beautiful gray quarter horse from the darkness of the stables into the fading daylight. Trey met her eyes and smiled at her like he’d swallowed the sun.

Daisy blinked. Her brain couldn’t register what she knew her eyes had seen. It took her seconds to understand why—she was viewing Trey with the horse out of context. The last time she’d seen a mare like that was…

Oh! Recognition flared.

“Musket!” She shouted the horse’s name and ran forward to greet her. Daisy wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck and then stroked her pretty face. She stared over at Trey. “How…?”

Trey was still grinning. “Musket is one of ours. She’s back for the holidays until she resumes police training. If things don’t work out, and she remains skittish around noises or crowds, she’ll stay home for good. You can see her whenever you want.”

“Breezy Meadows donates horses to the mounted police?”

“Sure. It’s a tradition.” He gave the mare a pat.

Daisy tapped the toe of her boot into the dirt and fought back tears.

Trey continued. “You don’t say much about it…but I know you miss home. I’ve never lived anywhere else but here, and can only imagine how hard it must be to carve out a whole new life in a strange place. I thought seeing Musket for Christmas might cheer you up.”

The man had the uncanny ability to sense what she needed. All day at work, she was required to mask her emotions and could hardly mourn the loss of her equine partner in front of her coworkers. Being the only woman on the mounted patrol, and a rookie, at that, was challenging enough. She had to be tough on the job every minute of every shift. With Trey, she could simply be herself, and he seemed committed to helping her reshape her broken life.

Trey moved closer and ran a finger over her cheek, capturing a tear that had fallen despite her effort not to cry. “Ready to ride?”

Kindness was an aphrodisiac. Daisy slipped the Stetson from his head, leaned into him, and kissed him hard and deep. She wrapped the hand holding his hat around his neck and pressed her body tight to his, reveling in the intimate act of his thoughtfulness. Gentleness was in short supply in her line of work. Compassion a luxury. By day, her emotions had to be tamped down, hidden, rejected. By night, with Trey, she could release them from their prison and just…be.

The humid afternoon air and the friction of their bodies shot molten adrenaline through her system. She raked her fingers into the long hair at the base of his neck, wanting to make love to this exceptional man until exhaustion forced them to sleep.

Trey kissed her back with a fierce need she could taste on his lips and feel in the grip of his hand on her hip. Then Musket bumped the side of her head, causing them to break the kiss.

Daisy stumbled a little and laughed. “I think she’s jealous.”

At the sound of her laughter, Big Blue ambled over to the fence and watched them with seemingly casual interest. Trey gave Daisy’s arm a squeeze, took his hat, and then moved toward the stallion. “Race?”

Daisy laughed again. “You’re on, mister. Quarter horses are fast.”

She mounted Musket and met Trey outside the corral. Without another word, they galloped side by side across the meadow and into the twilight.

Chapter Twenty-One

The painted blue sky turned watercolor gray as night descended over the meadow. Daisy and Trey trotted back toward the stable for Musket to be watered, brushed, and fed. When they finished, Daisy gave the mare a farewell hug before returning her to her stall.

“Merry Christmas, sweet pea,” she whispered. “It was wonderful to see you again.”

Musket swished her tail and moved her head as if she understood.

Big Blue walked the two easy miles to Trey’s at a leisurely pace after their exhilarating hard ride, and Daisy and Trey walked beside him the last half mile for a cool-down. The falling temperature and rising full moon formed the perfect climate for Daisy’s pensive mood. She hooked her arm around Trey’s and marveled at the way her life had changed. Was she happy in this moment? Yes.

Still, she had a huge decision to make regarding her future and the unexpected chance she’d received. The possibility of returning to her home state of Pennsylvania and resuming life as a patrol cop in a new district thrilled her. She could live out her life among old friends and let her wounds finish healing in familiar surroundings. A year ago, she’d have given anything for that option. But…a year ago, she didn’t have a relationship with Trey.

Her throat constricted. She tightened her hold on his arm with the reminder she’d have to let him go to restore traces of her former life. Would living without him be worth the trade?

Texas was like another world for an Easterner like her. Everything was different here and she still hadn’t adapted. She liked Texas a lot; it was unarguably a great state. Her sister lived here, her job with the mounted police was a great opportunity, and falling in love with Trey had been a deeply emotional surprise. Their dates were always fun and the sex was phenomenal. But did he love her too? He’d never said, though his actions in and out of the bedroom had certainly been caring.

But could she call Texas home? The word implied stability, and nothing here was certain. She lived in temporary housing with her sister, had a tenuous assignment with a future equine partner, and no romantic relationship commitment. Should she take a huge chance and try to put down roots in sandy soil? Or return to the solid familiarity of Pennsylvania in a community that needed an experienced officer?

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Trey said.

Except for the crickets, katydids, footfalls and sounds of horse’s hooves, the country night was still. She must have given him a vibe about the decision weighing on her mind, because Trey was usually comfortable with silence. He freed his arm from hers, rubbed a hand down her spine, and made little circles with his fingertips on the small of her back. The intimate gesture raised goose bumps over her skin, yet warmed her from the inside.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

The moon had risen, and beneath its glow and the light of a billion stars, Trey’s brow furrowed. “Sounds serious.”

Daisy nodded. “Something I want to run by you.”

Trey pressed his hand more tightly to her back. “Then I want to hear about it. Let’s take care of Big Blue and eat supper. We can relax and talk and then decorate the tree. As it happens, I have something I want to discuss with you too.”

Now it was her turn for surprise. Trey hadn’t offered a clue that anything weighed on his mind. He was the most easygoing man she’d ever known, who never failed to put her at ease. She realized she could talk to him about anything and shouldn’t have hesitated to mention the opportunity in Pennsylvania. Why had she waited?

The answer whispered through her brain like a slow moving Texas breeze. Because you’re not as unaffected by the relationship as you pretend. It won’t be easy to say good-bye.

The glow from Trey’s house cut a swath through the darkness like a thousand stars had fallen to earth. Daisy sucked in a breath and stopped to stare.

Trey slowed beside her and brought Big Blue to a halt. “Like it?”

He’d somehow found time to wrap the new porch and the front of his house with white twinkle lights. A spotlight captured the lovely wreath gracing his door. A bare pine tree stood inside the picture window, waiting for ornaments.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Even without snow? Or winter’s chill?” His grin and the sparkle in his eyes dared her to doubt Christmas could be celebrated anywhere.

Daisy swallowed. She had to admit they’d had a perfect evening, and Trey’s home looked more welcoming than any sight she’d seen in a long, long time. “Yes. Even without snow.”

He whooped out loud at her answer and then laughed as if he’d won a prize at the Texas State Fair. “Snow is grossly overrated.” He wrapped one arm around her waist and led his horse with the other until they reached the barn.

Shady Lady scooted out and away before they led Big Blue inside for tending. Daisy’s stomach rumbled. She glanced back at the house in anticipation of dinner. Then she remembered the important discussion that would follow and her mood dimmed despite the festive twinkle lights.

*****

Trey couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this good. He banged around his kitchen pulling ham and cornbread from the oven warmer and tossing salad while Daisy set the dining table and poured wine. Their cozy domestic scene relaxed him and felt absolutely right. He sensed Daisy would grow to love the land here as much as he did, given the chance. He couldn’t imagine any other woman living in the house he’d built.

He hummed a Christmas tune while he sliced the ham, set enough on a platter for two, and put leftovers in the fridge. When he was done, he carried the meal to the table and helped Daisy into her seat. He could almost hear his mother whisper praises about remembering to be a gentleman.

After he and Daisy lifted their glasses in a toast, he chased his dear mother from his thoughts, since his intentions after supper had nothing whatsoever to do with being a gentleman. He resisted diving into his food like a starving coyote and paced himself while they made idle chatter. He buttered cornbread, chewed salad, and added healthy doses of mustard to his ham. But the longer their dinner continued, the less Daisy ate, until she put her fork down altogether.

“Don’t you like your meal?” He immediately regretted asking such a dense question. Daisy had been more and more taciturn during the afternoon than he’d ever known her to be. Something was wrong. She’d said earlier she had something on her mind. Maybe now was the time to tell him what that was. “Or is it something else?”

Daisy returned a strained smile. “Everything you’ve done has been incredible. Including the meal.” She looked right and then left as if the words needed to continue floated in her periphery. “It’s just…there’s an opportunity…in Pennsylvania. I have to decide by the New Year.”

The hair on the back of Trey’s neck prickled and cold fear shot down his back. His appetite vanished, and so he stuffed his napkin under his plate. Daisy was breaking up with him. On Christmas Eve. His best Christmas ever had just become his worst.

He barely heard the rest of what she had to say, though he retained eye contact. Words like “return” and “home” and “patrol duty” painted a clear enough picture for him to get the gist. Daisy had found an opportunity to go back to the place she was born and was considering her options. Guess he hadn’t been enough of a draw to keep the woman he loved happy.

Incredulity washed over him. What about the nights they’d lain on a blanket on the lawn and counted the stars while they shared details of their lives? Or made love in the meadow on the far side of the ranch? Or rode over fields on horseback or drove to the beach on the Gulf? And what about her duty to the mounted patrol? Didn’t she believe they valued her there? Had she even given the job, or Houston, or him a fair chance?

Of course, he didn’t say any of those things. If Daisy hadn’t fallen for him or embraced her life here, he couldn’t force her.

When the ringing in his ears faded and his heart stopped pounding, Trey finally spoke. “Why would you want to go back there? Have you forgotten how the department treated you? How the media turned on you and the community turned its back, though none of what happened was your fault? You didn’t shoot your partner, the criminal did!” He thought she’d gotten over the worst of the trauma. He thought his broken back and her broken spirit had mostly healed. He thought they’d done that together.

Daisy stared at him across the table, and the determination he saw on her face almost did him in. He was sure then she’d made up her mind to go.

“I’d be working in a separate community, close enough to my original home and the friends who stuck by me to belong, but far enough away from my old department to give me room to breathe. It would be my chance for a do-over. Didn’t you ever want that for yourself? If you could relive the six seconds before the bull broke your back, wouldn’t you take it? Maybe if I cross paths with my old coworkers, they’ll see me differently now that time has passed.”

Trey wanted to shout, “What about us?” He wanted to sweep his arm across the table and knock every dish, glass, and piece of cutlery to the floor. He wanted to kick the plates out of his way until they smashed to splinters and then toss the dining table too.

He didn’t do any of those things. He was a man, not a menace. But Trey couldn’t keep the depth of his hurt and rage and disappointment to himself. He banged his fist on the table and shouted. “Dammit, Daisy!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dammit, Daisy? Was that all Trey had to say?

The stony set of his face and the anger in his eyes spoke volumes compared to his words. She’d never seen that expression on him before, and realized, too late, that she’d hurt him. But weren’t they just talking? She hadn’t said she was taking the job in Pennsylvania, just that she was considering the opportunity. The option weighed heavy on her mind and it was only right she share those thoughts. Isn’t that what couples did?

Were they a couple? Maybe that question was the crux of the matter. She wasn’t sure if her relationship with Trey was a passing affair or something more. He hadn’t mentioned the word love and she hadn’t wanted to spoil the relationship by bringing it up if his feelings weren’t mutual. She’d been content to enjoy the pleasure of his company, the passion of their nights, and encourage him on his road back to health while she healed too.

But, was a heated affair enough to keep her in Houston? She had to admit, the answer was no. Her future was at stake and she couldn’t afford to make another error in judgment. A woman had to take care of herself, be self-supporting, and make her own way. Her permanent residence, the community she served, and the man she would love for the rest of her life were decisions she couldn’t get wrong.

Maybe her expression gave her thoughts away, because Trey stood from the table, came around to her side, and lifted her to her feet. He wrapped her in his arms and gazed straight into her eyes.

“Don’t go.”

The strength of his embrace and the intensity of his voice left no doubt to his meaning.

The time had come for her to go all-in. “You could come with me.”

He smirked, and she could tell he held back a derisive laugh. “I just healed from a fractured spine. Got my job back on the ranch. Finished building my house. My life is here. It’s always been here. I was hoping you’d see that and want to stay.”

Of course she knew. She was the one who had drifted. Was still drifting. She’d run away when life got ugly instead of waiting things out and working it through. Trey was as solid as the foundation under their feet.

He pulled her against his chest and covered her mouth with a kiss that would have sent her reeling without support. The press of his lips and taste of wine on his tongue chased away her momentary doubts. Could she really leave this man? The one she never would have met if her previous life hadn’t crashed and burned?

He eased back and met her eyes. “Can’t you see I finished this house for you?” He pressed another kiss to her lips. “I love you. I’ve loved you for so long.”

Daisy touched his cheek and ran a thumb over his jaw. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His hands slid down her back, over her hips, and up again to capture her waist. “I wanted to. I’ve been waiting for the right time. I had nothing to offer you until I knew for sure my body would heal. A broken cowboy earning piddling wages as a riding instructor would hardly have been enough for you in the long run. You’re a cop. A wage earner. Someone fearless and strong. A weak man wouldn’t hold you. I had to know I was fit to stay in your life.”

She hated it when she wanted to cry. Tears were for children. She forced back the urge but let out a sigh. “Not so fearless. Not so strong. I ran all the way to Texas like a coward.”

Trey closed his eyes for a second and tightened his mouth. When he opened them again, he said, “You’re so hard on yourself. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. It’s okay to hurt. It’s normal to feel pain. But instead of quitting law enforcement, you found another job. A harder one at that, in a strange city. And let’s not forget the support you’ve given your sister in her time of mourning. And the understanding you gave me when I worried that my life as a man was over…. Maybe you ran from Pennsylvania, but I feel like you saved us here. Hard times brought us together. ”

Daisy swallowed. Trey always knew the right thing to say, though he didn’t speak often. Why hadn’t she accepted that he loved her? He’d shown his love in a thousand ways, but she’d been so numbed by her own pain she’d refused to see. “You love me?”

His expression softened. “Of course I do.”

“A woman likes to hear these things.”

He kissed her brow. “I should have said it sooner.”

She laid her head against his chest and listened to the sound of his heart beating. The warmth of his chest and the solid feel of his body made her wonder how she could possibly leave him. No man had ever made her feel so loved—with or without saying the words.

He stroked the crown of her head and ran his hand the length of her hair until it trailed down her back to the curve of her bottom. She tipped her face to his to welcome a kiss and he complied willingly, eagerly, taking her mouth with his until their breathing turned fast and hot. Then he took her by the hand and led her up the stairs to his bedroom.

Trey didn’t hurry but took his time undressing her, letting each button on her blouse slide through his fingers as he opened them one by one. His fingertips brushed the swell of her breasts, touched a collarbone, grazed the base of her throat until she shivered. The tips of her breasts tightened inside the lace of her bra, and he leaned down to brush those too with the barest kiss.

He slipped the shirt from her shoulders and tossed it on a nearby chair. She stood before him in a wash of moonlight while he drank in the sight of her. His mouth sought her breasts and he unsnapped her jeans before pulling down the zipper. His hand roamed her abdomen and reached to cup her sex. She sighed at the contact, and he groaned with her heat.

They stripped then in a toss of boots, socks, jeans, and all else that got in the way of skin. Daisy cried out at the electrifying feel of his flesh against hers when he pulled her close. Their mouths sought each other and their hands stroked and touched with newfound tenderness.

Trey laid her on his bed and kissed her. “I love you,” he whispered. He used his mouth, his tongue, and his words to show her until she writhed on the mattress with bliss and stretched with contentment. Just when she wondered if too much pleasure was possible, he reached into his bedside drawer. Then he entered her and loved her once, twice, and again.

*****

“You must be starved,” Trey said. “You barely touched supper, and then…” He grinned, clearly pleased with their lovemaking.

“And then…” She agreed. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned from her spot on Trey’s couch, sated and happy. She’d managed to dress again in everything except her boots, which lay not far from the Christmas tree. They’d finished decorating a few minutes ago and lights sparkled like colored raindrops over the room. A fire burned in the fireplace and candles glowed on tabletops.

Trey set a plate of fat ham sandwiches and two bottles of cold beer on the coffee table. He joined her on the sofa and they ate the simple meal with gusto, talking a little but mostly savoring each other’s company. Their Christmas Eve together had been the best of her life. She smiled at the irony. Hadn’t she thought she needed Jack Frost to make Christmas perfect?

Trey wrapped an arm around her shoulders when they finished eating and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Remember when I said I had something to talk about too?”

Daisy had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she’d forgotten he had something on his mind. “Sorry, I didn’t give you much of a chance.”

He hugged her shoulder. “I also said I was waiting for the right time to talk about loving you.” Trey reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small blue velvet box.

Daisy’s heart stopped. Her lungs seized and her throat turned to dust. When her heart started beating again, an adrenaline rush caused her hands to tremble. She hadn’t seen this coming. She licked her mouth to rewet her lips, but waited for him to continue speaking.

“I’ve known I wanted to marry you since your first week of riding lessons. Nothing has changed that for me.” He opened the box and held it out to her. The simple classic diamond was tasteful and beautiful and shimmered in the candlelight. “While you think about that opportunity in Pennsylvania, I want you to also consider a future here. Weigh your options. I’m offering you a solid home and all the love a man can give a woman. The job and all that goes with it is something you’ll have to figure out for yourself. But I want you to stay.”

She wanted to be impulsive and say yes to marriage simply because her post-orgasmic brain and body had turned to mush. And because Trey was the most wonderful man she’d ever known and the ring he’d bought was stunning. And because it was Christmas Eve and that would be the easy thing to do. But a serious decision like marriage had to be considered with both her head and her heart. Every facet of her future was at stake. Trey loved her, but she also had her career to consider. Her path in law enforcement was as important a choice as marriage.

Daisy did one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She leaned close, kissed Trey gently on the mouth, and said, “I will. I will think about it.”

If Trey was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He set the open ring box on the coffee table and said, “Until the New Year.”

*****

Trey walked Daisy to her car since she wouldn’t be spending the night. She’d said she wanted to spend Christmas morning with her sister. It would be Rose’s first Christmas without her husband, and Daisy didn’t want her to be alone. Though he would have liked to wake up with Daisy beside him, he understood her reasoning.

Under the circumstances, her decision to leave was probably best. The uncertainty of their future had taken the shine off his Christmas Eve, and his parents and grandmother would be knocking on his door mid-morning to help him with Christmas dinner preparations. He didn’t want their first meeting with Daisy to be morning-after awkward, and he had things to do at the ranch before the remainder of his guests arrived.

Trey kissed her before she climbed into her Jeep and closed the door behind her. “See you at noon.”

He watched Daisy drive off and then made his way to the porch to turn off the twinkle lights he’d hung just for her. Shady Lady scurried up the stairs behind him and climbed into the rocker closest to the door. Trey gave the cat a thorough petting and then headed inside.

He finished cleaning up the kitchen, closed the glass door on the fireplace, and turned out the lights on the Christmas tree. His holiday spirit waned and his heart grew heavy. If he’d told Daisy he loved her months ago, maybe she wouldn’t have considered going back to Pennsylvania. Maybe she’d have adjusted quicker to life here. And maybe she’d have his ring on her finger and be sleeping in his bed.

The house that had been warm and filled with possibilities an hour before turned dark and cold with each step he took up the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“So what do you plan to do?” Rose asked.

Daisy’s sister set tableware on the kitchen breakfast bar, poured cups of coffee, and took the stool beside her. Despite neither of them sleeping much, Rose still looked fresh compared to Daisy’s bleary-eyed, ratty-haired self. Rose had creamy white skin, silky black hair, and sky-blue eyes that made men trip over their feet to get close. Her late husband, Mike, had loved her something fierce, and Daisy could only imagine the pain of that loss. It could take years for Rose to heal.

She grimaced. “I know what I want to do, but I’ve come to see that I hate change, and that’s about the only thing that’s been constant the past year. Everything I knew has gone.”

Rose covered Daisy’s hand with hers. “Starting over is hard.” She blinked and took an audible breath. “Even the thought of moving exhausts me.” She offered a subtle smile. “Mike’s family and I remained close after the funeral, and then kismet brought you here. Despite everything that’s happened, Houston has become my home. Don’t you feel it too?”

Daisy felt like a jerk for pouring her problems on her sister, who’d lost her husband and the love of her life to war. Love and separation were an impossible mix. She turned her hand over and gave her sister’s palm a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain.”

Rose shook her head. “You’ve been mourning the biggest losses of your life; you have a right to complain. But you’re young and so am I. Our lives are far from over. That thought keeps me going.”

Rose reached across the breakfast bar for the plate of blueberry muffins she’d baked just after dawn. She placed one on a dish for Daisy and took another for herself. “I loved Mike more than I ever thought possible, and I don’t know when I’ll recover from his loss.” She dug the tines of a fork into her muffin and chewed. “Mmm, he would have liked these. Probably eaten half the batch by now.”

Daisy took a big bite of her muffin and sipped her coffee. “Delicious.”

Rose swallowed another piece and shot Daisy a sidelong glance. “As devoted as I was to my husband, and as hard as it is to imagine being with another man, I still hope to love again someday. I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone. You know me; I’m not cut out for that.” Her mouth quirked and she tilted her head in Daisy’s direction. “Unless you intend to live with me until we become parodies of our younger selves.”

Daisy smiled at Rose’s little joke but shivered at the empty picture that painted. They might be modern women, but they both needed romance. To love and be loved was the greatest gift on earth. Everyone knew that.

And the man she loved wanted to marry her.

Daisy pushed the muffin plate aside. Love and separation were an impossible mix. Maybe she’d been looking at her situation all wrong. Maybe Houston wasn’t a weigh station on the road to resuming her life. This was her life. Could she really turn her back on Trey and give him up? That loss might really be the one that did her in.

The realization brought her out of her seat. She could have it all. She could build a career in law enforcement here as well as anywhere, heal her emotional scars, and be happy with the man she loved in the process. As to the rest…she’d learn to adjust. She was a strong and capable woman.

Daisy kissed Rose on the cheek. “Thanks for breakfast. I’m going to wrap Trey’s Christmas gift.”

*****

The noontime temperature Christmas Day soared into the sixties, with clear blue skies that gave Daisy a new appreciation for year-round outdoor living. She and Rose arrived at Trey’s place a few minutes after twelve carrying a side dish, homemade bread, apple pie, and a bundle of gifts. Two little blond-haired girls dressed for Christmas ran in circles on the lawn, squealing with laughter while they chased Shady Lady. Big Blue munched clover by the fence in his pasture without looking up.

A tall, sandy-haired man who looked slightly older than Trey but just as handsome exited the house and made his way down the porch steps toward them. His gaze homed in on Rose and his eyes lit up.

Daisy introduced herself and her sister and noticed Rose had perked up too. The man reached for the covered dish Rose carried and lifted the bag holding homemade bread and wrapped packages from Daisy’s hand.

“I’m Brent, Trey’s brother. It’s great to meet you both.” He nodded toward the girls. “Those two are mine.”

Trey had mentioned his brother’s wife was no longer in the picture, but he hadn’t provided details.

Brent tore his gaze from Rose and met Daisy’s eyes. “Trey’s in the barn. He’ll be right out.”

The women followed Brent to the porch, where Daisy hesitated outside the front door. She pulled a package from the bag Brent held and pressed it to her chest. “Would you two mind going in without me? I’d like to see Trey before I meet the rest of his family.”

Brent nodded. “Sure thing.” He eyed the brightly wrapped gift she held and passed her an easy smile.

Daisy took a seat on one of the wicker rockers, her heartbeat pumping with every sway. She smoothed the front of her evergreen sweater, brushed imaginary lint from her slacks, and checked her flats for scuffs while her fingers tapped the chair arm.

Just when she thought she couldn’t stand waiting another second, Trey appeared at the barn door. Daisy watched as he kicked off his barn boots and slipped into moccasins. When he spied her, he offered a casual wave. She swallowed her nervousness and pinned on a smile with his approach.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. Tightness around his mouth and his bloodshot eyes belied his cheery greeting. Evidently, he hadn’t slept much either.

Daisy held out the gift like a peace offering. “I wanted to give you this before…” She glanced at the front door. “While we had some privacy.”

Trey accepted the package with barely a change in expression and took the rocker beside her. He tore away the Christmas paper and held up the square black object. The tightness around his mouth relaxed, his eyes brightened, and his lips curved into a grin.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked.

“I haven’t thought about anything else since I left last night. Yes, I’m sure.”

Trey stared at the framed photograph of her dressed in full police regalia, sitting atop Musket. The picture was taken by a Houston newspaper photographer during the Thanksgiving Day Parade. “You do look amazing in uniform.”

He stood, set the picture on his chair, and pulled her from her seat for a kiss. His lips were warm and welcoming, like his embrace. When they broke the kiss, he said, “I like the inscription as much as I love you.”

She’d written: Yes, I will marry you across the bottom of the picture before she framed and wrapped it that morning.

He pressed his hands to her shoulders. “Stay right here.”

He disappeared into his house and returned moments later with the blue velvet ring box. Daisy watched while he opened the lid and took out the stunning diamond engagement ring. “Daisy Phillips, I know I already asked you this, but I’m asking again. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Her hands shook and she forced herself to stay calm while she replied. “Yes, I’ll be happy to marry you.”

He slid the ring over the third finger of her left hand, and they stood close, admiring the ring and taking pleasure in the milestone moment. Daisy wrapped her arms around Trey’s neck and kissed him. “I love you,” she said. “So much. Wherever you are is where I want to be.”

She kissed him again, but before she did saw flickers of movement in her peripheral vision. Giggles followed. Two little girls ran up the porch steps and through the front door into the house.

Trey grinned down at her. “I think our private time just ended.”

“I’ll give you your other Christmas present later,” Daisy replied. When Trey’s grin grew wider, she fake punched his shoulder. “Not that one.” Although he could count on that too.

“A real one. Wrapped with a bow,” she said.

He waggled his eyebrows, not letting the innuendo go, and she had to laugh. She hoped he’d love the custom-made alligator-and-leather cowboy boots she bought him almost as much.

He touched a hand to her hair. “I’ve got something else for you too.”

There was no time to ask what he could possibly have gotten her beside a diamond engagement ring, because the front door popped open and the girls came spilling out onto the porch. “Uncle Trey’s getting married!” they sang. “We told grandmom!”

“Oh, you did?” Trey pretended to lunge at them and the girls screamed with delight. Their curiosity about Daisy brought them closer, and they stared up at her with their big blue eyes.

Trey touched the top of the taller girl’s head. “This is Katie.” He turned toward her sister. “And this little nugget is Camille.”

“I’m older. I’m six,” Katie said. “Camille is four.”

Daisy shook the girls’ hands in proper fashion, which brought a fresh round of giggles. The front door cracked open and a small group of people gathered behind the gap to peek through. Trey waved them onto the porch and the door opened wide.

“Come on out and meet my fiancé.”

A good-looking couple, who appeared to be in their fifties, and an elderly woman about seventy stepped onto the porch with welcoming smiles. Trey introduced his parents and grandmother, who hugged Daisy in turn. Brett and Rose joined them to admire her ring and congratulate them on their engagement. A few ranch hands Daisy recognized from Breezy Meadows pulled up in a truck to join the party.

“I was just about to give Daisy her engagement present,” Trey said to them. He turned to her and winked. “I was ready, in case you said yes.”

He walked off toward the barn.

Moments later, the barn doors opened and Trey appeared, holding the reins to the most beautiful black thoroughbred Daisy had seen since Big Blue. A collective gasp of approval sounded from the small crowd behind her. The mare was young, maybe two years old, with long legs and blue sunlit patches that shone across her back in the afternoon light.

Daisy crossed the porch to the stairs and walked toward the barn to meet them, her heart pounding. Could this magnificent horse really be a gift?

Trey spoke first. “Meet the newest member of the Houston Mounted Patrol.”

Daisy reached out to stroke the animal’s head. “What are you saying?”

Trey handed over the reins. “I’m saying this is my horse. Her name is Cobalt. She’s reached the age for training and I promised her to the mounted police with the stipulation she’s partnered with you. All we need to do is sign the paperwork. If you agree, and if you want her, she’s yours.”

It took a moment for the weight of his words to sink in. The dazzling horse she held belonged to her! If the mare was as clever and bold as her sire, Big Blue, she’d be the greatest police horse on the face of the earth. Daisy could only imagine the meaningful work they’d accomplish together.

She looked over at the man she loved but found she couldn’t speak. There weren’t enough words to describe Trey’s kindness and care. He obviously wanted her to succeed on the job with a reliable equine partner like Cobalt. Off duty, he’d arranged for her to ride Musket, knowing that would make her happy. Could life with him in these beautiful surroundings and the home he’d built be better at Christmas…or at any time of year?

She watched the children run toward them and imagined her own little ones playing in the yard one day. A sense of rightness swept over her. Tragedy might have brought them together, but joy had met them on the other side.

Daisy stroked Cobalt’s silky coat. “She’s perfect, and so is her name.”

Trey came to her and placed an arm around her shoulder. “I expect she’ll be your perfect partner.”

Daisy lifted on tiptoes to plant a deep, delicious kiss on his mouth, ignoring their captivated audience. “You know what else is perfect? Christmas in Texas. With you and our families. I love you Treymont Woods, and I’ll be glad to stay and be your wife.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Adele Downs writes best-selling contemporary romance inside the office of her rural Pennsylvania home. She is a former journalist, published in newspapers and magazines inside the USA, UK, and Caribbean.

Adele is an active member of Romance Writers of America and her local RWA chapter where she serves as a past president. She has written several articles for RWR magazine (Romance Writers Report), the trade journal of Romance Writers of America, and has presented workshops for writers. When she isn’t working on her current project, she can be found riding in her convertible or reading a book on the nearest beach.

OUT FOR THE HOLIDAYS

Susan Mac Nicol

This book is dedicated to all those wonderful readers and fans who support me, pimp me out and generally spread the word. In the sea of activity on social networks promoting new releases and their authors, this can be a tough and sometimes thankless task. I’d like you know just how much I appreciate everything you do.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are two very special ladies who deserve a mention: Valerie de George and Janice Birnie. You ladies are the rock-and-rollers of my life out there, and you do a phenomenal job on my behalf. Thank you so very much!

Out for the Holidays

I’d never considered myself to be much of an arsehole before. Sure, I’ve had my moments—moments of what I think are witticism but other people think of as rudeness, moments of snarkiness and bitchiness that occasionally make those other people laugh. But seeing Lucas Crewe’s shocked, pale face, all wide eyes and trembling lips, made me realise that I had indeed just earned, without reservation, the honorary title of Arsehole of the Year. Of the Decade probably.

I clamped my lips together lest I give voice to anything else and cause a worse reaction than the shock and betrayal currently reflected on my boyfriend’s face. My hands trembled, and I clenched them into fists as I stood behind the counter of the bookshop in which I worked as office manager.

Christian Montfort the Third, the shop owner, my older brother and my boss, cleared his throat loudly in apparent discomfort that such emotional outbreaks were taking place in his revered old-world establishment in the middle of the high street in Glastonbury. The faint strains of the Carmina Burana, the shop’s alternative to the cheesy Christmas music that currently floods the other high street shops, broke the uncomfortable stillness.

My brother waved a chubby hand in my direction. “Samuel, I think you need to take a break. Sophie can cover for you on the counter. I think you need to have a cup of chamomile tea and calm down. I’ll deal with this.”

His eyes told me not to fuck with him. While he might look like a sweet and cuddly doughboy, I knew better than to argue. Christian had a rod of a steel in his spine and a firm hand, and he wasn’t averse to using either one of them—one metaphorically, the other literally. Especially when I’d been such a mega arsehole.

Arsehole. The word was fast becoming my least favourite of the week.

I nodded. Happy Fucking Christmas to me.

Christian’s frown deepened. He raised an eyebrow and I turned, going into the back room which we used as both an office and a staff room. I had just irrevocably fucked things up without any hope of redemption.

My gut lurched with self hatred as I again recalled Lucas’s stricken face. I sank into an old armchair in the corner, trying to ignore the clamouring in my skull. In the distance, St. Michael’s Tower stood high on the Tor, and I wished and prayed that whatever magic resided there would find me and allow me to take back the words I’d just inadvertently spat out. He didn’t deserve the fallout; not my tender, loving and beautiful Lucas.

In the shop, chatter started up again, business getting back to normal. But it would never be normal again. The chill in my bones attested to that.

I heard soft murmurs, heard Lucas’s voice sounding broken and defeated. Someone laughed out loud, like a donkey braying, and I vaguely heard the word ‘fag.’ Then came my brother’s harsh command for someone to ‘get the fuck out of his establishment.’ Even when he was being tough, Christian used just the right words. Montfort Esoteric Books was not just a bookshop; it was definitely an establishment.

I sat in numb silence. After a while Christian came in, perched his ample backside on the desk in front of me and glowered with blue eyes the colour of Icelandic glaciers. Funny, he was only three years older than I, and yet he seemed to have his whole life under control. Our parents were both dead, killed in a skiing accident in Norway when Christian was eighteen and I’d just turned fifteen. We’d inherited everything, including the house we now lived in, a big Georgian affair that had too many bedrooms—seven—and not enough heating. We’d also been given this business, a thriving bookstore based on my father’s reputation as an ardent bibliophile and collector.

Christian had taken on the mantle of businessman, father and brother, and I adored him despite whatever I might say. He was in a happy relationship with a local girl called Briony, who worshipped the ground he walked on—as he did her. I liked her a lot, too, and I expected the marriage bells to start tolling very soon. That would bring with it its own complications, because I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be in the house once they were married and starting a family. But that was an issue for another day.

The silence was oppressive, and I truly had no idea what to say to make things better. Christian, however, knew exactly what he wanted to say.

“You’re a fucking miserable arsehole and a shithead, Samuel. You just outed Lucas to his father, not to mention some of his colleagues at the newspaper. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

There was that bloody word again. Arsehole.

I lifted my hands in supplication, opening my mouth to say I was sorry, but I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

“We all know you couldn’t give a damn about the fact you’re gay, Mister Out and Proud and Fuck Anyone Who Gives a Damn if They Don’t Like It, but nobody knew about Lucas, his father included. He’s kept it well hidden in this town. And how long has this thing between you and him been going on, anyway? Was he gay before you got to him?”

Ouch. That stung, and I looked up at Christian with a fury similar to his own. “Of course he was, you bastard. I know I have a reputation for being a bit of a bicycle in this town, but Lucas has been gay since I’ve known him—which is six months. And we’re exclusive, in case that’s your next bloody question.”

Five months, 29 days and a few hours.

And I love him.

“Well, that’s all right then. He can rest assured you’ve had no one else in your pants while you’re diddling him. Of course, that just leaves the fact you just told the whole shop that you sucked his cock and he sucked yours—which sort of implies he’s gay too.”

My face flushed with mortification.

“What the hell brought on that little outburst anyway?” My brother regarded me narrowly. “Pray tell. I need to understand exactly what your mental state was before I have you committed.”

I glared at him. “It was off-the-cuff, an accident. I didn’t realise anyone was with him. I never meant to hurt him.” My voice choked off, and I felt the burn of tears in my eyes. I furiously blinked them back.

Christian sighed. He looked a little less angry now, and his eyes were softer. “So, what caused you to become a bitchy queen?”

I sniffed, choked up. “He’s just so…in the closet, and I really want to tell everyone about us, let them know we’re together. But he refuses to discuss it. Last night we had a helluva row, and when I saw him today it just all spilled out.”

The last six months had been heaven for me. Lucas and I met in June, at a book fair in Bristol that he was covering for the local paper, and I was immediately attracted to him. I’d seen him around town, but at the time I’d had no clue he was gay. I didn’t do straight guys; they were too much trouble. There’s too much angst and drama when they wake up from their hangovers and remember they’ve been sucked off by a guy. Not something they really want to think about sober. (Ah, the dilemma of the straight man wanting to experiment with his sexuality and getting a blinding blow job from a guy.)

Lucas knew he was gay, of course, and after a night of drinking and our first kiss our mutual attraction sparked like a bush fire. But for his own reasons I was to be his hidden boyfriend.

At eighteen, he was a year younger than me, quiet, studious and one of the sweetest and most loving people I knew. He was funny, intelligent and compassionate. He had a body, lean and wiry and oh so damn sexy, that I wanted to get to know more intimately, even more than the frotting, mutual BJ’s, masturbation and finger play we’d done so far. He’d told me quietly he wasn’t ready to come out, and anal sex wasn’t something he was comfortable with yet. So I’d waited, needing him to decide when the time was right. I enjoyed being with him any way I could, and I wasn’t going to push.

At least, that had been my good intention.

Last night we’d been lying in bed together, satiated and happy after great blow jobs. I’d once again broached the subject of him coming out, wanting him to be known as my boyfriend in time for my nineteenth birthday a few days before Christmas. I wanted our relationship to be out in the open, for him to know that I was proud to be seen with him.

“I can’t give you that, Sam.” He’d run a hand through his curly auburn hair and looked at me with resolve. “Not yet. Give me a little more time and I promise I’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, sure,” I snipped back. “And in the meantime we keep sneaking around, hiding from anyone that might see us together, coming back here to my place most of the time so your dad doesn’t find out, keeping you my little secret. I honestly don’t know why you don’t just admit who the hell you are. It’s not that difficult!”

Lucas had looked at me with dislike, then, something I’d never thought to see on his face. At least, not for me.

“Maybe not for you,” he muttered. “I mean, you’ve had half the chaps in town if rumours are to be believed.”

I scowled at that. It might be true, but I didn’t need my boyfriend reminding me of the phase I’d gone through sowing my wild gay oats.

“You’ve lived the stereotypical gay lifestyle,” Lucas continued. “But your folks were very understanding. You gave them no choice. You can be quite overpowering.”

He reached over and took my hand, running his long fingers over my wrist as he added, “Sam, you know my dad is old fashioned. Mum died eight months ago. I’m all he has left. I’ve known I was gay since I was fourteen, but it’s my secret to keep. Dad has a plan for me which involves grandchildren and settling down with a woman. I don’t want to disappoint him yet. I want to let him get over Mum first. Is that really too much to ask?”

I’d never met Lucas’s mother, but I knew they were close. She’d died of cancer, short and not so sweet. He and his father were devastated.

Yet, last night, waiting had seemed too much to ask. I’d been hurt and had enjoyed more than a little too much to drink. So, we didn’t resolve the issue. We simply spat hurtful words at each other until we were both exhausted.

Lucas has a temper when he chooses to unleash it. His deep brown eyes looked into my blue ones with the same fire I saw when we found an injured dog on the roadside, hit by a car and left to die. Lucas had cursed the driver with eloquence that night, made me bundle the bloody animal into my car and take him to the vet, and he had even paid the vet’s bill. I’d have probably dropped the dog off and run.

Last night, Lucas finally lost all patience with me and stormed off home.

Today, in the clear light of the new morning, I’d acknowledged my ‘arseholiness’ and grudgingly decided that Lucas’s reasons for keeping his gayness to himself right now were excusable and right. Then I went and blew it all by telling people in public that I’d sucked his cock. Lucas had looked devastated, and I shivered at the memory of that expression flitting across his face. The look on Mr. Crewe’s face at the declaration was something else I’d see in my nightmares when I closed my eyes at night. It hadn’t been disgust, at least; more like resignation and sadness.

Christian’s impatient voice bought me back to the present. “Earth to Sam. Where the fuck did you go? I swear the bloody loony bin is looking like a more attractive proposition every minute. Tell me what the hell happened.”

I gave myself a mental shake and looked up at my brother, shrugging. “Lucas came in to pick up his copy of Howl. He’s using it for some discussion group he’s got going with his book club. You know how he loves poetry.”

Christian frowned. “‘Howl’? The poem by Alan Ginsberg? The one that had so much controversy with the gay talk and the drug use? That one?”

I nodded. “It’s one of his favourites. He has a bit of a hero-worship thing for Ginsberg. So, I managed to track down a fairly rare version, which I ordered for him. He came by to pick it up.”

“And how”—my brother narrowed his eyes and glared at me—“did that escalate to the argument you had in my establishment?”

I ran a hand through my hair and expelled a large breath. “I was still pissed at the argument we had, and we were still angry at each other. When I saw him, I told him if he had any guts he’d be more like his book, like Ginsberg, and be open, say what he needed to say.” I scowled. “He told me to fuck off and die.”

Lucas didn’t swear often, but when he did he could be inventive—mostly in bed when he was pinned beneath me, or when he was being sucked off. This wasn’t inventive, really, but him telling me in his low, polite voice to “fuck off and die” had really gotten my goat. So, with only the two of us in earshot, the infamous Samuel Montfort—there’s no number after my name, I’m just an ordinary second son—temper got the better of me. I leaned over the counter and thrust his book at him, the red tide of anger rising in my chest like a behemoth from the waves.

“Take your damn book, then, and go read it in the privacy of your bedroom,” I drawled. I turned away to put the slip in the pigeonhole behind me with the rest of the sales slips, then I turned back and continued as I glanced down at the pile of books on the counter. “The bedroom where I sucked your cock the other night. Twice. And where you sucked mine like a bloody Dyson.”

The encounter had been one of the few at his place. His dad had gone away for the night for some conference, and we’d made the best of it. Unfortunately, my recollection was out before I looked up at a sudden hush to see Lucas’s father and two of his newsroom friends suddenly standing right next to him. The stricken look on Lucas’s face had me wanting to swallow those words back, but it was too late.

After I explained all this to Christian, he winced and rolled his shoulders as if they were aching. “Not very clever of you, Sammy,” he said, using the diminutive he’d always used when we were kids. “You and that big mouth of yours.”

“I didn’t do it deliberately,” I muttered. “It all happened so fast.”

My brother just raised an immaculately manicured eyebrow. He wasn’t gay, but with that look he should have been.

He pursed his lips. “And then all hell broke loose. Lucas’s friends started asking him questions about your comment, and one of them called him a fag so I kicked the little bastard out. After that, Lucas’s dad couldn’t get him away quick enough.”

I’d heard. I swallowed and brushed my unruly swath of blonde hair out of my eyes, ready to hurl into the nearest porcelain receptacle. “I have to go see him, apologise to him,” I finally whispered. “I need to find out how he’s doing. I can’t just leave it like this.”

My brother grunted. “He might not want you around just now. And, he can give and take with the best of them. Lucas Crewe might look like an angel, Samuel, but he has a tough streak in him. He’s not a reporter on the local newspaper for nothing. I’ve seen him in action.”

So had I. Doing a distance learning degree through the London School of Journalism, Lucas also worked on the Glastonbury Gazette. His unswerving devotion to his craft, his innate inquisitiveness and his ability to coax information out of people made him a real asset. He was also a damn hard-ass, and at a couple of recent council meetings I’d seen him ask tough questions of the burly and much older councilmen that left them quaking in their boots. Lucas was legend in many ways, what with his constant drive to get at the truth.

Yet, I knew the boy inside. Lucas was inexperienced in relationships, a little insecure in his ability to attract other men, and he didn’t see in himself the beauty that he had. He might be tough on the outside, but inside he was a young man just growing into his skin and his sexual awareness. Sometimes I found him awake in the middle of the night, just watching me. When I’d ask him sleepily what he was doing, he’d whisper, “Just marvelling that someone like you is with someone like me.” That’s when I’d reach over for him and show him exactly how much he meant to me.

I gazed now across the fields towards Glastonbury Tor, wishing I knew some magic words to restore what I’d had but what I desperately feared now was lost.

“I have to try, Christian,” I said. My voice faltered, my chest clenching with emotion. I hadn’t felt this wretched since losing a good friend in a car accident four years ago. “You know I’m not afraid to apologise when I’m wrong. If that’s all I can do, then I can at least give him that.”

Christian laid a hand on my shoulder as I stood up. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” he said wonderingly. “It’s written all over your face, little brother.”

I couldn’t reply. If it was that obvious to him, then perhaps Lucas might see it too.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day. Samuel Montfort in love.” My brother looked at me with grudging respect. “If you feel that strongly about him, maybe you can salvage things. But it isn’t going to be easy, Sammy.”

“I know,” I said, taking a deep breath. “But I have to try even if it kills me.” I just barely managed a weak grin. “The way I feel at the moment, that might be preferable.”

* * *

Christian gave me the rest of the day off, and I left the shop and walked out into the high street. It was chilly and overcast, and as I drew nearer to Lucas’s mid terraced house down a tree-lined side street I felt a wave of optimism that perhaps I could redeem myself. Until the front door opened.

Lucas stood there, brown eyes flat and deadly, his pale face set with an expression that said I might not be as lucky as I wanted. “Samuel. What the fuck are you doing here?”

There was no welcome in that tone, no inch of forgiveness. I swallowed and fidgeted on the step. If I’d had a hat, it would be twisting in my hands in an entreaty of shame and guilt. My texts and calls of earlier had gone unanswered, but Lucas could be the King of Sulkers when he was upset.

“Lucas. I wanted to talk to you.”

He gave a short laugh and then sneered. “I think you’ve said all you need. We have nothing else to say to each other. Now, fuck off.”

He made to close the door, but I put my foot in the way.

Lucas’s eyes narrowed and he moved forward. He wasn’t a big man, shorter than me at about five seven to my just under six foot, but he was wiry and toned from cycling, one of his favourite pastimes. His wavy, mid length auburn hair curled around a face that Christian had correctly identified as angelic, and normally his lips were full and pink and made for kissing. Now, though, they were pale thin lines of anger, and the body in front of me was not poised for love but for fighting.

Despite his aggressive stance, his brown eyes were red rimmed and shadowed. His fingers twitched and clenched, and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. Tired and defeated. I’d done that to him.

My heart sank to my stomach, and once again I wanted to hurl. “Lucas, please. Babe, I really need to tell you I’m sorry. It was an accident—”

Lucas’s nostrils flared, and he took a step forward. “Babe?” he spat. “You dare call me that after what you did this morning? You bastard. You made a damn fool of me in front of my father and my friends. My dad’s devastated he had to find out about me in that way. You took something that was our secret, something special to me, and you made it all about you. So, forgive me if I don’t want to hear your lies anymore. I was never your damn ‘babe.’”

His voice quavered, so I reached out, desperate to tell him that he was far more than just that. He swatted my hand away like it was a malignant, creeping disease.

“Don’t, Samuel,” he said. “Just go. Please.”

His voice cracked, but the door still swung closed in my face. Numbly, I turned and left.

Perhaps a long two and a half mile walk could chase the cobwebs from my mind, give me a sense of peace that I didn’t feel. I trudged toward the outskirts of town and the impressive sight of the Tor. The place at the top of the hill was where I always went when I needed solace and time to think.

I’d gone there since I was eight years old, loving the solitude and the mystery in the air that remained long after the previous occupants of this town were consigned to history. The area hummed to me, something I’d mentioned to people before but they just laughed at my fancifulness. I suppose that makes sense, what with all the kooks and kooky societies that come to Glastonbury to feed off the energy—I sound like just another one of them—but I’d swear there’s…magic of some sort there. I’d felt presences around me, both familiar and strange, at the Tor since I was a child. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye, a flitting form that didn’t fit. I’d seen drifting shadows on the walls and stairs, and somehow I’d always known they weren’t there to harm me. It was a secret I hugged to myself, this feeling that there was something more to life than simply living, and up here on this hill that feeling was so much stronger, like wisps of warmth brushing against tender skin on a cold night.

Even though it was a cold late December, the Tor attracted tourists and locals alike. I made my way up the hillside with the other people, and the remnants of the old ruined church seemed to glower down at me with disapproval for my cock-up.

I wasn’t as fit as Lucas with his cycling—I worked in a bookshop and enjoyed dancing and swimming but didn’t really do any sport—so I was panting slightly and my chest was burning by the time I got to the summit, where other visitors were milling around, oohing and aahing at the views across the fields. The day was still here, but soon the fading light would turn to dusk. Lights twinkled across the valleys and hills, a tribute to the festive season in full swing. While that was a pretty and inspiring sight, I’d seen it all before, and to be honest I didn’t really care today. I’d fucked up Christmas, one of my favourite times of year, so, for me, the season of goodwill to all men was well and truly in the toilet. I sat down on the grassy knoll, folded my arms around my knees and laid my head on my arms.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, thinking about the cock-up I’d made and how I could get Lucas back into my life again. It was only when I heard a quiet voice beside me that I looked up. It was really dark.

I blinked, realising that in spite of the lack of light I could see her quite clearly: No one else seemed to be around, but a woman sat next to me, pale red hair swinging around narrow shoulders, her freckled face smiling serenely. She wore no coat but a light cardigan, and I wondered how she wasn’t feeling the cold. I’d come out with a heavy jacket, and even my nipples were standing up in the evening air.

“Good evening, Samuel.”

She inclined her head at me, and I frowned as I looked around at the quiet reaches of the hill.

“Errm, evening, ma’am. I’m sorry, but I don’t know you, do I?” I shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease out kinks in muscles that felt like they’d been fed through a mangle and come out second best on the other side. “You have me at a disadvantage, knowing my name.”

She grinned, a somehow familiar expression. “Wow. You are a polite one. Just call me Katherine. And no, we’ve never met.” Her voice was a mix of Somerset drawl and something else, something quite warm and inviting. “But I believe you know my son.”

I glanced at her. “Oh, so you’re from the town? What’s your son’s name?”

“Lucas.”

A faint smirk crossed her face at those words, and I looked at her in suspicion. “I only know one Lucas, and you can’t be his mother.” I was starting to feel a little uneasy, what with her clear gaze on my face and the way she seemed to see through me, as if she knew everything I was and everything I was going to be. It was very disconcerting. “Which Lucas is it that you think I know?”

“I’m the mother of the one you know.”

“You can’t be her,” I said.

“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose fractionally. “And why would that be?”

I scowled, wanting the game to be over. I squinted at my watch and was stupefied to see it was close to six p.m. I’d been sitting on the Tor almost three hours. But that couldn’t be fucking right. There was no way I’d been sitting here that long. I must have dozed off.

“Samuel? I’m waiting for your answer.”

I sighed in exasperation. “Because the mother of the Lucas I know is dead, and you’re obviously not, so you can’t be her!”

Her head quirked to one side, like that of a curious bird eyeing a wriggling worm in the loamy soil, wondering whether to eat it right away or watch it gain its freedom then pounce. “I thought you understood more than that, Samuel, as to how the world is.”

Her tone was teasing, and I felt a prickling in my skin. So I stood, wincing as my muscles complained, as bones clicked back into place and my knees cracked. “If you’ll excuse me, Katherine, I really have to go. I had no idea it was so late, and it’s a bit of a walk back to town. It was nice meeting you, though.”

As I turned to go, I felt a whisper of what felt like warm breath against my neck. I turned swiftly, but Katherine still sat, legs stretched out on the grass, the green fabric of her loose, knee-length dress swirling around her legs.

I noticed for the first time she wore no shoes. Her legs were long, pale limbs that looked untouched by sun.

I turned to leave again.

“He loves you, you know,” she said quietly, and I stopped, holding my breath. I didn’t turn, just squinted down the hill toward the town, as if by doing so I could beam myself visually away from this strange woman.

“Who loves me?” I asked.

“My son Lucas. The man whose cock you’ve been sucking.”

I heard a slyness in her voice, and my spine went into meltdown. Cold tendrils of what I thought was fear wended their way down my back like kisses from a serpent with a cold tongue, and so I finally turned to face her. “What the hell did you just say?”

I moved toward her, but she just grinned again and patted the ground. “Sit down, Samuel. Let’s talk. I’m sorry about that crass statement, but it was the only thing I could think of to say that would get your attention, make you believe I am who I say.”

She pouted, and at that precise minute I knew what she was saying was true. Lucas had the exact same pout, the same way of making his lips look even more alluring when he sulked or wanted to turn me on. And now that I looked closer, Katherine’s eyes were the same shade of autumnal brown, with hints of gold, slightly turned at the corners, with heavy eyebrows and deep lids just like my Lucas.

I shook my head, thinking perhaps I’d been out in the cold too long and was suffering from hallucinations. “The alternative is not fucking possible, so it must be that,” I muttered. But as I felt my forehead, it was cool to the touch.

I frowned and shivered, the cold seeping into my bones. I might have felt presences but I’d never met a ghost before, and that seemed to be where this was headed. “I just need to get home, get rehydrated and get into bed and everything will be just fine.”

Katherine giggled, and I glared at her.

“Oh, Samuel. You know that everything is possible. You’ve always known that deep down. It’s why you come here.” She laughed softly. “And my son might think he’s a hard-bitten newspaper man, but deep down inside he’s got the soul of a poet and the beliefs of a spiritualist. We’re talking about a child who wouldn’t let me throw me away one rotten potato. He always had to put another one in the bin ‘to keep it company on its journey.’ That’s Lucas. He makes you read his horoscope, doesn’t he, and reads yours to you? Gemini and Capricorn. Not a match made in Heaven, really. But he loves the zodiac, always picks out the good things and ignores the bad.”

I just gaped, my mouth wide open.

Katherine laughed again, and she waved a slim, white hand. “Close your mouth, sweetheart. You’ll attract moths.” Once again she patted the grass. “Come. Sit. Let’s talk. Maybe I can help you get Lucas back. He needs you—and you sure as hell need him, I can tell you.”

For no other reason than my legs refused to support me, I crumpled bonelessly to the ground. I crossed my legs, hugging myself for warmth, and prayed I wasn’t having a psychotic episode.

When she spoke again, Katherine’s voice was serious. “I always suspected Lucas was gay. It was nothing overt, but he was never interested in girls and had an HSM magazine in his room with a bare-chested man on the cover. And some of the pages were pretty sticky from what I could tell.”

She sounded amused, but I wrinkled my nose. A man’s mother finding his jerk-off magazine? Ugh.

“I always thought he’d tell me one day. I didn’t want to push him. His father would have been very disappointed. He wanted grandchildren, kids to call him Grandpa, and wanted Lucas to settle down with a nice girl. I had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen, but it needed to be Lucas’s call to come out. Then I got sick and things just went downhill. When I died, Lucas and his dad needed each other so badly… Well, it was just the wrong time for my boy to even think of saying anything.”

“Then I went and fucked it up for him,” I said darkly, aware that I was truly speaking to the ghost of my ex-boyfriend’s dead mother and wondering when the men in white coats were going to appear and drag me away. “Not just a royal fuckup but a spectacularly royal fuckup. Now he doesn’t even want to know me.” My stomach lurched as I said the words aloud. They sounded so final. “I can’t blame him.”

Katherine nodded. “You did cock it up, rather. But it wasn’t intentionally malicious, Samuel. Just a case of having a big mouth at the wrong time.” Her lips twitched. “It appears to be a habit with you.”

I scowled again. The woman had a knack for making me feel lousy. I stretched my aching legs out in front of me and leaned back on my elbows. “I tried to talk to him. He blew me off.”

“And not in a good way,” Katherine murmured.

For the first time that day, a small chuckle formed on my lips. “You are incorrigible, you know that? I don’t want to hear my boyfriend’s mother making sex jokes with me about him. Sorry, ex-boyfriend,” I corrected myself moodily.

There came a comfortable silence. I closed my eyes, thinking that this possible dream had gone on long enough and if I opened them perhaps I’d be home in my bed with Lucas curled next to me. His hand would be draped across my stomach, idly caressing my skin; his warm, limber body and soft skin would be scented with cinnamon and sandalwood, and his hard cock would be pressed against my hip. His hand would move lower and lower until finally he took me in his palm and—

“You do realise you have a hard-on, Samuel? I assume you’re thinking about Lucas,” Katherine said drily.

My eyes flashed open in mortification, and I realised she was right. My chinos were tenting fit to burst the zipper. And this didn’t appear to be a dream, dry, wet or other. The ghost theory was looking more plausible with every passing minute.

“Christ, what the hell are you doing looking down there anyway? Are you some sort of spirit pervert?” I leaned forward, hiding my groin and its future displays of crass horny manhood, and, yes, you guessed it, scowled again.

Katherine tut-tutted. “One of these days the wind will change and your face will stay as disagreeable as it is now. You really should stop that fierce frowning.”

She stood up, and I watched her stare down toward the town with a melancholy expression. “I need to go. But I have a little advice for you. It’s nothing difficult to remember, but it will stand you in good stead.”

I waited for the pearls of wisdom that would drop from a dead woman’s lips. When they finally came, it was all rather anti-climactic: “Don’t give up.” Then Katherine seemed to grow more insubstantial, her figure becoming luminous but hazier, and her green dress turned a lighter shade of pale.

“‘Don’t give up,’” I echoed aggrievedly. “What the hell kind of advice is that to impart to a bloke? I was expecting something a little more bloody helpful!”

“You were expecting three wishes or some secret incantation that could turn back time and make all the problems go away?” Katherine’s tone was wry, as if she knew exactly what I’d wanted.

“Either one of those would be good,” I grunted. “Better than ‘Don’t give up’ at least.”

“You two were made to be together,” she replied, her voice fainter as she thinned from view. “Go after him, pursue him, make him realise you truly do care and you are sorry. Help him through this. It’s not going to be as bad as he thinks. I know my husband, and he’s a good man. He’ll understand. So bloody well just don’t give up on my son….”

The breeze seemed to blow her away, then, and I sat back and closed my eyes, disconcerted. I wondered whether I’d just had some sort of manic episode, suffered some temporary aberration in my brain. Deep down inside me I knew that wasn’t the case, but I still tried to convince myself.

“You’re bloody psycho, mate. That didn’t bloody happen,” I muttered.

I opened my eyes and got to my feet, which were tingling with pins and needles, and started the long walk down the hillside, back to town, back to normality. I had some thinking to do, because even if I was crazy, Spirit Mother was right. I couldn’t give up on getting Lucas back and making things right between us.

* * *

A few days later, Lucas still wasn’t taking my calls, still wasn’t answering my texts, still was avoiding me at all costs. He’d even told Christian that I should stop bothering to get in touch; it was all over.

As my brother relayed these words with a look of sympathy, I stormed around the office in the bookstore, unwilling to accept them. “I am not going to go away, Christian. He can go to blazes. I have it on good authority that I need to fight for him.”

Christian’s bushy eyebrow rose. “Whose authority?”

I backpedalled, not wanting to admit my ex’s dead mother had given me the advice. I was already crazy with missing Lucas, and adding true-seeming madness to the mix wasn’t going to work. Christian had heard about my sixth sense, had even somewhat accepted it, but he’d never really understood. Not exactly. He even could be quite condescending about it.

“Just someone who knew—knows him. I thought it was good advice: Keep fighting.” I thumped my fist down on the desk, causing papers to slide and Christian’s chamomile tea to slop over the sides of his cup, and he regarded the resultant mess with a frown as I continued. “I heard via one of my mates that he seems okay with his dad, that things aren’t as rough as they could be. I also heard that Jerry Farnham has a black eye from where Lucas apparently decked him. Good for bloody Lucas. I mean, how come people know I’m gay and no one’s ever given me grief—well, not much anyway—but Lucas coming out seems to be the talk of the fucking town?”

My brother rubbed his chin. “Samuel, you have never been backwards in coming forward. From the time you decided you liked boys, at twelve years old, you made it your mission to flaunt your choice. It’s who you are. Mum and Dad and everyone else had no damn option but to be accepting. Remember the time you hung condoms from your school locker with pictures of a naked porn star?” Christian’s nose twitched in remembrance. “I know you had a few issues with people giving you hell for your sexuality in school and college, but you were such a damn feisty bugger no one could get you down. Then you went off the rails and showed everyone what you thought by sleeping with anyone you fancied. You’ve made it very clear who you are all along.”

I sighed softly, realising what my brother was saying. “And Lucas hasn’t. He’s hid it so long and never found the right time to tell anyone. Christ, Chrissie, this is a mess.”

I hadn’t realised I’d used Christian’s pet name from when we were boys until his face softened. “You haven’t called me that in a very long time. Now I know you’re upset.”

I huffed in frustration. “What do I do?”

My brother moved to his desk and opened a drawer, took out a piece of paper and looked down, his brow furrowed, before handing it to me. I stared. It was a flyer for the local arty-farty cinema called Nouveau, a place I’d only been to a couple of times. It wasn’t my favourite pastime watching black and white or really old movies with people I’d never heard of, but Lucas had enjoyed it so I went along. And to be honest, there were worse things than holding his hand in the darkness and scrabbling for popcorn while we giggled and then made out in the back when no one was looking. Good times.

The flyer was for the film Howl, starring James Franco as Allen Ginsberg, Lucas’s hero. There was a special showing tomorrow tonight.

“I happen to know Lucas is going,” Christian said. “The tickets are sold out, but I’m sure I can get you one. I know people.”

I grinned. My brother loved the fact he knew people. And he could be a real snake charmer when he wanted.

“Perhaps you could bump into him there, see if you two can talk.” Christian scowled. “And, by that, I don’t mean in the damn bathroom. I mean talk, Samuel.”

I scowled. “Piss off, Christian. It’s a fallacy that all gay men meet in bathrooms for a quickie, you know. You should stop being so stereotypical.”

“Maybe with other gay men, Samuel, but not with you.” He stared at me. “I seem to recall walking in on you a few times when you were busy—”

I put my hand over my brother’s mouth, not wanted to be reminded of those past rather embarrassing instances. That wasn’t the man I was now. Not after Lucas. “Okay, you made your point. Can you get me a damn ticket to see this damn movie or not?”

Christian charmed the pants off some woman at the local entertainment and arts venue, and five minutes later I had the promise of a ticket waiting for me at the box office.

* * *

Later that evening, warmly wrapped, I took one of my solitary walks up to the deserted Tor, mulling over what I’d say to Lucas when we finally spoke. There was an energy in the air, an energy unlike anything I’d felt before. It was as if all my senses were enhanced that night, smells assailing my nostrils, deep and clinging, sounds clearer and sharper than I’d heard before, and the usual warm feeling that caressed my body was closer than ever. So was the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

I can’t deny I was hoping Katherine might make another appearance. She didn’t, but I did feel a warmth around me as I sat there, watching the lights flicker and sparkle across the town. I listened to the hooting of owls somewhere in the darkness and absorbed all the energy around me. I could almost feel the spirits of those who had passed, hear their whispers in my ear and their cool fingers on my skin. Not for the first time, I wondered why I was so accepting of these unseen entities in my life.

I’d grown up with so-called imaginary friends since I was a little boy, something my parents and Christian fondly thought a figment of my imagination. I’d always known better. I’d been in Glastonbury all my life, having been born here at the stroke of midnight on December 21st, now only two days away, on the cusp of the Winter Solstice. Whether that had damn-all to do with the fact that I sensed or saw things, I didn’t know. I just knew that I’d always had an extreme appreciation for those things usually unseen and unheard. To me, such appreciation was normal.

Lucas had thought it something really special, actually. He’d cajoled every story, every anecdote out of me, his beautiful eyes wide with wonder and awe. He was like a sponge, absorbing each detail, and the fact that he didn’t laugh or sneer had warmed my heart and made me fall that much more heads over heels in love with him.

God, Lucas, I miss you so much.

But that didn’t bring him back, or his mother, and finally, my heart aching at the fact he wasn’t here with me, weary from sitting on this mystical hill and its all-out assault on my senses, I trudged down the hill, headed for my bed and a well needed sleep.

That night I had one of the most erotic dreams I’ve ever had. It was dark and I was on the Tor, standing on the hillside under the moonlight. St. Michael’s Tower rose behind me, outlined against the black sky. I was dressed in what looked like baggy trousers of an older age with a loose white blouse covering my upper body. My feet were bare, and I was frozen.

I shivered in the cold air, and when I breathed, puffs of white formed on the breeze and dissipated. My hands trembled with the cold and goose bumps prickled my skin. I was also aroused as hell. My cock was stiff, my pants were so tight it hurt, and I wanted badly to touch myself. But something held me back.

I was waiting for someone or something; that much I knew, even in my dream state. I closed my eyes, letting the cold night breeze kiss my skin, smelling the loam in the air and hearing the occasional call of a night bird. And then I smelt him, the scent of whiskey and sweat behind me.

I knew for sure it was a man from the rough hands that circled my neck, fingers delicately caressing my throat. My heart beat faster and my cock surged in my pants. My groin was heated beyond human temperatures, and I held my breath while warm lips caressed the back of my neck and then bit down softly. The sensation on my flesh was overwhelming, so intensely sensual, and I gasped as he pressed himself against the soft fabric of my trousers, his cock hard, insistent, needy.

“I’m so glad you came,” he whispered. “I knew you would.”

There was laughter in his voice and also deep desire, a husky growl that soaked into my bones, making my body lose all semblance of self control. I pressed my arse back against his crotch, desperate for him to take me.

“Please,” I begged. “I need you to fuck me. I need to feel you inside me.”

“You’re quite the needy little bastard, aren’t you?” the husky voice said with amusement. “Have no doubt, my fine friend. I have every intention of ploughing that fine arse of yours. More than once if you can take it. But first I want to play.”

His insistent erection pushed against me as his hand reached around and slowly rubbed my cock, and I groaned loudly, pushing my hips forward into his hand. His breathing got deeper at my obvious arousal, and he gave a self-satisfied chuckle as his wet tongue found my ear. Hot slickness pressed inside.

I moaned again, and this time he moaned with me. His hand got rougher on my groin, rubbing me harder, and finally I gasped, “You’re going to make me come in my pants. Is that your intention?”

He chuckled. “Not yet, stablehand. Not until I have my prick inside you and my hand wrapped around yours without barriers.”

My trousers and loose underwear were roughly pulled down around my thighs, and I found myself pushed down over a flat rock—one I didn’t think existed anymore today on the Tor. My balls and cock dangled down against the cold stone, my arse in the air, trousers pooling around my ankles, and I had never felt so horny or so ready for what was to come.

The man behind me muttered then softly cursed.

I laughed. “Are you struggling with your breeches, Highwayman? I told you when we met that they were not the easiest apparel to take off quickly. Is that not why we are here now, because we needed time?”

“We are here now, little stablehand, because the horseyard was far too busy and there were too many curious personages roaming about. I like my privacy when I’m about to ravish a fine arse such as yours.” His tone was amused, but I finally felt warm legs press against mine, hairy skin melding to my back, and then the slick, hot poker that was his cock pressed against my needy arsehole.

I grunted and tried to impale myself. He slapped my backside, hard, and I yowled.

“You’ll get me when I’m good and ready. Be patient, damn you.” The smile in his voice belied his words. “When I have your hot prick in my hand, I will make sure I fill you up with my own.”

The man I’d called Highwayman then proceeded to take my cock literally in hand and stroke, firmly slathering my own fluids over me as his fingers gripped and teased. He was courteous to the point of lathering those juices into the crease of my arse, and I hissed in pleasure when a finger was inserted in me lubricated with my own fluids.

“Oh, God,” I gasped as I ground myself down on his finger then closed my eyes in bliss as he inserted another. “You need to fuck me harder.”

He growled again, and I found myself forced down lower onto the rock. He rammed his cock inside me with no warning, and I cried out in pleasure, a sound that no doubt carried across the still night air and told anyone in earshot that a man was getting well and truly rogered on top of the Tor.

I relished the slap of flesh on flesh, the feel of his heat and his smoothness in my arse, the touch of his hand on my cock as he gripped me tighter and pumped me harder. Before long I cried out in ecstasy, and I came, jetting streams of viscous, musky come into his hand, my balls contracting into my groin and heat flushing my body like the flames of a fire licking at my skin. I was panting loudly, and the man behind me gave a triumphant cry as he thrust one more time deeply inside and I felt his stickiness flood my arse and slick my arse cheeks.

For a while we both lay there, my stomach uncomfortably flattened against cold stone, my balls and now limp cock dangling between my legs. The man, attached to me by his own essence, chuckled huskily in my ear as his hand ran through my hair in a surprisingly tender gesture.

“That was worth the wait, my pretty one. We shall definitely be doing that again. As soon as I get my breath back.”

He moved off of me and took my arm, pulling me to my feet. My trousers puddled around my ankles, and he laughed softly. “Dress, my friend, and come lie with me for a while. Isaac wishes to rest.”

It was the first time I’d seen his face, this man who called himself Isaac. As he laid his black cloak on the ground and beckoned imperiously for me to lie down upon it, the moon moved from its hiding place behind the clouds, and in its bright light I saw deep-set eyes and strong brows and a pout that seemed so familiar.

In the dream I nodded off, and as I did, I felt a soft kiss on my temple from the man who had just sent me to such pleasurable heights. “Sleep, little one,” he rumbled in a deep voice as I drowsed, “and take my advice. Remember that it is always advisable to fight for what you want. I learnt that lesson too late in my life and lost the only one who ever meant anything to me. He died without knowing the truth. Don’t let that be your fate.”

I nodded sleepily and snuggled closer to the warm body that held me close.

I woke up then, my bed wet with come and feeling gloriously fucked. I leapt up and immediately bundled the sheets and bed cover into my washing machine, but the remnants of that dream and the Highwayman’s words about his loss lingered long after my household chores were done and I was on my way to work.

* * *

After spending the day at the bookshop on tenterhooks, I went home and looked through my wardrobe to see what I could wear. I wasn’t particularly vain, living mostly in casual clothes and tee shirts, but tonight I wanted to wow the socks off Lucas, make him realise what he had right in front of him.

Huffing and puffing after changing clothes like a rabid catwalk model, I was finally satisfied. I looked at myself in the mirror and smirked. Let him turn this down.

Lucas loved the shape of my arse—as he should; it was firm and round—so I’d chosen my skin-tightest black jeans with my silver studded belt, my black trendy boots I’d picked up at Ted Baker in London, and a snug-fitting deep grey button-down shirt that hugged my chest and shoulders. My hair, which Lucas loved to run his hands through, fell to just below my ears, honey-blonde and straight. I’d decided against gelling it, as I wanted the au naturel look tonight. The only thing wrong with the picture was my eyes. Lucas had always said they were the colour of cobalt, like Ian Somerhalder’s. Tonight, all I could see in their dark blue depths was uncertainty and fear.

What if I couldn’t make this work? What if he really didn’t want me anymore?

I gave myself a mental shake. I had to make him see reason. Losing Lucas forever and not getting to tell him how much he meant to me was something I wasn’t about to contemplate.

* * *

I left my little Mini in the parking lot and made my way to the theatre.

Noveau. The venue buzzed with pretentiousness as I walked into the gilded and elegant foyer. In one corner there was a Christmas tree so huge that it looked as if Paul Bunyan had chopped it down. Bedecked with every pretentious decoration it could hold, it sported baubles that swung and glinted in the fairy lights hanging above, tinsel that shone like the fake smiles of the people in the foyer, and a myriad of twinkling lights that made me blink in dizziness. The small Christmas tree in our bookstore, decked out in tasteful silver, purple and green clothing, surrounded by books related to Christmas in one way or another, was a distinct contrast. I knew which one I preferred.

I sighed, resigned. The arty-farty lot were out in force tonight, and my ex-boyfriend was somewhere here among them, although he was by no means one of them. Not in my eyes. He was too genuine, too real to be one of a crowd who hung out kissing the air beside each other’s cheeks and making superficial conversation about ‘feeling the aura’ and ‘divining the true interpretation of Ginsberg’s metaphysical nature’ and ‘listening to one’s inner child explain the distant ramifications of societies’ cruelties.’ I wanted to gag, and I seriously considered hurling into a potted plant in the corner to show exactly how I felt.

Then I saw Lucas. He was engaged in conversation with a dark-haired muscleman who was about to have his arm broken if he touched Lucas just one more time on the backside.

I watched intently and listened as Muscle Man laughed with tinkling amusement, and I thought I’d really like to punch him in the mouth. The thought made me smile, and as I did, Lucas looked over and saw me. His face was pale, drawn, and it seemed he hadn’t slept for days. His eyes narrowed when I nodded.

He touched Muscle Man on the arm then strode over to me. His brown eyes were licks of fire under eyebrows that were just right, not too thin or thick…but I had to admit the eyes underneath didn’t look too friendly.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I waved a hand airily, trying to appear confident and not let him see just how nervous I was. “I’ve come to watch the late film. It sounds good.”

His eyes narrowed. “Since when do you enjoy movies like this? You’re more the Sly Stallone and Tom Cruise type.”

“I’ve watched movies here with you before, remember? We even made out in the back and I managed to get my hands in your p—” I broke off, realising my stupidity. Lucas might have been already outed, but my big mouth didn’t need to add fuel to the fire. I looked around in panic to see who might have heard.

Lucas sneered. “It’s a little too late to think about what’s coming out of your mouth, Samuel. The damage was done a few days ago.”

“About that, Lucas.” I took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

His eyes closed, and when he opened them I saw the faint flicker of desolation…but they grew stormy again. “About what? Things have blown over. The whole town knows about me, and, as you can see”—he waved at Muscle Man, who gave him a wide smile—“I’ve no shortage of potential suitors. They all want to take on the newly proclaimed gay town virgin and show him the ropes.”

His voice was tinged with anger but also a hint of pure hurt, and my chest clenched at the thought of anyone but me doing anything remotely ‘ropey’ with Lucas. Bile rose in my throat, and this time I really thought the potted plant might have an unwelcome feeding. I was nauseated as hell.

“Lucas, please at least allow me to apologise. I’m so fucking sorry. I made a mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

His eyes flickered, and I thought I saw a hint of wetness. “Samuel, forget about it.”

The air was close and warm, and I shivered as soft tendrils of something caressed my skin. It seemed that the forgotten and the dead were here too. One could practically taste the energy of long-forgotten actors and actresses, feel the faded whispers of their words and performances. There was history in the Nouveau, and I felt it. But the energy just made me all the more desperate to get Lucas back.

“Why the fuck are you being such a douche about this? I’m trying to apologise. You’re out now, so we can be together, and I just don’t understand why you won’t forgive me. Please explain it to me, Lucas. Why are you still pushing me away even after I’ve said I’m sorry!?”

I’d forgotten where I was for a minute, and my ex-boyfriend blinked at the venom in my voice. Also, the theatre hushed. Everyone stared at us as we faced down.

Lucas was white, and he seemed to forget we were in public, too. “I told you I wanted to let my dad get over my dead mother before telling him about us, and you ignored that. Losing my mum was bad enough. Then, to find out his only son is gay…? That it’s doubtful he’ll be given the grandkids he wants? That hurt him. I told you I didn’t want to do that.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, Lucas. You have to believe me.” I heard an embarrassing anguish in my voice but I didn’t care. This had to be said.

Lucas stared at me, lips thin, and he took a step forward. I thought he was going to hit me, but a quiet, firm voice echoed out behind us.

“Lucas, son, that’s enough. Samuel, you too.”

Lucas’s father stepped forward with an air of authority, and when he moved between us like a barrier of reason, both of us took a step back. Then Daniel Crewe continued, “Now, I know this is a public place, which seems to be your forum for venting, but let’s see if we can clear this up privately, shall we? What say we move somewhere else where we can be alone?”

Several patrons looked terribly disappointed that the evolving drama wouldn’t play out in front of them, but Mr. Crewe placed a firm hand on each of our shoulders and barrelled us into a small office on the side of the theatre.

I bit my lip mutinously, trying to hold in the words I wanted to say.

Mr. Crewe closed the door and turned to face us. “Right. Let’s get something straight. This won’t take long, as I’m a man of few words.” He held up a hand to forestall anything coming out of Lucas’s open mouth, and Lucas shut it. I was still biting my lip and watching.

Lucas’s father sighed. “Yes, son, I was shocked to find out you’re gay. I never really suspected, never had a reason. But, you know, I’ve never judged people who were different. So while it’s a bit of a shock, you are still my son. I will never ever love you any less. Your mother, bless her soul, would feel the same way. That I know. And no, she’s not here to help me with this, but she gave me you, Lucas, and we’re still together as a family in my heart.”

He shook his head. “As for the whole having-grandkids thing…yes, I’m disappointed. I only have one son, and I hoped he’d carry on the family name one day. But that said, Lucas, you’re my here-and-now, and all that counts is your happiness. And you’ve been a miserable little git since you stopped talking to young Samuel.”

I felt some satisfaction at that, but Lucas muttered under his breath and darted a heated look at me—not sexual, more like he wanted to hurt me. Still, I was happier. This meant he still cared.

Mr. Crewe looked a little pale. “I honestly don’t profess to know much about being gay, although I have done a bit of research on the computer in the library….” His voice faltered, and I wondered what exactly he’d come across. It couldn’t be anything X-rated, because the library computer had adult filters. It was doubtful he’d have accessed porn channels, and—

“I think the phrase ‘live and let live’ is a perfect maxim,” he continued, “especially if two people enjoy each other’s company.”

After that little gem, Mr. Crewe stopped talking and looked relieved. I waited for him to carry on but it appeared that he had finished. However, when I opened my mouth, he started speaking again.

“And, Samuel, I was there. I saw the look on your face when you realised you had an audience, and I think I can safely say you were gob-smacked. So, while your mouth runs away with you, I doubt you were being deliberately malicious. You’re not the sort of man who’d be like that. So that shouldn’t be the issue.”

Lucas just muttered again. I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Or he didn’t give a shit.

His father gave him a stern glare. “I’m going to leave this room, Lucas, and one way or another I expect you two to sort things out. Whatever you two decide to do, I’m fine with. Just bloody talk to each other! In private!”

He ruffled his son’s hair as he passed. Lucas and I stood like two gunfighters at the OK Corral, and soon we were alone.

Finally I spoke. “So, what the hell was your dad doing here, anyway? It’s not really his scene, is it?”

Lucas snorted. “He was visiting Mel—the projectionist. The two of them go way back, and they have a drink together now and then. This was one of those times.”

“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “So, does this mean we’re okay?”

Lucas’s face darkened, and his tone was flat. “Why would you think that?”

“Because of what your dad said. He said he knew I didn’t mean to out you, that it was a mistake and—”

“And that makes things all right? Because my dad said so?”

My heart sank, and I sighed. “No. Because…just because I’m sorry and I want to be with you again. I’ve missed you, Lucas. A lot.”

He harrumphed, and my temper rose at his apparent unconcern, but I tried to suppress it. “Really, Lucas. I love you and won’t ever do anything so foolish again. I know I fucked up, and I know it can’t be righted, but I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Lucas waved a hand. “Whatever. I need to go. The film will be starting soon.”

He ambled to the door and escaped out into the foyer, which was still full of people. They looked at us expectantly, no doubt salaciously anticipating the next riveting instalment of The Lucas and Samuel Show. Which unfortunately wasn’t long in coming.

“You stubborn, sulky arsehole!” I exploded as I followed him out. “Jesus, I thought I was one, but you, Lucas, you take the cake.”

He stopped and turned, and I saw guilt and faint shame in his face. But I had no energy for interpretation of my ex-lover’s moods. Not anymore.

“I give up,” I growled. “You win. I’m done trying.”

His face changed, looking worried, and as I marched up he bit his lips and lowered his eyes. That didn’t placate me, though, and I didn’t care about anyone in the vicinity. They had front row seats, but I just wanted this whole sorry fiasco to be over.

“I’m not going to apologise again. Take the fucking thing or leave it.” My ire was such now that I was sure I was going to burst a blood vessel. “I just want you to know one thing before you avail yourself of those ‘ropes’ you’ve been promised, Mr. New Town Gay Virgin. I’m the one that damn well loves you, you arsehole, not them. So you think of that when you’re sailing their damn ship.”

I had no idea where all the marine references were coming from; they just flowed from my lips like waves to the shore. My heart was pounding, my chest tight. “And I promise,” I finished, “not to bother you ever again.”

The shocked look on his face was priceless, along with the smirks and gasps of the other people in the foyer. I wheeled around and held my head high, marching out the double doors and down into the parking lot, all with as much dignity as I could summon.

I was on automatic pilot as I drove away, and when I switched off the engine and got out of the car I found myself at the foot of the Tor. I pulled on my warm Tog24 jacket and tucked my car keys into the pocket. Then I walked blindly up the hill toward the one place I knew I’d find some peace. My eyes stung with tears and the cold, my throat hurt like something was stuck in there, and my stomach churned like a buttermilk factory.

“I tried, Katherine,” I murmured, not knowing if she was out there somewhere. “But, by God, you sired a stubborn little bastard there. He doesn’t want me. He wants some random guy that’ll ‘teach him the ropes.’”

I swallowed and tried not to bawl like a baby as I reached the church. Slumping down against the wall, I laid my head, cushioned by the warm fur of my hood, back against the icy stone. That brought back memories of my dream, and I sunk into those, much more pleasant than the ones I’d just made.

A soft breeze caressed me, and despite my aching heart and the cold night I smiled. It was comforting, this wind, and whispers of sympathy and affection surrounded me like a Snoopy blanket and made me feel a little better. Something stroked my neck softly, like the tender touch of a lover, and I imagined the Highwayman, his face alight with a grin as he took on Lucas’s face and body and beckoned me over to him with affection.

I closed my eyes, imagining Lucas actually there with me, his sweet lips on mine, his tongue hot and wet in my mouth, his firm arse on my lap and grinding against me. I heaved a deep breath and felt the warmth of his skin, the smell of him, that unique scent of mint and vanilla he always wore, his favourite Paco Rabanne fragrance.

“I don’t want anything else for my damn birthday but you, Lucas,” I whispered to the breeze and the unseen visitors on the hill. “I miss you so much. If I could have you here with me now, I’d promise not to be the arsehole you think I’ll always be. God, please just give me this chance. I love you so damn much.”

The breeze caressed my skin like soft touches of a lover’s fingers, and I swore I felt a hand brush my groin. I savoured those touches, pretending it was Lucas, and smiled into the darkness as my cock hardened. Heat raced through my body like flames from a midnight forest fire.

I don’t know how long I was there, sitting with my hard-on, thinking of all the ways I’d try and make it up to Lucas if he followed me, but it had just gotten to be too much and I was almost at the point of unbuttoning my jeans to stroke myself when I heard someone clear his throat. I opened my eyes in panic to see…the very man I’d been thinking of.

He stood above me, watching, his hands clasped together nervously, his teeth biting his bottom lip. He wore the jacket I’d bought him for his eighteenth birthday, a down-filled garment similar to mine but in a deep warm shade of sable that matched his eyes.

My heart surged in my chest. Both hope and apprehension flooded my being.

“What do you want, Lucas? Are you going to chew me out again?”

He shook his head. “No. But I thought I’d find you here. You always come up here when you’re upset.” He smiled wanly. “I cycled up after the film. I couldn’t really concentrate on it anyway.”

I sat up, stunned. The film was listed at about one and half hours long, with an intermission, so I’d been sitting here a while. I’d lost track of time. Again. It felt like ten minutes had passed since I left him staring after me.

He sat down beside me and shifted awkwardly. I stayed quiet, eyes closed. I’d already said everything I needed to say.

“Samuel… What you said back there about loving me. Was it true?”

Typical Lucas. Straight to the point. But my spirits rose at the fact he was asking.

“Yes, Lucas,” I said. “I’m bloody crazy about you.”

He was quiet a moment. “You know you’re a complete arsehole, don’t you?”

I laughed tiredly. “That word has been a descriptor in my mind a few times since I said what I did, yes. It was a big mistake. One that can never be forgotten. But I hope it can be forgiven.”

We were both quiet. Somewhere a bell rang, and I frowned, thinking that the clear, tinkling tone was not a sound you’d expect on a cold, windy hill five hundred feet above sea level.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Lucas.

“Hear what? The wind?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. I must be hearing things.” Lucas might accept my feelings about ‘others’ I’d seen or sensed up here, but I didn’t really want to expound on the fact I was now hearing things as well.

Although, I knew I’d heard that bell.

I gazed at him. “Why are you here, Lucas? It’s bloody cold, and I’m sure you’d rather be home in bed, under the covers, all warm and toasty.”

He sniffed, the tip of his nose slightly red with cold. “It’s not the same without you in it. My bed, I mean.” He hesitated then carried on. “I know we didn’t do much, and you probably got a little bored, but—”

I shot up, eyes wide. “What the hell? What are you talking about?”

Lucas reached up and brushed a rogue strand of hair out of his eyes. His expression was uncertain. “I know I didn’t make it easy for you, asking me to keep our relationship a secret and not wanting to…you know”—he waved a hand—“have real sex. I thought maybe that was why you got so upset with me when I didn’t want to tell anyone about us.”

I took a deep breath while my throat clenched and my belly roiled with the injustice of his accusation. “Lucas, the fact that you didn’t want anal sex had nothing to do with anything. I wanted you to come out so that I could show you off at my birthday.” I looked at my watch in the darkness, struggling to see the time before I touched the little button at the side that lit up the face. “It’s in half an hour’s time as it happens. I wanted to announce to the world that you’re mine, that I love you and that we’re a couple. You are that important to me. That would have been the best birthday present ever, or Christmas present.”

I took a deep shuddering breath. “It was nothing to do with the fact I couldn’t get inside you, for God’s sake. How could you think that?”

Lucas nibbled at his bottom lip, something he did when he was unsure. “I, uhm…I know you’re used to sex with other guys, that you’re super experienced, and I thought maybe you were getting fed up, so you were trying to make me mad by pushing me to come out before I was ready.”

I shook my head vehemently, more bile rising in my throat. “Nothing could be farther from the truth. To be honest, I can’t bloody believe you’d think that. Hell, you must really have a low opinion of me!”

I got to my feet, legs wobbly from having been sitting so long, but the bell rang again. I looked everywhere but could see nothing. Lucas stood up, too.

“Stop that!” I called. “It’s bloody distracting, and I really don’t know what it means. You’ve got the wrong guy if you think I’m going to interpret that bloody bell as something big and meaningful. Go the fuck away.”

I thought I heard the soft peal of a woman’s laughter, and the heartier chuckle of a man. I just scowled, and Lucas stared at me as if I’d gone bat-shit mad.

“Bugger off!” I yelled. My heart was aching, and I wanted nothing more than to go home, curl up in a ball and sleep until the New Year like a hibernating bear.

I began to move, but Lucas grasped my arm. “I don’t know who the hell you’re shouting at, but please listen to me. I’m sorry. It’s just…I can’t really see what someone like you sees in someone like me. You could have any man you want, and you choose me?”

I turned to him, mouth agape. “Lucas, have you looked at yourself? Really looked? You are amazing. You have this hair that I want to run my hands through every time I see you. You have eyes that see right into me, into my bloody soul and never shy away from what you find. You’re passionate, clever—clever than me—the most warm-hearted person I know, and sexy as all sin. What the hell is not to love?”

Even in the dark I saw heat in his face and eyes. He moved closer to me, his lips so near that I could have kissed him right then. I held my breath instead, not wanting to spoil the moment.

“Really?” he said wonderingly. “That’s what you see when you look at me?”

His cold fingers tripped feather-light across my lips, and I was suddenly, achingly hard, my cock straining at the zipper of my jeans. The air seemed charged with energy, both sexual and emotional, and for a moment I lost my breath. Brown eyes the colour of melted toffee searched mine, and as I opened my mouth to speak, it was filled with warm tongue.

Lucas’s lips caught mine as if he wanted to consume me. All of me. The groan that racked my body came from my core, from my groin and deep inside my heart, and I wrapped my arms around his thickly clad torso and kissed him with everything I felt. Past transgressions and fears seemed to melt away, all of our arguments and preconceptions vanishing like soft winter snowfall on a tropic island, land that suddenly felt full of life where before it had seemed barren. All that mattered at this moment was the man in my arms, those lips on mine, hungry and needy, and the hardness of Lucas’s dick pushed up against mine. “I love you too, Samuel,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry I was an arsehole. I guess that makes two of us.”

My spirits soared and I pulled him even closer, my mouth greedily seeking his. He sighed gently and pressed himself against me, his hands sliding possessively into my waistband. We kissed and touched each other, hands seeking skin. It was too chilly to completely disrobe, so zippers were unfurled and hands slid into underwear to find the silk of each other’s cocks, and soft cries and entreaties of passion and need echoed from the dark hilltop and were flung out into the wind like scattered petals from a rose.

We spilt our seed against chilled legs and groins like it was our inexperienced first times, and finally I laid my forehead against Lucas’s as our breathing steadied and our bodies stopped trembling. My trousers were halfway down my legs, and my arse was freezing. I reached down and pulled them up, then did the same for Lucas, whose jeans were wrapped around his lean hips. We both shivered but grinned at each other, lips swollen with passion and eyes glazed with pleasure.

Sudden warmth enveloped us, like a ray of sunshine, and I sensed Katherine’s presence as I wrapped my hands around the back of her son’s neck and kissed him as if I’d never let him go. I wasn’t about to tell Lucas that I thought his mother had just watched him get off, but maybe I’d tell him later when he was ready to hear. I wanted to think we’d be sharing everything eventually.

Lucas moved away. “What was that? I felt something warm.”

I smiled and pulled him back, tucking his cock into his pants and zipping him up. “Nothing, babe. It’s just you and me up here. Maybe we’re generating our own heat.”

“I think we can do much better than this,” he said cheekily, slightly breathless. “Once we get back to your place, you can show me more of ‘the ropes’.”

I let out a loud laugh, and a sense of well-being flooded my body. I had my Lucas back. I kissed his eyes, his cheek, and ran my tongue along his jawline, and he sighed with pleasure. I reached out to caress his face.

“I’m okay with everything, Samuel,” he whispered. “With being out, and with my dad knowing and everything… It was tough, but not half as bad as I thought. At least now we can be open about things and we can be together. I’m sorry I was so pig-headed. I just…” He flapped a hand helplessly. “I just found it all a bit much. But being with you feels so right. I missed you, too. So much.”

He smiled, and I reached over and brushed a stray curl off his forehead. The bell rang again, and I shook my head in frustration.

“Is there a significance to bells?” I asked waspishly, glancing around. “Some deep spiritual meaning that I should know of? Because I think someone is trying to tell me something, and it’s pissing me off.”

“Your touchy-feely spidery senses kicking in?” Lucas murmured in amusement.

I nodded.

He looked at his watch then, squinting adorably. His face creased in a huge smile, and he placed cold hands on either side of my face to kiss me deeply. I was reeling again by the time he let me go.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispered. “It’s just after midnight. And, in spiritual terms, I’ve read somewhere that bells generally mean new beginnings, celebrations or transition. They dispel gloom and darkness and bring joy.” He shrugged and smiled. “I’d say that’s a great message for a birthday boy, and even more so for a birthday boy in the Christmas season.”

I should have known my learned journalist would know all about this sort of thing.

“Come on,” I said, and I held out my hand. “It’s getting bloody cold now. Let’s go back where it’s more comfortable and we can talk more. I have a little bit of a fantasy that I want to share with you.”

He took my hand, and we started down the hill. I felt lighter than air, as if my feet weren’t even touching the ground. My groin was cold and sticky with spent jizz, but I’d never felt happier. I had my man back and everything was all right with the world.

“A fantasy?” Lucas sounded intrigued. “What kind of fantasy?”

“It involves you, me, a cloak and a highwayman’s outfit.”

“Honestly? There’s actually a highwayman somewhere in my family tree. I think his name was Isaac or something, and he was quite active around these parts. Quite the rake, apparently.”

My heart stopped, and so did I. I turned to look at Lucas and said, “You’re kidding me.”

He shook his head. “No. Dad does the whole genealogy thing, and he went back as far as the eighteenth century. That’s how I found that out.”

Again, I swore I heard a man’s deep chuckle and a woman’s laughter as we got to the bottom of the hill. I looked around but saw nothing.

We got Lucas’s bike onto a rack on my car that I’d put there when we first started seeing each other, as recreational cycling had become a regular pastime for us both. Then, before we got in, I looked up towards St. Michael’s.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Lucas chuckled, pressed me against the car and nibbled my ear. “Who are you thanking? I’d hoped it was going to me, later, after I get you undressed and in bed.”

I kissed him violently, our teeth and tongues mashing together as we made out against the side of my car, but finally we pulled apart, both breathing heavily.

“I’ll definitely be saying thank-you later if you kiss me like that again,” I murmured against his lips. “Now, come on, my highwayman. Let’s get home and do that whole ‘showing you the ropes’ thing. Perhaps we can even use real ones if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Lucas shivered in my arms, and it wasn’t from cold.

I took one last look at the Tor in my rearview mirror as we drove home. Something magical had happened here; of that I was sure. But I also knew that the only magic I wanted, and that was worth fighting for was sitting beside me.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This story is set in Glastonbury, in Somerset.

Glastonbury is known for its magic, its mystery, its eclectic and sometimes eccentric mix of people, and of course for the Glastonbury Music Festival. I spent a few days there over Christmas in 2013 doing research for this particular story, as I wanted to walk to the Tor from town and get the timings and distances right and check out the general lay of the land. I nearly died, I can tell you, walking up that hill towards the ruins of St Michael’s Chapel. I am unfit anyway, and that just about did me in.

It was a beautiful walk, though, and when you get to the top, the effort is worth it. St Michael’s Church or chapel is amazing. It was once possibly a monastery, ‘dissolved’ (a fancy word for torn down) when Henry VIII took on his role as a supreme being by law, overriding all other religious leaders including the Pope. Henry wanted to direct all the money held by these religious institutions into his own coffers and to help fund the war. He used Cromwell as his blunt instrument. The Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1539 is a fascinating but tragic story.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissolution_of_the_Monasteries

The only part they left was the tower. Talking to the hermit-like guide who basically lives up there somehow—I don’t know how; there isn’t any dwelling or anything—I learned the monks sometimes used it as a housing place for women on their menstrual cycle, as this was seen as dirty and likely to taint the rest of the town. So Glastonbury women stayed up there until it was over.

All in all, the town and Tor are fascinating history and well worth the visit. Just ensure you have a better cardiovascular system than me if you want to make it to the top without having to stop for a rest every five minutes and look like a pink marshmallow when you arrive wheezing at the peak.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Susan Mac Nicol is a self-confessed bookaholic, an avid watcher of videos of sexy pole-dancing men, a self-confessed geek and nerd, and in love with her Smartphone. This little treasure is called ‘the boyfriend’ by her longsuffering husband, who says if it vibrated there’d be no need for him. Susan hasn’t had the heart to tell him there’s an app for that.

A lover of walks in the forest, theatre productions, dabbling her toes in the cold North Sea and the vibrant city of London where you can experience all four seasons in a day, she is a hater of pantomime (please don’t tar and feather her), duplicitous people, bigotry and self-righteous idiots. She likes to think of herself as a ‘half full’ kind of gal, although sometimes that philosophy is sorely tested.

In an ideal world, Susan Mac Nicol would be Queen of England and banish all the bad people to the Never Never Lands of Wherever-Who Cares. As that’s not going to happen, she contents herself with writing her HEA stories and pretending that, just for a little while, good things happen to good people.

A FAMILY FOR CHRISTMAS

A Ladies of the Abberly Theater Romance

Aubrey McKnight

For my daughter, who taught me there’s more to being a mommy than genetics. Laloo.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks go out, as usual, to Aaron and Lark, for all their help and support.

A FAMILY FOR CHRISTMAS

Chapter Twenty-Four

Abberly Theater, London

December, 1895

Snow drifted gently to the cobblestone streets. Thomas and his little sister, Annie, watched as a large number of children lined up outside one of the most popular theaters in London. They didn’t appear to be wealthy children; Thomas could tell from their well-worn coats and the stern-looking women who escorted them inside. There were several women herding them about like sheep instead of mothers and fathers holding their hands.

No, these were children from the orphanages. Maybe even some from the workhouses, though he doubted any of those would be given such a privilege. It looked like some sort of party was going on, and they were going inside where it was warm, and where, if they were lucky, there might be food. At the very least cake and tea. Thomas’s stomach rumbled at the possibility. Sweets were better than nothing at all.

He looked down at his little sister. Annie shivered in the raveled sweater she wore over an equally tattered dress that was two sizes too small. She needed to be inside. She needed food in her belly.

He felt as if he’d failed her. At ten, he should have been able to provide better. But working meant leaving her alone, and an eight-year-old girl alone on the streets of London… Instead, they’d lived in vacant buildings and stolen food from the street vendors. Rubbish bins when needed. But Thomas was tired, and the crumbling buildings were cold and dangerous.

Just one night inside. Just a little time to rest and be warm. Then he would be able to think of something they could do, somewhere they could go besides the workhouses, where he knew his sister would quickly waste away.

“Thomas, I wonder if they are going to a Christmas party. I wish we could go there.” Annie looked up at him with her big, blue eyes, and he knew in that moment what they would do.

“Oh, look.” She pointed to a poster. “They’re going to see a Panto, just like mummy used to take us to see. Oh, I want to see it, Thomas!”

Thomas took her hand and squeezed. Just then the smell of warm, roasted chestnuts floated across his nose, and the familiar aroma made Thomas’s tummy pinch and his eyes threaten to water with unshed tears of longing. He remembered his mum loved chestnuts and would always treat them this time of year, after the Pantomime was over. There would be no chestnuts this Christmas. No Panto. Or anything else, for that matter. Mum was gone, and along with her anyone that cared about them at all. And they were running out of safe places to stay.

Desperate with worry about his little sister, Thomas made up his mind. What was the worst that could happen? They’d be booted out, right back where they started. Well worth the risk. Taking Annie’s hand, he hauled her toward the back of the line of children. “We’re going inside, Annie. Look. Let’s get behind those boys over there, and we’ll walk right in with them.”

“But what if they catch us?” She squeezed his hand, her eyes wide with fear.

“Just act as if we belong with them. You can do that, can’t you?”

Annie thought about it then nodded firmly.

“That’s the spirit,” he said with a grin. “Chin up.”

Annie faced forward in her best military stance, just as their uncle had taught them before he left for America, and together they marched inside with the line.

Thomas had seen pictures once, in a book he’d found at the lending library. He knew that theaters sometimes had good hiding places beneath the stage. Many nooks and crannies in which to disappear. If they could manage to stay there for a few days without anyone noticing, he might be able to think of something to do. Maybe find a way earn enough to help them get to New York City, where their mother’s brother now lived. They could stow away on one of the big ships and use the money he earned to find his uncle once they got there.

Perhaps, Thomas thought, he could find a way to take care of himself and Annie.

* * *

Madelyn watched from the balcony as the children walked single file down the aisles, taking seats in an orderly fashion, their chaperones sitting at either end of each row. She looked at their scrubbed-pink faces and the clean-but-well-used clothing they wore and it was as if her womb gave a twist.

Just this morning she’d looked at the unadorned Christmas tree at home, no presents beneath, no children to spoil with gifts from Father Christmas. What she wouldn’t give to have a child of her own. Hers and Will’s. But it was not to be. Oliver Wickfield had made sure of that when his blade sliced her abdomen open several years ago. She’d been lucky to escape with her own life, and should not dwell on her inability to give life to another. Will had accepted her barrenness, and it was time she did as well.

“I do hope we purchased enough food for them all,” Calliope whispered . “They look so…hungry. Especially that little boy and girl in the back of the line.”

Calliope motioned toward the two children. Unlike the others, their clothing was tattered and a bit dirty, and it appeared as if they could have used a bath before they came if the smudges of dirt on the little boy’s face were any indication. Yet they had walked down the theater aisle with pride as if they were dressed in the finest of silk, and Madelyn smiled. Good show.

“They haven’t enough funds at the orphanages these days to keep up with the demand,” Calliope replied. “I’ve been told most of the beds are taken, and they get by with soup and bread. Sometimes for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

“It’s such a shame.” Madelyn’s attention was still on the boy and girl as they took seats at the end of a row near the back, away from the other children. The chaperones didn’t seem to mind the fact they were segregating themselves, ignored them in fact. Madelyn watched the little girl’s face light up when the performers entered the stage. The boy stood again, looking about as if he couldn’t believe they were inside the auditorium. “I wish there was more we could do.”

“The funds from the annuity Jamie and I are setting up should be available soon.” Calliope had moved to the large, round mahogany table that served as their work station in the balcony, tying a bow onto one of the small wrapped gifts they’d prepared for the children. She set it on the table with the others before stretching her back and rubbing her very pregnant belly. “It won’t be enough to do much more than perhaps buy clothing or food or do repairs that the government doesn’t deem emergent, but hopefully Jamie’s and Will’s mother and her friends will join us with generous donations as well.”

“Ladies, what are we plotting now?”

Iphigenia had arrived, breathless, with her ten-month-old son David secured with one arm and a bag of gifts in the other, a rolled quilt balanced on top. She set the bag next to the table and Madelyn took the blanket and spread it onto the floor. Iphigenia placed a gurgling David on the pallet and plopped down in the nearest chair with an exhausted chuff.

“We were just deciding if we should send out for more food,” Madelyn replied, noting that her friend looked disheveled and tired. Very unusual for the normally energetic illusionist.

“Never too much, I always say,” Iphigenia replied. “We can distribute whatever is left over to the orphanages we could not invite.”

“Wonderful idea. I’ll take care of it this instant.” Calliope swept from the room in a swirl of royal blue silk.

Madelyn turned to see Iphigenia studying her intensely.

“You know, you and Will could adopt,” her friend said, out of the clear blue.

“What?”

“Madelyn, dear…” Iphigenia took her hand and pulled her down beside her on the corner of the chair. “I see how you look at David. And just now at Calliope. You want children, too, and there are many who need homes. You could take in a child from the orphanages. I’m certain they have infants in need of loving parents. David would have a little friend to play with. Can’t you see them grown? Best friends, just like Matthias and Will.”

Madelyn smiled at her friend’s excitement. “I’m just not sure that Will would be so open about such a plan.”

“Have you two discussed the prospect?”

“No…” Would he be willing to raise another man’s child? Most men she knew would balk at the idea.

“You should at least mention it to him,” Iphigenia said. “If it’s something you really desire. And I know you do.”

“Gaw! I swear them kids is gonna tear the ’ouse down before it’s all said and done!”

The women turned to see Maggie standing in the doorway, arms akimbo, lips twisted in a half grin, half grimace. “They fairly attacked me and Bill on their way to the tables. You’d think they never give ’em anything to eat, from the way they acted like pigs called to the bleedin’ trough.”

Madelyn laughed at her former assistant’s colorful language. Maggie had taken over the job as head costumer for the theater when Madelyn returned to the stage. The younger woman took her responsibilities very seriously, including the fact she’d likely have to oversee any repairs required after a party full of raucous children. But that wasn’t the most interesting thing about her statement.

“Bill is it?” Iphigenia questioned, laughter tinting her voice. “We’ve progressed from Constable O’Malley to Bill. Should we prepare for a happy announcement soon?”

Maggie stuck out her tongue. “Me and Bill’s just friends is all. Nothing to gossip on.”

“I think you’re fibbing,” Madelyn countered. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re together. Constable O’Malley is smitten, Maggie. I think you are too.”

The younger woman’s cheeks burned bright pink as she busied herself arranging gifts on a large silver tray. She paused. “You really think he fancies me?” Her eyes pleaded for honesty.

“I’m sure of it.” Madelyn clasped her shoulder and gave her a quick hug. “And why wouldn’t he? You’re a lovely person and a beautiful young lady.”

“Indeed,” Iphigenia chimed in. “He’d be lucky to have you return his affections.”

“I’m no lady.” Maggie grinned, swiping back a lock of hair that had escaped her French braid.

“Oh, Maggie,” Calliope chimed in from the doorway. “You’re much more of a lady than most highborn women I know, including me.”

Maggie’s face flushed crimson and she bobbed a curtsey, quickly escaping from the room.

Calliope looked at the others. “Why does she always run when I arrive? I’m becoming paranoid.”

Madelyn laughed. “Forgive me, Calliope, but you can be just a tad intimidating to those who don’t know you well.” Her friend had no idea how her height, her status and her generally blunt demeanor affected those around her.

“Me?”

“Yes,” the others replied in unison.

“Oh, dear. No one’s ever told me that before.” Calliope looked on the verge of tears. She fanned her face and sat down at the table. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

Madelyn rushed to her side. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, Callie. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please forgive me.”

“Oh, it’s not you. It’s this.” She pointed at her belly. “I have never been so weepy. Jamie is positively at his limit. I can’t tell him what is wrong, and that makes him feel helpless, and now he stays at his club until the late hours to avoid upsetting me. Which only upsets me more.”

Sobs wracked Calliope’s body, and Madelyn was at a loss as to how to comfort her. She could understand Jamie’s frustration. She searched the inset pockets of her gown and pulled out a clean handkerchief. Handing it to Calliope, she patted her arm.

“It’s the pregnancy, and the holidays make all of us emotional,” Iphigenia said as she retrieved David from the pallet. The baby had become fussy, and Iphigenia retrieved a clean diaper from a large satchel she now carried everywhere. “I was the same way with this one here. Drove Matthias absolutely mad. It will continue afterward, I must warn you, until you begin to wean him from the breast. Then all will return to normal.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.” Calliope cleared her throat and gave one final, unladylike sniff. She smiled and acted as if the entire scene had not occurred. “Shall we finish wrapping these gifts and take them out to the children? I’m so looking forward to their faces as they open their new toys.”

“First things first,” Iphigenia said, and she left the room, David and the clean diaper in tow.

* * *

While the other children and their keepers had been watching the puppet show, Thomas snuck away, leaving Annie in the safety of the crowd, and snooped about the premises. He found the stairs, located a nice cozy nook of a room where they could sleep in the underbelly of the theater, and also a larder where there were jars of vegetables, some dried fruits and tinned biscuits. While everyone was busy, he took some of the food to his safe place. He didn’t steal much, as he didn’t want anyone to notice. Just enough for a couple of days. He also found cloth he and his sister could use as blankets, and bags they could fill with bits of soft material to make pillows. He and Annie would sleep in the best surroundings he could remember since before their mother died.

Thomas waited for the opportunity to secret himself and Annie into his safe place in the catacombs, and his opportunity came when several ushers entered the room carrying silver trays loaded with brightly wrapped gifts. As much as he’d like to allow Annie that small luxury, they had far more pressing needs at the moment. Shelter. And food. So he dragged his reluctant sister behind him, down the back hallway to the stairs.

“This way, Annie. Quiet.”

“Where are we going, Thomas?” his sister whispered a bit too loudly.

Thomas shushed her with a finger over his mouth. “I’ve found us a nice room to stay in, and plenty to eat until I can get work. You’ll be safe there, nobody’s around.”

“I’m scared,” Annie whispered, and Thomas’s ten-year-old heart gave a wrench. When had she not been scared? Himself, too, for that matter.

“We’ll be fine here, I promise.”

And with that declaration, something he wasn’t really sure about, he led her down the stairs and into the darkened theater basement.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Maggie quietly snuck out her bedroom door, whispering back to Bill as she descended the stairs to the theater’s small kitchen. “Just a minute, love. I left us some extra chicken and cakes in here after dinner. Come help me carry them back up and we’ll have a midnight feast.”

“You mean early morning,” the constable said as he joined her.

Maggie stood in the center of the kitchen, hands on her hips, her gaze scouring every surface. Where had her stash gone? “I can’t find them,” she muttered. She pointed to one corner of the square oak table. “I put them right there after tea, and now I can’t find them at all. It’s that Joe Morton, I’ll wager. Ravenous beast, he is.”

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and Maggie leaned into Bill O’Malley’s hard chest, covering his hands with hers. “And just what is Joe Morton doing in my lady’s kitchen?”

“It’s not my kitchen, silly boy, it belongs to all of the tenants at the theater. And he’s the handyman, not a big, strong, handsome constable such as yerself.” She turned, pressed her body against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “And if you kiss me well enough, I’ll forget all about that missing chicken and tea cakes I was looking for.”

“Hmmm. Tempting as that idea is, I was looking forward to that chicken.”

Maggie pulled back and slapped at his arm. “Well, that’s it for ya. Off to yer own bed, then.”

Bill laughed and grabbed her, pulling her close. He pressed his lips to hers, and Maggie melted. Who needed mistletoe? The man was good at kissing—and other things, truth be told. She was a good girl, after all, but not a saint.

Bill abruptly broke the kiss and pulled away. Maggie looked up at him in confusion and followed his gaze past her, toward the stairs that led down to the catacombs of the theater. “Should there be anyone down there at this hour?”

“It’s three in the morning,” she replied. “No one else is awake that I know of.”

He lifted his chin toward the door. “There’s a light on down there. You can see it, very dim.”

Maggie turned once again to look, squinting. Yes. She could just make out a dim luminescence peeking out through the partly open basement door. When had it been opened? And by whom? “I’ll be. Wonder who would be in the catacombs in the middle of the night?”

“Someone up to no good, I’ll wager.” Bill immediately went into constable mode and snatched the oil lamp from the kitchen counter. “Let’s have a look then. You stay here.”

Maggie tightened her robe about her waist and followed Bill to the stairs. “Like bloody hell, I will.”

He turned to her. “You’ll do as I say and stay here. I won’t have you getting hurt by some cracksman.”

“You’re not on the clock, Constable O’Malley, and you’re in my home.” She snatched a skillet from the stovetop. “I’ll follow and I’ll help you nab the bludger.”

The comment garnered a chuckle from Bill, but his face quickly turned serious as he headed down the narrow stairwell.

The flame of the oil lamp lit their path, but as soon as they had descended the steps, Bill doused the light. He grasped Maggie’s hand and led her along as he followed the path of candlelight that would lead them to their quarry.

“However did you see this light all the way upstairs?”

She could feel his shrug. “It’s what I do.”

They wound through the open hallways to a small room only twenty feet or so from the stairs. Maggie felt Bill stiffen as he went into policeman mode. He handed her the lamp and took the frying pan. Raising it in the air, he jumped into the room’s opening…and stopped, lowering his arm. He looked at Maggie then back in the room, then back at her.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“See for yourself.”

He stepped aside and Maggie peeked through the doorway. Curled up among scattered old costumes and swatches of fabric were two young children. Their angelic if dirty faces glowed in the light of two candles placed carefully in the corner, away from anything flammable. A platter scattered with well-cleaned chicken bones and a few cake crumbs sat between them.

“Wonder who these belong to,” Bill said. He entered the room as if to rouse them, but Maggie grabbed his biceps.

“Don’t wake them, let them sleep. The poor dears look exhausted.”

“We need to find out who they are and get them back to their parents. They must be sick with worry.”

“They have none, I’m sure,” Maggie replied. “I saw them at the party for the orphanage day before last.”

“Then the orphanage must be looking for them.” He scratched his head. “Surely someone is concerned they’re missing.”

“Well, it won’t hurt to wait until a reasonable hour to wake them. No one will be about at this time of morning, either.”

Maggie pulled off her robe and settled it over the little boy, who looked as if he were taking care of the younger girl, allowing her to snuggle beneath the majority of cover. He immediately nestled into the warmth of Maggie’s robe, even in his sleep, and her heart gave a tug. He’d probably been cold a long time. And hungry. She’d see both had a proper breakfast the next morning.

She ran her arm through Bill’s. “C’mon, let’s leave them to rest. I’ll rustle you up something to snack on in that rasher-wagon.”

He sighed. “If you insist. I still feel odd about leaving them here. It’s my duty to—”

“You’re not on duty, constable. Now, come with me and leave these babes to their sleep.”

* * *

At seven a.m., a tired Maggie crept down the stairs and found the children still asleep on their pallets. After a deep breath she knelt beside the boy and gently shook him awake.

“Time to get up, young master,” she whispered, so as not to wake the little girl. “You have some explaining to do.”

The boy’s eyes opened slowly and he dug his palms in the sockets to rub the sleep away. Realization that he was found apparently struck and he scrabbled away from her.

“Here, here,” she said, reaching out to him. “No reason to be alarmed. I only want to see if eggs and bacon suit you for breakfast, is all.”

The boy blinked. “What?”

“Do you prefer a proper English breakfast, or would you rather have porridge? It’s your choice.”

The boy blinked again and shook his head, eyes narrowed and distrustful. “P-porridge will do, but—”

“Didn’t ask what would do. Asked you what you’d prefer.”

Her words were met by a tentative if not yet fully trusting grin. “Then I’d prefer the other.”

“And this young miss?” She nodded toward the now restless and close-to-waking little girl. “Would she have the same, you reckon?”

“Yes, ma’am. She would.”

“Very well.” Maggie settled her hands on her hips. “When your little sister there wakes, come upstairs to the kitchen. I’m sure you know where that is, seeing I’ve been missing a few things lately.”

The boy hung his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Maggie had turned to leave when the boy finally found his courage. “Why are you helping us?”

She stopped and turned back to him. “Because that’s what people do, help one another.”

“Not any people I know,” he mumbled, once again looking down at his lap.

Maggie felt her heart crack a little more, and she stepped back into the alcove and knelt down until she was face to face with the youngster. “What is your name?”

“Thomas,” he replied. He nodded at the little girl who sat up, eyes large with fear. “And that there’s my sister Annie.”

“Well, Thomas, Annie, we’re not just any people here at Abberly Theater, we’re a family, and we take care of those what come through those tall doors upstairs. Now, go on, the both of you, and I’ll show you where you can wash your faces and tidy up a bit.”

The children stood, and once again Maggie’s emotions gave a tug when she saw the sorry state of the clothing they wore. She made a mental note to check what materials might be available for new ones while they were busy eating their fill. She’d have to inform Mr. Abberly of their presence, of course, but given his kindness she was sure he’d agree to allow them to stay until proper arrangements were made or their parents were found, and as soon as she dragged their full names out of the boy Bill would begin working on that.

* * *

“No, they absolutely cannot stay.” Matthias Abberly paced the floor of his office.

A bit shocked, Maggie wrung her hands, plastered on her best pleading face. She’d been sure he’d have no objections to the children staying on until proper arrangements could be made. “But, sir, they have nowhere else to go.”

Matthias stopped and sighed. “There’s the orphanage, Maggie. I know you mean well, and I am truly sympathetic for their circumstance. But even if we had a room to spare, there is the fact that we don’t know where they belong, nor to whom they belong. There must be someone out there who worries for them.”

“There’s no one, Matthias.” Iphigenia stepped forward and wrapped her arm through his. “At least, that’s what Thomas told me.”

Maggie piped up, “And Bill said it may take some time before they are able to locate a parent, if there even is one. Thomas tells me their mother died and their father left them over a year ago, just when the mother became ill.” The bastard.

Iphigenia tapped her upper lip with one elegant finger and then spoke. “However, I may know of a solution to our dilemma. Madelyn and Will have all that extra room and—”

“You will not foist these children onto Madelyn and Will, Iphigenia.”

His wife scowled. “Don’t you use that authoritative tone of voice with me, Matthias Abberly. You know it doesn’t work. And I happen to know that Madelyn longs for children. I have suggested adoption in the past, but she hesitated. Perhaps this would be a good way for them to see if it’s the right alternative.”

“You can’t just parcel out children like stray kittens.”

“I would be doing nothing of the sort. I would be giving children who need a place to stay a home, and two wonderful people who would like to have children a chance at happiness.”

Maggie laughed inwardly, and felt relieved as well. She had no doubt Iphigenia would get her way. She always seemed to be able to twist Mr. Abberly around her finger, and pretty much anyone else who crossed her path. So, Thomas and Annie would be going to a good home instead of an overcrowded orphanage, and that was the most important thing.

* * *

Later that day, Maggie and Iphigenia bundled up the freshly bathed children in a new set of clothing, courtesy of Mr. Abberly, and they all waited in the office for the arrival of Madelyn and Will. Iphigenia had spoken to Madelyn about caring for the children until arrangements could be made, and the woman had hesitantly agreed. Will, according to Iphigenia, had been more than pleased, even anxious, to do so. Maggie wished she and Bill were in a position to take them in, but they’d only just agreed to marry in the spring, and a ready-made family…well, she loved children, but she wanted to be a wife for a while before becoming a mother, not jump in with both feet.

A few moments later, there came a soft knock at the office door. It swung open gently, and Madelyn and Will stepped inside. Will removed his hat and grinned widely, and Madelyn covered her mouth with one gloved hand. She’d worn her veil again, Maggie noted with consternation. Could the reason she’d been hesitant to take the children in be that she feared her scars would scare them? Perhaps.

Will approached Thomas and Annie first. The children stood from their perches on the sofa, and he knelt before them on one knee. “My name is William Renshaw. What are your names?”

Thomas nodded, cleared his throat and replied with as much fortitude as he could muster, “Thomas and Annie Johnson, sir.”

“Glad to meet you,” Will said, taking each child’s hand and shaking it in turn. “And the only sir is my brother. I’m just Mister Renshaw, or Will. Or whatever you choose to call me, as long as it’s decent and allowed to be said with ladies present.”

Thomas chuckled, and the ice was broken, at least between him and the children. He looked back at Madelyn, still rooted to the spot she’d taken when they entered the room, and held out his hand.

She stepped gingerly forward then knelt beside her husband. “I am Madelyn,” she said. “I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Thomas and Annie.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the children murmured in unison.

Annie stepped forward and touched Madelyn’s face beneath the veil, traced her little fingers along the scar that puckered her cheek. “I have an ouchie too. Want to see?” She lifted up her threadbare skirt and raised her knee, pointing to a tiny white line just above her shin. “I got it when Thomas and I were running from—”

“She fell when we were playing,” Thomas interjected. Maggie had a feeling there was more to the story than that, but she kept mum.

“Well, then.” Will stood and clapped his hands together. “Shall we go shopping and perhaps stop at Mr. Kipling’s Emporium for a few pieces of Turkish Delight?”

Annie cheered and clapped her hands. Thomas was a bit more conservative with his response, simply grinning and nodding his head.

Will thanked everyone then turned to Maggie as they prepared to leave. “Thank you for entrusting us with their care,” he murmured. “We’ll do our best to keep them happy.”

Maggie smiled, any lingering concern she’d had evaporating with his sincere words. “I’ve no doubt you will.”

With that, Will hoisted the little girl on his shoulders. “Mind your head!” And they were gone.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Several days later, Madelyn watched from the doorway as Will taught Thomas to play backgammon. Annie sat nearby, sharing tea with a brand-new doll they’d purchased on a shopping trip two days prior, and Will turned away from the game to accept a cup and pretend to sip. Set against the backdrop of their Christmas tree, the fireplace casting a golden hue over the little group, Madelyn was beginning to imagine them as a family. Father, daughter and son. The idea didn’t seem foreign or strange, but right and good.

In these short few days, the children had blossomed. Thomas almost seemed to trust them with Annie’s care, and Annie… Well, the little girl had stolen Will’s heart from the very beginning—and Madelyn’s as well. Ouchie, indeed.

Will glanced up and held out a hand. “Come and sit with us, Madelyn. Thomas is about to win this round, I think. Aren’t you, young man?”

Madelyn hesitantly stepped into the room, unwilling to break the peaceful atmosphere. “Well, then, beating the master at his own game?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, a blush tingeing his cheeks. He was the shy one, she realized. Quiet, but very strong and very, very brave. Made that way by a difficult life, Madelyn was certain. He was really quite bright, and if given half a chance she knew he could do great things. Wonderful, brave things.

They—she and Will—could give him that chance.

“Well done, then.” She looked to Will. He reached out his hand to cover hers as if he knew, as he often did, the direction of her thoughts. But this time she doubted he did. Men just didn’t willingly take in other men’s children. Not men of Will’s social standing. Not a half-grown child, especially. They had their own babies, or they lived without. Orphans were just…not done. But her husband was a man different from others.

Her heart had told her she wanted to take care of these children from almost the moment she saw them from the theater balcony, and Will had agreed whole-heartedly. She hadn’t expected his quick acceptance, another indication she’d chosen well when she’d agreed to marry him. And thanks to his social standing they could likely grease enough wheels to process an adoption at lightning speed.

“I was just considering what we might ask Cook to prepare for dinner. Does anyone have any suggestions?”

“Why don’t we go somewhere, give Cook the evening off? Perhaps we’ll attend the Panto. Roasted chestnuts and a stroll in the park afterward. What do you think, children?”

Her beloved husband’s suggestion was met with a rousing chorus of cheers from Thomas and Annie.

“Chestnuts? Will! You’ll ruin their dinner.”

“Dinners are meant to be ruined from time to time.” He stood and helped her rise, too. “What say you, Maddy? Care to be frivolous and impulsive?”

Madelyn sighed and shook her head. “Very well. Let it never be said I quelled the desires of our guests.”

“Yes, guests.” Will lowered his voice, the soft warmth of his breath caressing her ear. “I want to speak with you regarding that. Later. When we’re alone and I can ply you with kisses and…such.”

* * *

Two weeks later, Calliope wrung her hands as she handed a newspaper to Madelyn. “I hope you don’t mind, but I used you as an example of how adoption can create a beautiful family.”

Madelyn stared at page six of the Times from the previous day, the family portrait she and Will had made the day the adoption was made official staring back at her. A happy family of four. Her family. Adopting the children still seemed like a lovely dream.

“I suppose there’s no issue,” she said. “We are happy to help other children find homes.”

Calliope grasped her arm and gave it a squeeze. “Oh, thank you. I was so worried you’d be angry, feel like it was taking advantage, but it could do so much good.”

“Yes, of course.”

But Madelyn couldn’t help the tiny niggle of apprehension in her stomach, as if to expose their little family was tempting fate. They hadn’t been able to find Thomas and Annie’s father to obtain his consent. Not that they really needed it. They had been assured the man’s abandonment of his children would prevent any future issues should he ever present himself. No judge was likely to take the children away from a loving home where they were well provided for and hand them over to a wastrel….

Yet, she could not shake the feeling that the photograph, grainy though it was, might do more harm than good.

“Well, then,” she said, folding the paper and placing it on the table next to her chair, “let’s hope it does its job admirably. Now, how are you feeling? It’s getting close to your time.”

Calliope smiled and motioned to her belly. “I feel quite like an elephant, to be honest. I cannot wait for this one to be born.”

Madelyn laughed. “It’ll all be over soon. Names?”

“Oh, now that is a bone of contention we’ve yet to resolve. Jamie wants some stuffy family name from centuries ago. Charles Winston Geoffrey something or other. Six names! I will not saddle my child with six names, no matter how blue his blood might run.”

Madelyn sighed, smiled and shook her head as her lively friend went on about the hideous Renshaw names for girls. For the first time since her friends had begun having babies, she no longer felt that twinge of jealousy stir within her breast. She had her own children. They were healthy and happy, and she loved them terribly. Even though she hadn’t carried them in her body, she now carried them in her heart, and she could not feel any more like their mother if she’d borne them herself.

Calliope’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “You seem wistful.”

“I have just realized that you are correct. There are many ways to create a family, and I’m glad you used our example in the paper. I do hope it works.”

“It already has.” Calliope’s mouth spread into a wide smile. “I received word just this morning that two little girls were spoken for by a couple who were inspired by Mr. Bender’s article. They will sleep in their own beds tonight, thanks to you.”

While Calliope’s words were reaffirming, they were not wholly reassuring. Madelyn had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t sure why, but it was there nonetheless. Perhaps Will, with the enthusiasm he possessed in all things, could make her see her worries were unnecessary and unfounded.

Yes, she would share her concerns with her husband.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Christmas Eve

The Renshaws, as Madelyn had begun to fondly think of their little family, sat in the parlor of their home. Will and Thomas played dolls with Annie around the monstrously large dollhouse Will’s mother had purchased for the girl, and Madelyn was putting the finishing touches on an elaborate dress she’d sewn for Annie’s dolly.

“Missus Shumworthy, would you care for a spot of tea?” Annie questioned Will, or rather the china-faced doll he held in his hand and danced about.

“Why, yes, I believe I would. And are those scones you have there, Missus Spotsbury?” Will replied in falsetto. “I would very much like one of those, please.”

“No, those are not scones, madam.” Annie gestured toward a plate of small stones she had arranged on a china saucer. “They are fairy cakes with little roses on top.”

“Ah, I see,” Will said in his normal tone. Then he cleared his throat and, using his feminine voice again: “I see. I shall have one, if you please.”

As Annie parceled a stone onto a smaller plate, Thomas mumbled, “I’m hungry.”

Madelyn took that as her cue to put together a real tea, set her sewing aside and was about to rise from her chair when a loud banging sounded at the door.

Will turned with a questioning glance. “Were we expecting anyone?”

Madelyn shook her head. Her earlier feeling of foreboding returned with a vengeance. “No.”

The banging resumed, this time so hard it made Madelyn jump. Will set aside Mrs. Shumworthy and rose to his feet, heading toward the hallway. “Keep your trousers on,” he shouted.

Madelyn motioned to the children to stay put as she followed Will. Their eyes had grown as big as carriage wheels, and Thomas moved to wrap his arm about his sister’s shoulders. Poor dears. And she couldn’t say for certain her face didn’t look the same. What on earth could all the fuss be?

Will scowled as he swung open the door to find a large, angry man flanked by two constables. The scruffy man shoved his way inside.

“Where’s my kids!”

“See here,” Will shouted, grasping the man’s arm. “Get out of my house!”

The stranger jerked from his grasp and stared at Madelyn, his mouth set in a cruel line. Madelyn glanced back and noticed the children had disappeared from the parlor. Thank the good Lord, Thomas must have heard the commotion and ushered his sister to a safe place.

She backed up a step, laying her hand across her chest and looking toward her husband, and Will turned to the constables for assistance. Bill O’Malley was one of them, and he swept his bobby’s hat from his head and worried it between his fingers.

He motioned to his partner. “Harry, escort his nibs back outside while we sort this out.” He turned to Will. “Sorry, Mr. Renshaw. But this man here is Tom Johnson. Claims he’s the little ones’ father, and he says he wants them home with him.”

“And you believe him because…”

The man stepped between O’Malley and Will, shaking a rolled up sheaf of papers in his face. “’Cause I got these here to prove it.”

Madelyn could see Will’s fists tighten, and her husband took a threatening step toward the intruder.

O’Malley stepped between them. “I’m sorry, Mr. Renshaw, but he went to a magistrate and they gave him an order saying he can have the kids back. There ain’t nothing we can do about that.”

Will snatched the papers from the man’s hand and unfolded them, carefully reading. “Why did we know nothing of this before?”

“Ain’t got nuffin’ ta do with you, Mr. Fancy Farts.”

O’Malley took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as if he were trying to avoid beating the man with his fists. “Claims he’s been at sea. Merchant Marines, he says.”

“It’s the truth.” Johnson took a filthy scrap of cloth from the pocket of his dungarees and wiped at pretend tears. “Didn’t know their mother was dead ’til I got back two weeks ago. Been trying to find my little ’uns ever since. And you stole ’em!”

Madelyn could not simply stand by any longer. “We did not steal your children. We gave them a home and food and clothing and love, something they were sadly lacking when we found them. Steal them, indeed. We rescued them!” Then more softly: “And they us.”

No longer able to handle the confrontation, and wanting desperately to find the children and hold them close, Madelyn turned away, leaving a soft sob in her wake. Lifting her skirts, she ran up the stairs toward Thomas’s room. She had no doubt he was hiding there.

When she reached the door, it was closed and locked tight. Madelyn rapped on the dark-stained wood and heard a quiet, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Madelyn,” she whispered back. The children had yet to call them Mother and Father, which she completely understood. “Can I come in?”

After a moment or two, she heard a key turn slowly in the lock. Thomas opened the door a crack, just enough to peek through. “Is he gone yet?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s not.” She repeated, “May I come in?”

Thomas stepped back and opened the door just wide enough for Madelyn to enter. Annie sat on the corner of his bed, a river of tears rolling down her cheeks. “He’s come to get us, hasn’t he?”

“You are ours, dearest,” Madelyn assured her. “We are your parents now. We will not let him take you, I swear to you. Will is downstairs now clearing the matter.”

“He’ll get his way,” Thomas murmured. He sat on the edge of the bed next to his sister and took her hand in his. “He always does.”

Madelyn knelt in front of the children and placed her hand atop their clasped ones. “He is your father, isn’t he?”

Thomas nodded.

“Did you know he was looking for you?”

“No, I swear it!” Thomas cried. “He left us two years ago, us and our mum. When she got sick. He said he didn’t want anything to do with us.” He clung to Madelyn’s arm. “Why is he here now? Why does he care where we are?”

“Lord knows,” Will said from the doorway. He walked inside the room and closed the door.

Madelyn asked, “Is he gone?”

Will shook his head. “The documents he has appear to be legitimate. Legal.”

“No,” Madelyn gasped. “He can’t have them.”

Her husband knelt beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist, joining his hand with hers. “I’m afraid he can, at least until we can get the magistrate to see reason. I’ll send word to Jamie right away. He’ll know the legalities and what our options are. We’ll get them back once—”

“No!” Annie began to sob. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with you. Mummy, please don’t let him take us. Please!” Her brother remained stoic. Silent. Apparently resigned to their fate.

At that moment, Madelyn knew hearts could truly break. Hers was rent in two. Her daughter had called her Mummy for the first time, and it was as a tortured plea, not an endearment.

“It won’t be for long, my lovelies,” Madelyn tried to reassure them, keeping her eyes on Thomas. “You’ll be back here in your beds before you can say jackrabbit.”

“You promised!” Thomas’s voice was barely above a whisper. He released his hold on Madelyn’s arm, glared at her. “You swore he couldn’t take us. You said we belonged with you. You said we were family. You’re no better ’n him. You’ll just stand there and let him take us away! You promised you’d keep us safe. You told the judge even. You may not hit us, but you ain’t no better ’n him.”

“Thomas!” Will shouted. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice once again. “Enough. None of us knew this would happen. We will do everything in our power to bring you back home where you belong. But, for now, we must allow him to take you. Just for now. So let us pack your belongings—”

“We don’t want to take nothing ’cept the clothes we’re wearing—and them only ’cause you burned the ones we had before.” The boy took the doll Annie had placed next to her on the bed. “Here. Take this. We don’t need it.”

“No!” Annie cried. “You can’t have Mrs. Shumworthy. She’s mine!”

Her heart aching, Madelyn took the doll from Thomas and placed it back in Annie’s little hands. “We would never take Mrs. Shumworthy, sweetheart. She would miss you too much. She belongs to you.” She turned back to the boy. “And your backgammon case belongs to you, Thomas. You shall take those things with you, and you can bring them home with you when you return. This is just a visit with your old father. Nothing more.”

“No more promises,” Thomas muttered. “Please.”

A few minutes later, with extra clothes packed in a small valise, Will and Madelyn joined hands with the children and walked them down the stairs. The journey seemed to take forever and felt like a death march to Madelyn. What it must have been like for her ancestors as they’d marched to the guillotine during the French Revolution. Only, no one was cleaving her head from her body; instead that insufferable man was gouging her heart from her chest.

The senior Johnson stood from where he’d been occupying Will’s favorite armchair. “’Bout time you was bringing ’em to me. Thought you’d snuck out the back door, I did. Come here, little ones. Give your old dad a hug and kiss.”

Thomas moved gingerly toward his father, tugging Annie behind him. With something akin to a sneer, he said, “We don’t hug and kiss strangers, sir.”

Johnson lifted his arm as if to backhand him. Will caught his wrist and twisted. Johnson grunted in pain. “Let me go!”

Will growled, his mouth close to the other man’s ear, but not so close Madelyn couldn’t make out every word clearly. “If I see one hair out of place on either of their heads when they are returned to us—and they will be returned to us—rest assured you will answer to me, and you will receive what you have wrought ten-fold.”

Madelyn had never seen him so shaken with anger. She knew he meant every word.

Her husband released Johnson’s arm and the man jerked away, rubbing his wrist before turning to O’Malley. “You heard him. He threatened me. Do something.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.” Bill O’Malley grinned and turned to his partner. “Did you, Constable Griffin?”

The other PC shook his head. “Not a word, sir.”

Johnson snarled. “You pieces of—”

O’Malley’s grin disappeared. “Careful, there, I might have to arrest you for insulting a police officer.”

With what appeared to be as dirty a look as he dared to muster at the risk of being hauled off to the local nick, Johnson shoved his hat on his head and took Annie’s hand. “Come on wiv ya. We’ll be getting on now.”

With apparent resignation, the children followed him out the door. Only Annie looked back to give Madelyn and Will a tearful smile and hesitant wave goodbye. Thomas kept his back to them, stiff as a rail, as they left.

“I’m real sorry, Mrs. Renshaw, Mr. Renshaw,” O’Malley reiterated.

“You’re only doing your job, Bill,” Will said. “We don’t hold it against you personally.”

The constable nodded and replaced his hat on his head before leaving and closing the door behind him.

“Oh, Will!” Madelyn burst into tears and threw herself against her husband’s chest. “He is a horrid man. I’m so worried for them. I think he’s harmed them before and I’m afraid he’ll do it again. I can’t bear the thought.”

Her husband wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, placing gentle kisses on top of her head. “We’ll get them back. One way or another.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Thomas watched as yet another bottle dropped from his drunken father’s hands and rolled across the planked floor. At least this time it didn’t break and leave a stinking mess for Thomas to clean up.

In the five days since he’d come to take them away from the only real home they’d known in their lives, the man had done nothing but drink and sleep and yell. Yell for his breakfast, yell for his dinner, yell for Thomas to fetch another bottle. Once, when Thomas hadn’t moved quickly enough, his “father” had smacked him in the head, causing one of his ears to bleed. It’d been two days since, and he still couldn’t hear too well from that side.

And Annie… His little sister had crawled into her bed and curled up into a ball. She’d only eat when Thomas made her, and then only a little. She missed the Renshaws, and Thomas reluctantly admitted he did as well. He had come to realize after listening to his father rant and rave that the Renshaws had had no choice but to let them go. Thomas didn’t have to like it, but he couldn’t lay blame on them any longer.

No, all his ill feelings belonged squarely on his so-called father’s shoulders. And Thomas hated him. So much so that he’d been tempted to do the man in one way or another. If they stayed much longer, next time one of them might be hurt so bad they couldn’t be fixed, dead just like their mother, and he feared the worst for Annie. She couldn’t fight back; she wasn’t strong enough.

It would be so easy to do the old man in, Thomas thought. He was, after all, out cold most of the time. He’d never know if Thomas placed a pillow over his face, or a blade between his ribs. He might be young, but Thomas had spent a good part of his life on the streets of London, the slums of the East End. He knew the proper placement for a blade.

But if he was caught, Annie would be left alone, and he couldn’t risk that. He’d promised their mother he’d take proper care of his younger sister, one promise he would never break. Unlike others, who spouted promises like a bit faker struck coins, easily made but worthless to the receiver, he was honest. He’d hoped he could trust the promises made by the Renshaws. But, no, they were the same as everyone else.

Thomas had a plan. He knew they couldn’t go back to the Renshaws’; even if he wanted to, it’d be the first place the coppers would look. But they could go back to where they lived before. It wasn’t so bad, begging and stealing for the kidsmen, those who trained young thieves, when necessary. It was cold out, true, but there were lots of nooks and crannies out there for shelter; they just had to find them. And if they went to a better part of town and were very, very careful, they might never be found. Maybe another theater, or the underground.

When his old man began to snore, Thomas decided now was as good a time as any. He didn’t like the way their father had been looking at Annie, and he knew he needed to get her out as soon as possible. He knew where some money was hidden, in a tin beneath a loose floorboard. After retrieving it, he gently shook Annie awake.

“C’mon, we’re leaving,” he whispered.

“Are we going back home?” she asked, as usual a little too loudly, wiping at her eyes. He felt a pang of guilt that she had begun to feel like the Renshaws were home and once again she’d lost that security. If he’d only run when they had the chance.

“Shh, you’ll wake ’im. No, we’re not going home, but we’re going on an adventure.” He gathered up their belongings and placed them in their bag; then he shoved Mrs. Shumworthy into Annie’s arms. “Here, you take this, and I’ll get the rest. Get your coat on and let’s go.”

Annie grabbed the doll and her coat and headed for the door. She turned and waited, saying, “Well, hurry, Thomas. What are you waiting for?”

Thomas grinned at his sister’s willingness to follow him blindly, picked up his backgammon board and the bag, and he never looked back as they left the one-room shanty.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

New Year’s Eve, 1896

Will paced their bedroom. Madelyn had watched him over the last few days as he’d tried to reason out a way to get Thomas and Annie back, but he’d yet to think of anything rational.

Her husband ran his fingers through his hair. “Jamie has tried everything short of bribery to get the magistrate to hear us out, but so far… Too busy, holidays, the usual nonsense.”

Madelyn took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “It isn’t anything that overly concerns them, so of course they will delay. We’ll just have to be patient and hope your brother’s influence can better serve in the coming year.”

He turned to her. “And in the meantime, what happens to the children? Is their father taking care of them? Are they safe?”

“I know.” Madelyn rose and embraced her husband. “I have asked myself the same all these nights and days since they left. But what can we do?”

Will set her aside, stalked to their bed and pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. “I’ll tell you what I can do,” he muttered, drawing his pistol from inside. “I can find them, if I have to search every sorry spot in London.”

“Will, please don’t do something rash.” She rushed to his side and removed the gun from his hand.

He swiped the small revolver back and stowed it in his pocket. He headed out the bedroom door and down the stairs, taking them two at a time in his rush to leave. “It’s not rash, it’s trying to find out if my children—our children—are safe and sound. I should never have allowed them to go.”

“It is rash if you don’t dress properly,” Madelyn called. She gathered his coat and hat and helped him into them. “Please don’t get into any trouble.”

Will stopped and placed his palms on either side of her face then kissed her soundly. “I won’t.” Flinging open the door, he headed down the steps of their townhouse.

Suddenly, from around the corner, a bobby came dragging a child by the collar. Thomas!

The constable stopped and yanked the boy around. He looked to Will, nodded his head toward the youngster and said with a wry twist to his mouth, “This one here claims he’s yours. Any truth to that? I’ll gladly deposit him at the workhouse.”

“No!” Madelyn rushed down the stairs, and Will knelt in front of the frightened boy. “Thomas?”

“He was caught stealing from a store down the street. He gave this here as his address.”

An owlish man emerged, stepping from behind the bobby and shaking his fist. “Was takin’ apples from the crate out front, he was. And a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread, too. Thought he could hide them in his pockets, he did.”

Madelyn regained her senses before Will. “Yes. Yes, he does belong here, constable. May we pay for the food—and a generous bit extra for your trouble, Mister…”

“Higgins.” The man seemed to calm down at the mention of money. He added as an afterthought, “Ma’am.”

Will pulled a purse from his pocket and handed the man five pounds, far more than the food could ever cost. Mr. Higgins seemed satisfied and turned to leave.

“I don’t ever want to see this boy in my store again.”

“You need not worry, Mr. Higgins. We shall ensure his punishment is adequate and see that it never happens again.”

The constable cleared his throat. “Well, I’m not sure what’s going on here, allowing these young ones to run about the city unattended, but it seems as if things are settled for now. Please keep your children at home or else we’ll have to speak to someone about their lack of supervision.”

“Yes, of course. Point well taken. We shall deal with them properly.” Madelyn pulled Thomas close, and he buried his head against her shoulder as the bobby went about his business. She could feel the boy’s little body shaking, but she needed to ask, “Thomas, where is Annie?”

He looked up at her, tracks of dried tears trailing down his dirty face. “She’s in our safe place.”

“Where is that?” Will turned the boy toward him and knelt once again. “We need to bring her home.”

Thomas took him by the hand and fairly dragged him down the street. Will glanced back, and Madelyn picked up her skirts, heedless of the cold and her lack of cover, and followed.

Down one narrow alleyway, not too terribly far from Will and Madelyn’s home, Thomas darted into what appeared to be a deserted shop. He turned back to them and said, “This way. She’s in the back.”

“You stay here,” Will said to Madelyn as he disappeared through broken glass and splintered wood that once comprised a window.

Madelyn shivered. It seemed to be taking too long. Just as she was about to follow, however, Will reappeared around the corner, Annie in his arms and Thomas jogging closely behind. “We need to get her home, quickly. She’s freezing.”

“I tried to keep her warm. I did,” Thomas wailed. “She said she was fine!”

“We’ll discuss this later, but now we must hurry.”

Madelyn fairly ran to keep up with her husband, finally sprinting up the steps to the townhouse ahead of him to open the door and then again up the stairs to turn back the duvet on Annie’s bed. Will placed her carefully on the sheets then pulled the covers up to her chin, smoothing them over her thin body.

Annie was sleeping, or at least that’s what Madelyn prayed. At any rate she was still breathing, but terribly pale. Madelyn unfolded another thick blanket and tucked it tightly around the little girl, swiping the tangled mass of hair away from her pale little face.

“I’ll fetch Dr. Jamison,” Will muttered.

Madelyn started a fire in the hearth and left to prepare warm milk in the kitchen, having given the household staff the next few days off to be with family. When she returned, she was pleased to see Annie had awakened and was stirring in her bed. Thomas kept careful watch at her side.

Will returned with the doctor. He checked Annie over and measured her temperature, finally saying, “She appears to be a bit chilled, and perhaps more than a little malnourished, but overall she seems no worse for wear. Nothing milk and biscuits won’t cure, eh, little miss?”

Annie grinned broadly and nodded her head.

The doctor clicked his bag closed and turned to leave. “Mr. Renshaw explained the situation,” he whispered to Madelyn. “If you need someone to speak on behalf of the health of the children before and after they returned, it would be my pleasure to do so. I should like to horsewhip that so-called father of theirs.”

“I’d prefer to do more than that,” Will replied.

“Indeed.”

The doctor spun on his heel and left the room, Will following behind.

“Miss Madelyn…” Thomas’s voice was quiet, as if he were hesitant to speak. “I’m sorry I stole, and I’m sorry I lied and said this was where I live. I was scared and didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s all right, Thomas.” She swiped his hair back and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I’m thankful you did say this was your home. But you know your father will return for you.”

The boy’s eyes widened and then he hung his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Madelyn’s chest tightened at the fear then resignation she saw in his face. She knew this was the first place Mr. Johnson would look for his children. Her only hope was that he didn’t care enough to find them a second time, whatever his reasons for collecting them the first. Perhaps it was simply to use them as servants.

“How long has it been since you ran away from your father, Thomas?” she asked. “I’m assuming you ran away, didn’t you? He didn’t toss you out on the streets, surely.”

“Only a few days,” Thomas replied. “We…”

“He was drunk,” came a tiny voice from the bed. Annie, seemingly recovered from her ordeal, her color back to a normal hue, shoved herself up higher on the pillows. “We left while he was asleep. He hit Thomas really hard. Thomas, show her where he made your ear bleed.”

“He did what?” Madelyn shouted, anger boiling up at the thought the man had raised a hand to this gentle boy. She stood and leaned over Thomas. “Show me. Where did he hurt you?”

“Right over there, on his left side.”

Thomas shot Annie a look as if to say “Mind your own business,” but she kept up her flow of information. “Papa told Thomas to go fetch him a bottle, and Thomas didn’t do it fast enough so Papa clocked him one on the side of the head. Knocked him clean to the floor.”

“Is this true, Thomas?”

“It ain’t nothin’. It don’t hurt no more.”

Madelyn rushed outside the door and leaned over the balustrade just in time to see Will close the door. “Get the doctor back here,” she told him. “I just found out their father has been beating Thomas. I want him to make sure he’s alright.”

* * *

Satisfied that there was no more serious injury other than a small, jagged cut on Thomas’s earlobe, Madelyn joined Will in the parlor an hour later. He stood with his back to her, gazing into the fire that crackled in the hearth.

“They are resting comfortably now,” she said.

“Why do you think he hasn’t come for them?” her husband asked. He turned to her, his eyes narrow. “Don’t you think he’d have been on our doorstep first thing after he noticed them gone?”

“Thomas did say he was in a drunken stupor when they ran away,” she mused. “Perhaps he still is and hasn’t noticed. Or perhaps he’s decided they require far more effort and care than he wishes to provide.”

Will shook his head. “No, Tom Johnson seems like the kind of man who would have attempted to retrieve them, even if it were only so he could rub our noses in the fact he was taking them from us once again.”

“Are you saying we should try to find him?” Madelyn panicked a bit at the thought. Why on earth would Will want to find the man who had taken those children into such horrible circumstances? “Why would you even think of doing that?”

Will placed his hands on her arms. “While you were with the children, I tracked down Constable O’Malley to see if he could find out anything. He’s checking where Thomas said they were living. It’s out of his jurisdiction, but he knows others who’ll help. I’m awaiting his return.”

Madelyn jerked away and paced the room. “I cannot believe you’d allow that man to take them away again,” she shouted. “After he beat Thomas and nearly starved them!”

“We will keep the children, but we will do it through the courts, legally, once and for all,” he said. “You were right earlier when you said I was being rash. We need to do this right, and the first step is finding that man. He is their guardian, Madelyn, their true father.”

“Can’t you just give him some money?” Madelyn sat on the edge of the settee, hating that her voice sounded on the edge of tears. She wanted to still be angry, but instead she was afraid. “Please, Will, just make him go away and leave us alone.”

He knew what she was truly asking.

She heard Will sigh deeply before he sat beside her. “I can’t do that. I would love nothing more, but—”

“You were willing to do it with Oliver Wickfield,” she countered. “My God, you nearly killed the man with your bare hands. I wasn’t a child when he attacked me, Will. I’m still alive. This man will destroy Thomas and Annie. If he doesn’t do it physically, he’ll—”

Will pulled her close, enveloping her in his warmth. “We have them now. Let’s be grateful for that.”

A knock sounded at the front door.

Will released her and stood. “That must be Bill.”

“Or Tom Johnson.”

“Yes.”

Madelyn followed her husband to the entry and hung back as he opened the door. Bill O’Malley stood on the threshold in a brown suit and tie. He’d obviously done this favor for Will on New Year’s Day, and for that she was grateful.

Will swung the door wide and motioned for Bill to come inside. The constable wiped his feet and entered, Maggie following close on his heels.

“He’s dead!” she shouted.

Bill turned and gave her an exasperated look. “I was supposed to explain the investigation and results, not just burst out and say it.”

“Dead?” Relief washed over Madelyn, uncharitable as that seemed. “Tom Johnson is dead?”

Bill nodded. “Found him at his house, in his bed, a bottle nearby. He’d been gone for some time, although it was hard to tell, as the place was ice cold. I’d wager he probably never woke up after the babes left. Drank himself to death, it appears.”

“Well, that’s…” Will paused. “Fortuitous?”

“As far as I’m concerned, one less piece of scum what has to be scooped out of the gutter,” Maggie said. “Good enough for him, after hitting little Thomas. Bill told me the whole sordid story.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “You were s’posed to keep that to yourself as well, wench.”

“That’s Mrs. Wench to you,” she said, flashing a shiny gold band at Madelyn. “We did the deed yesterday, at the rectory. We just couldn’t wait until spring.”

Maddy grabbed her hand and looked at the brand-new ring, with the tiny diamond chip glittering in the lamplight. “Oh, congratulations! I know—”

“He’s dead?”

Maddy and the others looked up to find Thomas at the top of the stairs in his nightshirt, his hair mussed and eyes still drowsy.

“I’m afraid so, love,” Madelyn replied.

She’d just made to move toward him when he muttered, “Good.” And with that, the future Thomas J. Renshaw headed back toward his own bed. In his forever home. There was nothing stopping it now.

Madelyn turned to the others. “Please excuse me,” she said, and then she followed Thomas, her son, up to his room. She would ensure he clearly understood that he and Annie now had a permanent home and a large, extended theater family that would watch over them, take care of them and love them unconditionally, forever.

EPILOGUE

One month later

Thomas watched as his new father played Tiddledy-Winks with Annie. Miss Madelyn—er, his mother—sat in a cushy chair near the fire, knitting a scarf that Thomas knew would be his. His birthday was coming up in two weeks, and it was made of his favorite colors: red, blue and gold.

“Annie, you won again! You are an expert at this game,” Will mock complained.

Thomas watched as Annie blushed at their father’s praise. They were happy and secure for the first time that he could remember. They’d finally found someone to belong to, people that kept their promises, even if it hadn’t seemed so at first. Since they’d come to live with the Renshaws permanently, there had been no broken promises, and there had been plenty of love to go around.

“Thomas, would you like to join us?” his father asked. Annie looked up and nodded her head vigorously.

“I don’t believe we have time,” Mother said as she looked at the mantel clock. “The Panto starts in an hour. We should get dressed in our finest and make our way to the theater.”

Thomas knew this Panto was a very special show, made up for him and Annie because they’d missed the one at the Christmas party. There were so many nice people at this theater, and so many new friends that seemed to care about them. He was still having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that they had more than just new parents now, they had a lot of extra aunties and uncles. They had a new, big family called the Abberly Theater Company. And it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever known.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aubrey McKnight gave up the glamorous life of a lab rat to do what she’d wanted to do almost since she learned to read: tell stories. By day, she’s a mild mannered mom, but at night she wields a merciless pen, er, keyboard. She enjoys cooking, hockey, and shoving people together only to tear them apart again. She’s lived all over the U.S., and currently resides in Texas with her wonderful husband, their annoyingly smart daughter, and a dog named Bongo.

A GIFT OF TRUST

Emily Mims

To the Spirit of Christmas

A GIFT OF TRUST

Chapter Thirty

Christmas was definitely in the air in Verde, Texas. Christmas lights adorned the windows of the shops and offices facing the old stone courthouse and winked on and off upon a towering old pine tree that guarded the front door of the stately red brick courthouse. Christmas trees could be spotted in the windows of most of the shops and offices facing the town square, and everything from stuffed Santas to small manger scenes accompanied the trees. On a makeshift stage in the courthouse parking lot, the various community churches took turns providing choirs, carolers, and manger scenes, and out in front of the hardware store, Santa, sounding suspiciously like Betty Cleburne’s husband Joe-Bob held court for the little ones. Later in the evening, as soon as the sun went down, the high school band would lead a Christmas parade through the streets of the cheerful little town. All in all, Verde was geared up and decked out to deliver the Hill Country Christmas that dreams were made of.

Lisa Simmons wished it would all just go away.

Lisa whisked to the pass-through window joining the kitchen and the dining room of Gus’s Hill Country Café and peered at the plates waiting on the ledge. “Gus, this is only half of the Briscoes’ order. Where’s Ryan’s burger?”

“I’m plating it now,” Gus said as he quickly assembled a child-sized burger and added it to the chicken-fried steak plates on the ledge. “Tell the newlyweds ‘hi’ for me, willya?”

“Sure thing,” Lisa said as she deftly loaded a tray and maneuvered through the crowded café to where Jack, Caroline, and Ryan Briscoe were seated. She smiled at the happy-looking couple and their precious little boy as she served them their meals. “So, Ryan, what is Santa bringing you this year?”

“A bull and a puppy,” Ryan said happily. “Daddy said a puppy and mommy said bull.”

Jack Briscoe snickered and Caroline turned a little red. “Said more than that, didn’t you, Caroline?” he teased as Lisa laughed out loud.

“Never mind,” Caroline said as she too started to laugh. “Santa will be taking good care of Ryan. Say, I heard Santa took good care of you, too, Lisa.” She glanced around the room and at the We aim to please button Lisa sported on her sweater. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Lisa said. “We signed the papers last week. I’ve always wanted to own a small restaurant, and a chance to go part-owner here was just too good to pass up. And I think my grandfather would approve my use of the nest egg he left me.”

“I’m sure he would,” Jack said warmly. “He would be so happy for you.”

So, why wasn’t she happier for herself? Lisa wondered as she wished the Briscoes a good day and went to take the next order. Thanks to her beloved grandfather’s generosity, she had already achieved one of her major goals in life; Gus’s Hill Country Café was half hers, and when Gus retired in five years she would own it outright. She lived in a terrific little town and had the muscle car of her dreams and all kinds of good friends and a sister in Austin who loved her to pieces. So, instead of being thrilled with what life had sent her way, why was she envying a couple who’d had to fight their way back from hell? That made her ashamed of herself. Caroline and Jack deserved every little bit of happiness that came their way, and she needed to get her attitude adjusted. It was Christmas, and Christmas was the season to be merry.

On the other hand, maybe she would just wait a half an hour or so for that season of good cheer, she thought sourly as Deputy Sheriff Rory Keller pushed open the café door and stepped through. Clad in his tan winter uniform, with his Sam Browne strapped around his waist, his Glock in his holster, and his uniform Stetson riding low on his forehead and covering his thick dark hair, he looked around the café for an empty table. The impassive expression in his dark brown eyes cooled even further when the only one he spotted was in her area.

He waited a bit impatiently as she finished taking an order and edged her way through the crowded café to the front. “One menu or two?” she asked tersely as she picked up a fresh roll of tableware.

“Just me,” Rory said, his voice equally clipped. “And I don’t need a menu.”

Lisa shrugged and led him across the café. She set his place while he stopped and spoke to several families, including the Briscoes, his face lighting with a smile as he chatted with old friends.

Damn his hide anyway, Lisa thought as she remembered a time when she would have gotten that smile or an even larger one from him. But those days were long past, dead and buried on an early spring morning nearly a year ago when, at least from her point of view, Rory had done the unforgiveable, and now they were reduced to chilly exchanges that were barely civil.

Rory finally made it across the café and collapsed tiredly into the chair. In the past Lisa would have asked him how his day was going and coaxed a laugh or two out of him while she took his order, but today she waited silently.

“Double cheeseburger, sweet potato fries, and coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“Coming right up,” Lisa murmured, staring without meaning to at Rory’s broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his winter uniform shirt and remembering what those broad shoulders felt like hard and naked beneath her fingers as she looped her arms around them. Or how his lean, wiry maleness felt next to her, the soft hair on his chest gently tickling her bare breasts as she arched beneath him; whimpering softly as he stroked deftly into her body. Or how—

No, she wasn’t going there anymore, she thought as she firmly pushed those thoughts away. Rory might be dynamite in bed and as lust-worthy as they came, but he had other attributes also, attributes that she abhorred in a man, attributes she’d promised her mother on her mother’s deathbed that she would never put up with in a partner.

“Promise me, Lisa,” Claudia Simmons had begged as she lay dying of cancer and a broken heart. “Promise me that you’ll never marry a jealous man. Promise me that you’ll never marry a man who doesn’t trust you.”

And Rory had proven himself to be that man. “Damn it, Lisa, explain yourself!” he’d roared into her face early that April morning. “What the hell were you doing here all night in that cabin with him?”

Oh, she could have explained, she thought as she hung Rory’s order up in the window and took another table their meal. She could have told him that the situation was completely innocent, that she and playboy Russ Riley had not been alone in the cabin all night. But her mother’s words rang in her ear that morning as she stared up into his fury, and she pictured herself spending the rest of her life trying to placate Rory the way her mother tried time and time again to placate Howard Simmons’s jealousy and something inside her froze.

He should have trusted her and he hadn’t. So, instead of explaining everything to him, she looked at him long and hard and turned on her heel and walked away. But even though she knew what she had done was right, when she walked away she’d left Rory Keller with a piece of her heart.

Lisa yanked her thoughts back to the present and continued her shift, ignoring Rory the best she could. The lunch crowd gradually thinned. Much to Lisa’s annoyance Rory took his time eating, and the café was almost empty when Judge Willis Riley, ‘Wily Riley’ to friends and foes alike, came into the café and rather than wait for a table made a beeline for Rory. The wizened old judge was practically a legend in Verde County, both for his unconventional rulings and occasional tirades from the bench, and for his uncanny ability off the bench to persuade folks to do the things he wanted.

Lisa hid an inward smirk at Rory’s uh-oh expression as she took Judge Riley a menu, but her inward snicker faded quickly when the little judge pulled out the third chair at the table and motioned for her to have a seat as well.

“Glad I caught you both this afternoon,” he said smoothly. “I have a huge favor to ask that involves both of you.”

Lisa looked around, hoping to use the crowded tables as an excuse even though she knew they were mostly empty. She could have begged off anyway, but Judge Riley had been one of her grandfather’s best friends and she genuinely liked the old man, so she motioned for the other server to finish up her tables and sat down across from Rory, who looked just as unhappy to be here as she did.

“So, what do you need for us to do for you, sir?” she asked as the judge looked from her to Rory and back.

“Well, it’s like this,” Judge Riley said. “My niece Holly is finally out of rehab and is coming here to live for a while in that little house of hers.”

“Hey, that’s wonderful,” Rory said, a genuine smile lighting his face. “She’s had a long, tough fight back.”

Judge Riley shook his head. “I’m not sure she sees it as all that wonderful. She just found out last week that her permanent injuries are such that the Army is retiring her whether she likes it or not, and she doesn’t have a clue what to do next.”

“Oh, that’s awful,” Lisa said. “According to Russ the Army is her whole life. She’s not a hundred percent yet?”

“No, she isn’t, and she never will be. Therein lies the problem. That house of hers has been shut up for a year and a half, and I’m willing to bet it needs a good bit of attention to get it ready for Holly to move in on Sunday. At this point there is no way Holly can clean it up herself. Her left arm is pretty much hanging there, and she’s still working on her walking. Her brother and sister were going to come clean it up for her, but Russ got called away on an unexpected temporary-duty assignment and Emily’s got a doctor’s appointment—something about getting an insulin pump—so neither of them is available. I know it’s a lot to ask, but is there any, any way the two of you could get in there and get it to where she can move in on Sunday? I’d be happy to share a bushel of pecans with each of you as a thank-you.”

Lisa gulped and looked across the table. The two of them? Stuck in that little tiny cabin together all day? No way. Not even for Judge Riley.

She started to shake her head but looked across the table at the stony expression on Rory’s face. He was also going to refuse, and that would leave the little judge in the lurch. Also, his wounded warrior niece deserved better than that.

“I’ll be happy to help you, Judge Riley,” she said quickly. “But I don’t need Rory’s help. I can handle it by myself. That little house isn’t any bigger than my place.”

“Oh, but it’s a mess, Lisa,” Judge Riley countered. “The original plan was for Russ and Emily to get Wade Baxter and Rory’s brother Benny to help, but they’re out of pocket too. It’s honestly more work than one person ought to have to handle.”

“I’ll be fine, Judge Riley. Honestly,” Lisa assured him. “Rory doesn’t have to come.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Rory said, his expression inscrutable. “Besides, it’s been used a few times recently, hasn’t it, Lisa?”

Lisa felt her lips tighten at the jab. “Yes, and it really wasn’t in that bad a shape when I saw it in April,” she countered sweetly. “I really don’t need any help.”

“Still, it would probably go a lot faster with the two of you working together,” Judge Riley said. “So, how about it? You two get the cabin cleaned up so Holly can move in and I’ll throw in a bushel of pecans from the ranch for each of you. Deal?”

Damn it, she didn’t have a choice. If she continued to insist on working alone she was going to seem churlish. But, cooped up with Rory Keller all day in that tiny house when they could barely stand to be in the café together? It was going to be pure hell.

Nevertheless, she nodded. “Deal.”

Judge Riley turned to Rory, an expectant expression on his face. “Deal?”

Rory didn’t look happy. Like Lisa, though, he probably thought he couldn’t very well refuse. He stuck out his hand, and Judge Riley shook it. “Deal.”

Judge Riley smiled at both of them, and Lisa could have sworn the little man was amused about something. “Okay, then,” he said. “I left a dining room table full of cleaning supplies and rags and such, as well as detergent for what little Holly has there in the way of clothing and linens. Mops and brooms and buckets and just…whatever. If I forgot something, Jimmy Adamcik or Angie Baxter can probably come up with it. Or maybe you have it at your place, Rory.” The judge reached into his pocket and handed them each a key. “I’ll load up the pecans and bring them by as soon as I can shake loose. And thank you both so much from the entire Riley family.”

Despite the inconvenience, Lisa found herself smiling. “Holly’s a hero. It’s the least we can do to help her.”

“I agree,” Rory said quietly as his eyebrow shot up. “I’m sure Lisa is glad to help out the Rileys. All of the Rileys.”

***

Damn her hide anyway, Rory thought angrily as he shut the café door firmly behind him and strode out to his patrol car. Didn’t she at least have the decency to be ashamed of herself? My God, he’d practically caught her in bed with the biggest player in the United States Army, and instead of at least acting embarrassed by her behavior she’d acted like she was angry with him, staring him down that morning like the whole thing was somehow his fault. Did she think it was all right to cheat on him? Was he not supposed to call her on it? Didn’t she at least owe him some kind of explanation for what she did?

Rory slammed the car in gear and, forcing himself to calm down, pulled out into surprisingly bustling traffic. So, now he was going to be stuck in Holly Riley’s cabin with Lisa all day. What could the old judge have been thinking? Everyone in town knew the two of them were on the outs. Neither of them had breathed a word about that early morning confrontation when everything went to hell, but Verde was a small town. It was obvious that his truck was never parked outside her little duplex anymore, and they never appeared at the local movie theatre holding hands, and neither of them had gone to Verde’s legendary Homecoming shindig.

Rory had been surprised that Lisa didn’t go, actually; surely lover boy Riley would have taken her if she’d asked. But, then, he’d been surprised that Lisa spent the night with Riley in the first place. He and Lisa had been lovers for several months at that point, and he’d been starting to care—really care—for her, and he’d thought she was starting to feel the same. She had certainly given herself to him physically, wrapping her long legs around him as her shimmering cascade of red hair graced his pillow, her beautiful face glowing as she arched beneath him and called his name. But maybe she gave herself to every man who came her way. Maybe that was just what she did. Maybe that’s what all women did. It was certainly what his mother had done. Maybe his mistake had been thinking Lisa was different.

Cursing under his breath, Rory racked his brain for a way to get out of tomorrow’s cleaning party. He could volunteer for an extra shift, but Sheriff Waller was tight with Judge Riley and it could very well get back to him. Could he plead a family emergency? That would have worked in the past when his mother was committing suicide by bottle and emergency room visits were commonplace, but Evelyn Keller had been dead for almost three years now and his father Barney was a healthy as a horse. No, short of just plain going AWOL he would be stuck all day in a tiny house with the beautiful, faithless Lisa Simmons, the woman who still haunted him day and night after almost a year.

Chapter Thirty-One

Lisa turned the knob and gently pushed open the front door to Holly Riley’s little house. The wind was brisk and the early morning sun gilded the choppy, churning waves in the nearby lake, and Lisa turned around and stood for a moment just breathing in the crisp, cold air blowing off the water. On mornings like this she longed to leave her duplex in Verde and move out here to the lakeshore community of Heaven’s Point. When she and Rory were an item she’d seriously considered it, renting a small off-water cabin like the one Rory lived in, but once they split she’d tabled that notion. There was no way she could live in this tiny community with Rory as close as the next street over.

She stepped inside the cabin, and a wave of musty air assaulted her nostrils. “Nope, this won’t do at all,” she said out loud, and she threw the door open wide and started pushing open the wide windows facing the water. Soon she had all the windows thrown open and the sweet-smelling, cedar-perfumed breeze was sweeping out all the musty odor of the closed-up house. She also opened up the upstairs windows.

She was checking out the dead pill bugs on the bathroom counter when she heard footsteps downstairs. Taking a deep breath, she bounded down the narrow staircase to find Rory standing by the dining room table, his arms crossed, surveying the cleaning supplies left behind by Judge Riley.

“He forgot a toilet bowl brush,” he said tersely.

“There’s one in the upstairs bathroom.” Lisa stepped past Rory and pulled open the door to the miniscule downstairs bath. She found another bowl brush and thrust it forward. “Here’s another. Knock yourself out.” Then she picked up a rag and kitchen cleanser and disappeared into the kitchen.

She’d opened the cabinets and was loading what few dishes there were into the dishwasher when Rory appeared in the doorway. “Shouldn’t we come up with a plan?” he asked.

Lisa made herself ignore the way Rory’s tight T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and the lick of dark hair that fell over his forehead. “That’s easy. You clean anywhere I’m not.”

Rory’s lips tightened. “Fine. I’ll take upstairs and unload the woman’s underwear into the washing machine.”

Lisa threw up her hands. “Whatever. Load up as many dishes as you can get into the dishwasher and wipe the bugs out of the cabinets.”

She made to brush past Rory, but he stood firmly in her way, his arms crossed and his mouth drawn into a tight line. Lisa stared up into his grim features for a moment before saying, “Look, I don’t know what your problem is right now, but either let me by or go unload Holly’s underwear yourself. It’s not like you’ve never seen lacy panties before.”

Rory’s eyebrow lifted and Lisa could feel her face turning red, but thankfully he moved to one side and let her pass. Yes, he had seen lacy panties before, plenty of them, and he had even torn a few in a frantic effort to get them off of her. Sadly, those sexy panties were now buried in the bottom of her drawer, along with the barely-there little bras and see-through naughty nighties. At this point, with no reconciliation on the horizon, she wasn’t even sure why she was keeping them. Rory would never see her in them again, and even when she started dating again she would not wear them for the next man. Those were for Rory alone.

Lisa unloaded Holly’s sparsely filled dresser drawers into the washer and piled the stale-smelling sheets and towels next to the washing machine for the next load. She was in the upstairs bathroom cleaning out the shower stall when Rory called her name up the stairs. “Yo, Lisa! Angie’s here with some cake for us.”

Smiling wide, Lisa loped down the stairs to where Rory’s neighbor and Lisa’s close friend Angie Baxter waited with a foil-covered plate.

“Wade called and said you two were cleaning out the house. I’d be over here myself helping if I weren’t doing the same thing this morning over at the shop.” A huge smile wreathed the little woman’s pretty face. “Angie’s Place opens on February first.”

“That is so wonderful,” Lisa said. “I’m going to be your first customer. Are you still making that lavender and green tea soap?”

“Still doing that cedary-smelling shaving cream?” Rory piped up.

“Absolutely. They both sell really well.” Angie put her foil-covered plate down on the table. “Tell Holly I’ll be over sometime in the next week with a meal for her. Anyway, gotta run. See you both later.”

Angie sailed out the door, and Lisa and Rory looked at one another.

“I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get any breakfast,” Lisa said. “I’m eating.” She rummaged around in the kitchen and found two plates and forks and a knife. “Care to join me?”

Rory shrugged. “Why not? Benny said one time that Wade’s mom was a great cook.” He took the foil off the cake and cut them both a generous slice. “Wonderful,” he said as he practically inhaled a piece.

Lisa sank down across from him. Should she try to engage him in conversation or just eat her cake and go? She glanced across the table and caught him looking at her with speculation.

“I heard you used your grandfather’s inheritance to buy into the café,” he said.

Lisa nodded. “You heard right. Gus and I cut a deal. When he’s ready to retire in five years or so I will own it outright.”

“That’s good,” Rory said. “You said one time that was your dream.”

Lisa nodded. “It is, and every day I bless grandpa for making it possible. He also made it possible for my sister and her husband to put a down payment on a sweet little house just south of Austin. They moved in last month.”

“What about your dad?” Rory asked.

Lisa felt her face darken. The last thing she felt like doing this morning was talking about her asshole of a father. “Grandpa didn’t include him in the will.”

“Oh.”

Thankfully, Rory let the topic drop. They ate their cake in a silence that was more comfortable than not and Lisa found herself thinking back on the time they’d spent together—not just the sex, as wonderful as those memories were, but of the meals they’d shared and the nights they’d partied in Austin and the movies on the square where they’d held hands and shared a tub of greasy popcorn, and a stab of bitter regret ripped into her. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, she had missed Rory, missed him badly, and even knowing the kind of man he was didn’t quell the longing inside her to return to those halcyon days when they were inseparable. Why, she asked herself as she finished her cake and put the plate in the sink, couldn’t Rory have been different? Why couldn’t he have had it in him to trust?

***

Rory glanced at his watch and looked around the tiny cabin. He and Lisa had worked through the morning and into the afternoon, stopping only once to eat more of Angie’s cake, and now the little house practically sparkled in anticipation of Holly’s arrival.

Judge Riley had been right. It would have been too much for one of them to tackle alone, but with two of them working they got the job done. Everything in Holly’s dresser drawers and all of her linens were laundered and put away. Her bed was freshly made and the upholstery vacuumed. The dishes and cooking utensils were washed and returned to freshly cleaned cabinets. Both bathrooms were scrubbed down, and every floor in the house was swept and mopped, and the cobwebs, dust bunnies, and deceased pill bugs were a thing of the past. The musty odor was long gone, replaced by the enticing fragrance of lake water and cedar and freshly-cleaned house. The little place no longer had that forlorn air about it; it would now warmly welcome the young hero home.

Rory glanced up as Lisa loped down the stairs carrying the last of the cleaning supplies in the mop bucket.

“I’ll just put these under the sink for Holly,” she said. “Do you suppose she’ll be able to do her own cleaning, or will she need help?” She moved put the bucket under the sink.

“No idea,” Rory said, an unwilling smile tugging at his lips. Lisa’s face was shiny and her clothes bore remnants of dust and cobwebs, and her hair was coming loose from her ponytail, and to Rory she’d never looked more appealing.

It had been nice working with her today, he thought as she rummaged around under the sink a little, her jeans-covered butt thrust impudently into the air as she arranged the cleansers to her liking. As the day had worn on, the hostility between them gradually lessened to the point that they engaged in a bit of conversation. Stilted, impersonal conversation, admittedly, but conversation nevertheless.

Damn, he’d missed her, Rory thought involuntarily. He had missed the sound of her voice, her laugh, her smile. He had missed the way she kissed him with honesty and passion, the way her body twined around his as he thrust himself into her, the way she shouted out his name as she came and came and came beneath him. He had missed her in his bed and in his life. The last eight months had been damn lonely.

He tore his eyes from her, loath to be caught staring at her backside. “I guess we can go now,” he said as Lisa looked around the kitchen one more time.

“Guess so,” she replied diffidently. But she didn’t pick up her purse and head for the door. Instead she moved closer to him, one step at a time as though drawn by a magnet, and Rory felt himself drawn to her too. He took a tentative first step, and then a second, and suddenly they were in each other’s arms, their arms around one another and their lips plastered together and their tongues tangling in a sensual dance of passion.

He cupped her head with one powerful hand and with the other cupped her waist, drawing her so tightly against his chest that he could feel the hard pebbling of her nipples through her bra and their shirts, the taut nubbins a dead giveaway that she was every bit as aroused as he was. He felt himself grow hard with desire and angled her hips so that she would feel every bit of his need for her. He wanted—no, he needed—for her to know that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him, that whoever and whatever it was that had come between them had in no way affected the primal desire they had for one another.

She made the little whimpering sound she always made when she wanted more, and she dug her fingernails into his back so hard he would have marks in the morning. The male core of him roared inwardly in triumph. They clung together for long moments, and Rory savored the feel of her in his arms once more and willed the moment to go on forever.

But it couldn’t. Slowly, reluctantly, Rory drew his lips away from Lisa’s and loosened his grip on her, his expression bemused as he stared down into her dazed eyes. “I guess some things just don’t change no matter what,” he said softly.

Lisa took a deep breath and stepped away. “Apparently they don’t.”

She hesitated, and Rory wondered if she was about to say more when the front door flew open and Russ Riley blew inside. The good-looking Army captain, dressed in Army camo and combat boots, had a box of ornaments in one hand and a tree stand in the other, and he didn’t seem to notice the sexual tension radiating between the two of them.

“Oh, thank God you’re both still here,” he said as he dropped his load on the sofa. “Plans have changed. Emily will have Holly here in an hour or so, and I need to get a Christmas tree up for her. Can you please stay a little longer and help me get it up?”

Get it up? How appropriate was that for the little rat bastard? Rory thought bitterly. He willed his hard-on to fade as Russ held out his arms.

“Come here and let me give you a hug,” the playboy said as Lisa moved into his arms. “God, it’s good to see you.”

Rory ground his teeth as Lisa was enveloped in the embrace. “It’s good to see you, too, Russ,” she said. “And on such a happy afternoon.”

Russ nodded. “Lots happier than the last time I saw you.” He paused a minute, and Rory wondered at the sheen in the man’s eyes. “How can I ever, ever thank you for that night?”

Rory felt every muscle in his body stiffen as he stared at them. Would Lisa even have the grace to be embarrassed? Or would she just brazen it out like she had that morning?

He felt himself tremble as Lisa squeezed Russ’s arm. “No big deal, Russ. That’s just what friends do.” She turned around and stared at Rory as though daring him to say a word. “Rory, have you ever actually met Russ?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Rory grunted. He nodded his head. “Riley.”

If Russ was bothered by his lack of warmth, it certainly didn’t show. “Glad to meet you, Rory. So, how about we get this show on the road? It shouldn’t take long.”

Rory opened his mouth to tell them both to go to hell, but something—pride, maybe, or a perverse desire to see just how far Lisa would take her innocent routine—stopped him in his tracks. No, by God, if Lisa would brazen it out then so would he. He would help them put up the Christmas tree and then he would go, and he’d be damned if he ever wasted another minute longing for the faithless Lisa Simmons or wishing for things that would never be, never mind how right she’d felt in his arms or how delicious her lips were on his.

“I’ll help with the tree,” he said tersely. “Happy to.”

“Likewise,” Lisa said, sounding much more sincere. “Where is the tree?”

“Out in my truck,” Russ said. “Along with the lights and a whole lot more ornaments.”

The man disappeared out the front door, and Lisa turned her back on Rory as she pried open the ornament box. Rory made himself pick up the boxed tree stand, which he had free by the time Russ returned with a not-too-large, perfectly proportioned fir tree and two more big shopping bags.

Russ motioned to an unoccupied corner of the living room across from the picture window. “How about we put it over there in that corner? That way her view of the lake won’t be blocked. Here, let’s get the tree in the stand and get at least the lights on before we put it against the wall.”

Without commenting Rory opened the supporting screws, and in just a moment he and Russ had the tree upright, centered and secured. Lisa dove into the shopping bags and found the light strands, and the three made quick work of stringing them. Rory made a point of saying very little, speaking only when spoken to, and becoming angrier by the minute as Lisa and Russ chatted easily back and forth, talking about this and that and nothing in particular as though neither of them had anything to hide.

Well, maybe in their minds they didn’t, Rory thought as he sat on the sofa and painstakingly put ornaments on hangers so Russ and Lisa could hang them on the tree. Riley was the biggest dog in the Army, at least according to what Russ’s sister Emily told Benny and Wade, running through women like an alcoholic through scotch. And, Lisa? How well did he know her, really? She had only moved to Verde when her grandfather got sick. Who knows what she might or might not have done before he met her? Maybe for her stepping out on a lover was the norm.

Even with the three of them working, it took over an hour to decorate the tree, and a car pulled up in the driveway as Russ carefully placed a glitter-winged angel on the top. A moment later, a round-faced college girl with hair even redder than Lisa’s held open the front door so that a thin, pale, but achingly beautiful woman could cautiously step inside.

Russ immediately rushed to the woman and enveloped her in a tender hug. “Merry Christmas, sis,” he said as he gently hugged the frail-looking woman. “It’s good to have you here.” He turned her to face Lisa and Rory and said, “Holly, this is Lisa Simmons and Rory Keller. They were kind enough to clean up the cabin and help me with the Christmas tree.”

Holly looked at Rory and Lisa and then back at Russ with dismay. “Someone else I’ve forgotten?” she whispered. She faced Rory and Lisa resolutely. “If I’ve forgotten you I’m sorry. I have a six-month gap in my memory. Head injury.”

A six-month gap in her memory? Rory shuddered inwardly. “No, ma’am, we’ve never met,” he said quickly. “I’m Rory Keller. I’m one of your neighbors here on the Point.”

“Rory.” Holly repeated his name twice. “You may have to remind me a few times. I’m having trouble putting names with faces these days.” She turned to Lisa. “Should I know you?”

“I served you and your uncle a couple of times at the café, but we’ve never met otherwise. I’m Lisa Simmons.”

“I told you about her in the car, the one who was so incredibly nice the night we found out you’d been hurt,” said the younger woman, the one Rory assumed was Emily. She came up to Lisa and enveloped her in a fierce hug. “I can’t thank you enough for coming that night. You were just wonderful to us.”

Rory stared across the room and had to will his jaw not to drop. Us? Who was ‘us’?

Holly reached out and grasped Lisa’s hand. “Yes, that was all Emily could talk about when she heard you’d been kind enough to help with the cabin. She said you were coming to the rescue of the Rileys once again. I can’t thank you enough for taking care of Russ and Emily that night. Especially Emily.”

Emily? Russ and Emily? Emily had been here that night also?

Rory looked over at Lisa, who spared him a glance with a quick flicker of disdain before turning to Holly. “I was more than glad to come. I could only imagine what they were feeling when they found out you were clinging to life in that Army hospital. If it had been me, I would have been falling to pieces.”

“And I pretty much was,” Emily admitted. “Russ was doing the stoic soldier routine, but I was losing it, and that was of course the night my blood sugar chose to go up and down like a yo-yo.” She turned to include Rory in the conversation. “Uncle Willis called Lisa, and even though she’d only met me once before, she came here and hung out with us and fed me stuff for my blood sugar until we got a call from Mom and Dad that Holly had come through surgery and was going to be all right. Longest night of my life.”

“Mine, too,” Russ Riley admitted. “I was worried about both of my sisters.” He smiled at Lisa. “You’re quite a woman, Lisa Simmons.”

Yes, she was, Rory thought in horror, as the magnitude of his misunderstanding finally began to sink in. She hadn’t been out here cheating on him with Russ Riley; she’d been helping the Riley siblings through a crisis. He’d completely misinterpreted what he saw that morning. He had suspected the worst of her when she had done nothing wrong at all. But, why hadn’t she just explained the situation to him? Why had she let him think the worst? Why had she willingly sacrificed what they had together rather than simply telling him what was going on? He looked over at Lisa and thinned his lips. He didn’t know the answers to those questions, but he sure as hell intended to find out.

Lisa clasped Holly’s hand for a moment longer. “Is there anything else I can help you folks with before I go?” she asked. “I’m off tonight but sometimes I go in anyway if we get a lot of customers.”

“No, I think we’re good,” Russ said. “But what about your pecans? Uncle Willis said he’d drop them by here.”

“He can catch up with me next week,” Lisa said as she glanced toward Rory and started edging toward the door. “Russ, Emily, good to see you both again. Holly, welcome to Verde.” She darted out the door.

“Excuse me, I’d like a word with Lisa before she goes,” Rory said as he hot-footed it out the door behind her, leaving the Riley siblings in the living room.

Lisa was moving fast, but Rory was faster and leapt in front of her then turned and leaned against the driver’s side door of her vehicle, arms crossed and hands folded across his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on that night?” he demanded as he thrust his face down into hers. “You knew I saw his truck parked there, and you knew damn well what I thought when you came sashaying out the door that morning. Why didn’t you just tell me what you were doing there? Why did you let me think the worst of you?”

Lisa lifted her chin in a manner that was almost regal. “Because I knew exactly what you thought that morning and it made me mad. I knew from the look on your face that you thought the worst of me. You thought, you honestly thought, that after all you and I had come to mean to one another that I would throw it all away on a one-night stand. You didn’t trust me, Rory. And that, in my book, is unforgiveable.”

“Under those circumstances, how the hell could I trust you?” Rory ground out. “You know damn well what it looked like. I needed an explanation, and all you did was look at me.”

Lisa’s eyes shot sparks as she looked up at him. “No. You. Didn’t. You didn’t need one bit of explanation. It was a matter of trust, Rory. You either trusted me or you didn’t. I shouldn’t have been expected to explain anything to you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to explain? What kind of bull crap is that, Lisa? Yes, you should have explained it to me. I’ll be damned if I’ll believe you or any other woman caught in circumstances like that without an explanation—and a damned good one at that.”

Rory was surprised when the anger faded from Lisa’s face. She looked away for a moment then turned heartbroken eyes on him. “And therein lies the problem, doesn’t it?” she asked softly. “It isn’t just me, Rory, is it? You wouldn’t trust any woman. You don’t have it in you to trust, do you? You’re always going to want ‘an explanation’”—she made quotation marks with her fingers—“and the burden of proof will always be on the woman. Well, I’m not going there, Rory. That woman is not going to be me. I’m not going to spend my life explaining every flirty remark from another man, every phone call you might find mysterious, every thirty-minute delay getting home, and each and every little thing that might accidentally arouse your suspicion. I will be damned if I spend my life trying to placate a jealous man without an ounce of trust to his name. Now, would you have the courtesy to step aside and let me get in my car?” She looked pointedly at the door handle.

His mind whirling, Rory stepped aside and let her get into the car. She was wrong, he thought bitterly. She did owe him an explanation that morning. He couldn’t be expected to see what he had and not come to the conclusion he reached. Trust had to be earned, didn’t it? How could he be expected to just take it on faith?

Chapter Thirty-Two

Rory watched as Lisa’s Charger turned the corner at the end of the street before he tiredly trudged back to Holly’s house. He would have just escaped down the street to his own little cabin but he had Holly’s house key in his pocket and figured that at least one of them should wish the Riley siblings a proper goodbye. It wasn’t going to be Lisa.

He found Holly settled on the sofa with a remote in her hand and Russ and Emily in the kitchen unloading groceries into the refrigerator. “You and Lisa have a nice discussion out there, Rory?” Russ asked dryly as he pulled a bottle of wine out of the sack. “Hell, how does Holly think she’s going to get this bottle open with just one working hand?”

“If she wants to drink it badly enough she’ll figure it out,” Emily said blithely. “So you thought your lady hooked up with my brother, huh? Gotta love those horny soldiers.”

Rory ground his teeth together. “I gather you heard us. And this is your business because?”

Emily pointed to the open window. “Everyone on The Point probably heard you, so if you don’t want everybody and God knowing your business you really ought to have your heated discussions behind closed doors. And it’s our business because Lisa got in trouble with you for coming over here and helping us.”

Rory shrugged. “Fine. Make it your business if you want to. Besides, this is Verde and everybody already knows my business. It hasn’t escaped notice that Lisa and I aren’t exactly together anymore.”

“Yeah, and that’s a damned shame,” Russ said. “Because Lisa is about as fine a young woman as you’ll ever find.”

“That very well may be, but she’s the one who stood there and stared me down that morning when I asked her what was going on,” Rory snapped.

“Did you ask her? Or did you get up in her face like you did just now and start yelling at her?” Emily asked.

Rory could feel his face turning red. “I guess I yelled at her, yes. But what would you think if you saw your brother’s truck in front of the house and your girlfriend coming out the front door first thing in the morning? I mean, no offense meant, but Russ is a known playboy.”

“And proud of it,” Russ piped up. “But you know what? I wouldn’t have passed judgment based on ‘the horny soldier.’ I would have had the sense to trust my lovely lady, who probably never did anything to warrant my suspicion and who most likely deserved my trust. If I still thought I had to ask, I would have at least been nice about it. Keller, you’re a fool if you think you can’t trust Lisa Simmons. The girl’s pure gold.”

“She should have explained,” Rory said stubbornly.

“You should have trusted her,” Emily said.

“But why wouldn’t she just tell me?” Rory said. “I would have believed her if she’d just explained what she was doing here.”

Russ and Emily looked at one another and shrugged.

“Maybe because her daddy was a mistrustful bastard who made her mother’s life miserable. Those stories I remember. About Howard Simmons.” Holly limped into the kitchen with a sour look on her face and motioned to the wine bottle. “The mother was as good a woman as they come, but she finally had enough and left. Took the girls with her, and her granddad barely saw anything of them growing up.” Holly painfully lowered herself into a chair, and Russ handed her a full glass of wine. “The mom made the girls promise on her deathbed that they wouldn’t ever put up with a suspicious bastard like their daddy. Her grandfather told Uncle Willis that Lisa took the promise to heart.”

Russ whistled under his breath. “And Rory here played right into her fears. Good going, Keller.”

Holly downed half her wine before facing Rory across the table. “Most women would have explained, probably. Not her. And I can understand why.”

“But how was I supposed to know if she didn’t tell me?” Rory looked to the three of them in genuine bewilderment.

“Why did you assume the worst, Rory?” Emily asked quietly.

Rory clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. No way was he airing his family’s dirty laundry to the Rileys. “Never mind.”

Holly looked knowing. “Rory, not all women are like your mother. Yep, I’ve heard those stories, too,” she added when Rory’s face turned a deep shade of red. “If you give a damn about the girl you better learn to trust her, and learn it fast.”

“I don’t know about that,” Rory said. “Trust has to be earned, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t, even though a lot of people think that way, men and women alike,” Emily said. “Rory, unless and until a woman demonstrates to you that she isn’t worthy of your trust, your trust is a gift to be freely given. I’ll bet in all the time you dated Lisa she never did anything to justify withholding that gift, did she?”

Rory shook his head. “Not once.”

“Then you should have trusted her that morning. She should have had the gift of your trust.”

***

Lisa tiredly gathered up the dirty plates and utensils of Wade and Angie and asked if they wanted any pie for dessert. It was late, and thankfully the Baxters were the last two people in the café. Lisa could hardly wait to clean up their table and deal with the register and go home for the night. Between cleaning Holly’s house all day and filling in at the last minute for an employee with the flu, she was exhausted. And emotionally wrung out on top of the fatigue, she admitted as she recalled both the steamy kiss they shared and the very public shouting match with Rory in front of Holly’s house.

Spending the day with Rory had been a bittersweet kind of torture, as she had remembered all they shared the months they had been together. A part of her, the part that still loved Rory Keller, had hoped that maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to one another. But their argument pretty well made it clear that wasn’t going to happen. For whatever reason, Rory was determined to think the worst until proven otherwise. Lisa refused to live like that. She had seen what her father’s mistrust did to her mother, and there was no way a man, even a man she loved, was going to do that to her.

She carried the Baxters’ dirty dishes to the back and brought Angie her change. Wade had already kissed his mother goodnight and disappeared, and Angie pulled out the chair and motioned for Lisa to sit down.

“You look as tired as I feel,” the woman said as Lisa sank into the chair and toed off her shoes.

“That’s right, you cleaned all day too.”

“But I didn’t wait tables all night or have a fight with my ex-boyfriend on top of it.” Angie’s eyes danced with amusement as Lisa groaned out loud. “Apparently everybody on the Point was listening, and I’ve already heard three versions, including one where you threw mop water on him.”

Lisa shook her head in exasperation. “No mop water, no mop, no weapons of mass destruction. Just some public red-faced screaming on his part and loud-mouthed sneering disdain on mine.” Her eyes filled and she felt her lower lip trembling. “It all boils down to trust, Angie. He doesn’t trust me and he sees no reason why he should.”

Angie was quiet for a moment. “So, what did happen, Lisa? All anybody really knows is that you quit seeing one another.”

Lisa summarized the situation quickly. Then: “I don’t know, maybe I should have just explained the situation to him that morning, but I could see myself with him up in my face every day for the rest of my life explaining each and every little thing and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t start the pattern of behavior that destroyed my mother. He really punched my buttons that morning, Angie.”

The woman looked across the table with compassion in her eyes. “What did you do?”

“I just stared him in the face with my best go-to-hell look and got in the car and left.”

“Hoo-boy,” Angie said. “I guess you felt you really had to punch his buttons, too, didn’t you?”

“Punch what buttons?” Lisa asked. “I didn’t say a thing to him. I just gave him a go-to-hell look and left.”

“And that right there is what you did to punch his buttons. The disdainful silence while he demanded an explanation.”

Lisa shrugged. “And that would punch his buttons because…? I didn’t argue, I didn’t say a word, I didn’t call him an ass like I wanted to. I just stared him down.”

Angie thought a minute. “I guess you wouldn’t have known about Evelyn’s famous stares, would you. That’s right, you never met Rory’s mother. You wouldn’t know what she used to do.”

“No, I never met her. She’d already drunk herself to death when I moved here. So tell me about this woman and the staring and why that would seem so awful to Rory.”

“Evelyn Keller used to look at Rory’s father like that when she’d slept with another man. She would just look him in the eye and dare him to say a word.”

“What?”

“Yep, that’s exactly what she would do to him. And how do I know this, you are wondering?” Angie’s lips tightened and she shook her head. “Because Evelyn would come in to get her nails done three sheets to the wind and laugh about it. Thought it was funny to do the poor man that way right in front of his kids. And Barney was such a weak puppy that he put up with it instead of taking his boys and leaving. That had to make an impression.”

“And then I stared Rory down the same way,” Lisa said thoughtfully. “He was conditioned by his mother to think the worst and then I stared him in the eye and he immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. Well, hell. I guess I did punch his buttons.”

A sympathetic smile touched Angie’s lips. “Well, at least now you know where he’s coming from. And maybe Rory needs to know where you’re coming from, too.”

Lisa thought a minute and shook her head. “It wouldn’t make any difference. If anything, knowing about his mother makes it just that much worse. Angie, if he couldn’t trust me after all the time we spent together and what we meant to one another, then his mother ruined him and he isn’t capable of trust. And Evelyn Keller or no, I am not going to live like my mother.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I’d rather live with no man at all than live the life my mother did.”

“I get that,” Angie said quietly. “But don’t be so quick to write the young man off, Lisa. Rory’s a fine man in many ways, and take it from me, good men like him aren’t just growing on trees. Surely there’s room for compromise in there somewhere, isn’t there? Now, don’t just say no,” she added when Lisa started to speak. “Just think about it for a while. Maybe talk to Rory again before you give up entirely. Promise?”

“Okay, I promise.” And she would think about it since she’d promised Angie. But as far as Lisa was concerned, it would take a miracle for Rory to learn how to trust, and Christmas or not, miracles were few and far between.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lisa glanced at the clock on the café wall and breathed a sigh of relief. Thirty more minutes and thankfully they would be done and could go home.

All but one of the takeout turkey dinners had been collected, and the last of the diners who preferred eating their Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve in the café were finishing up their meals, squaring away their bills and hustling out the door to make it to one of the several Christmas Eve services offered by the local churches. Lisa had planned to attend one of them herself, but her head hurt and her feet were killing her and all she wanted to do was go home and watch a rerun while she packed her duffel for the drive to Austin in the morning. Besides, she didn’t know which of the church services the Keller family planned to attend, and the last thing she wanted tonight was to run into Rory. She hadn’t seen him once since the shouting match in front of Holly’s house, and it would further ruin her Christmas by having to deal with him—or, more accurately, the love she felt for him and the hopeless situation she found herself in, loving him deeply and at the same time totally unwilling to spend her life with his mistrustful nature. At some point she would have to deal with her feelings, but tonight she just wanted to put everything on hold and try to salvage what was left of the season.

“Hey, Lisa! Betty Cleburne’s on the phone. She’s forty-five minutes out and wants to know if she can still pick up her turkey.” Gus held out the phone from behind the window. “I can wait if you don’t want to.”

“Not a problem. I can stay,” Lisa assured both Betty and Gus, especially now that she wasn’t going to a service. She finished up with the last customers, making a point of thanking them for sharing part of their Christmas with her, and made quick work of cleaning up the front and counting the register.

She was sitting at a booth checking her email on her phone when Betty Cleburne, the county social worker, rushed through the front door looking uncharacteristically harassed. “Of all nights for Eugene Schaefer to lose it and whip up on Marcie again,” she said disgustedly. “He’s in jail, and Marcie’s in the hospital, and I had to find a foster family to take Jeremy. Not an easy task on Christmas Eve. Thanks for waiting.”

“Not a problem,” Lisa assured her. Then she helped the woman get the boxed turkey and sides packed and out the door.

She was putting the last sack in Betty’s trunk when Rory’s cruiser whipped around the corner and screeched into a parking place in front of the café. As he leapt out of the car she asked, “What’s going on?”

Rory looked from Lisa to Betty and his face turned red. “N-nothing,” he stammered. “I forgot until a few minutes ago that the café closed early tonight. I-I just wanted to talk to you before you left for Austin.”

Lisa felt her lips tighten, but before she could answer Betty banged down her trunk lid. “You know, I really need to get all this home before Joe-Bob thinks I’ve run off with the mailman,” she said, a knowing smile on her lips. “Lisa, thanks again for waiting. Merry Christmas, both of you.”

She jumped in the car and was gone in a flash, and Lisa and Rory stood on the sidewalk looking at one another.

“Okay, you’re here,” Lisa said slowly. “You want to talk. So, talk. I’m tired and want to go home.”

“I, uh…” Rory looked around the town square, still decked out in all its Christmas finery but almost completely deserted. “God, I don’t want to talk here.”

“Why? Don’t want those folks over there to hear you when you get up in my face again?” Lisa knew she sounded snide but didn’t care.

To her surprise, Rory hung his head. “I don’t blame you for feeling that way. No, what I have to say…well, I…” He looked at her helplessly. “Look, can we please go somewhere and sit down and talk about some things?” He glanced over at the café. “Maybe in there?”

“Not the café. I don’t want someone to think we’re still open and get mad when I can’t serve them.”

Rory thought a minute. “How about the beach at Heaven’s Point?” he asked quietly. “It’ll be private out there, and the moon shining on the water will be really pretty,” he coaxed.

And you know I have memories of all the time we spent out on that beach together, Lisa thought as she started to shake her head.

“Please, Lisa.” He stopped and gulped, and Lisa could swear there were tears in his eyes. “Come with me.”

Lisa didn’t know if it was the tears or the desperation in his voice, or the expression of complete desolation that convinced her, but she nodded slightly. “I’ll take my own car so you don’t have to bring me back to town.”

She locked up the café and moved her car out of the alley onto the street, where Rory waited in the cruiser to follow her to Heaven’s Point. She was crazy, she thought to herself as she made the too-familiar drive to the little lake community through the moonlight-dappled, hilly ranchland sprinkled with sleeping cattle and the occasional horse and white-tailed deer doing their annual winter mating dance. She and Rory had nothing to say to one another. For whatever reason, he would never be able to trust her and she refused to live with his constant suspicion. So why was she going with him? Was it because she’d promised Angie she would talk to him? Was a part of her hoping for some kind of miraculous reconciliation? Or was she just hoping that tonight they could find some closure so that they both could get on with their lives?

Lisa pulled up on the grassy parking area and looked around for a moment at the gaily decorated houses of the Point. Widower Jimmy Adamcik’s huge ranch house was decked out royally, probably to please his young daughter Carrie, and someone—Russ, probably—had put lights on Holly’s front porch.

Rory parked next to her and got out of the cruiser with two brightly-wrapped packages in his hands. Lisa started for the concrete wall flanking the sandy swimming beach, but Rory pointed instead to the picnic bench underneath the streetlight. They sat down across from one another, and he placed the Christmas presents between them on the table.

Lisa looked at the packages with suddenly intense curiosity. “I don’t have anything for you,” she blurted.

“That’s all right. One of these has my name on it, and I’m hoping that after we talk you’ll be willing to give it to me,” Rory said quietly. He looked out at the frothing, silvery water of Lake Templeton. “You never told me about your father.”

Lisa could feel her eyebrow shoot up. “You never told me about your mother.”

Rory looked across the table ruefully. “Touché. I never said anything about it to you because I was ashamed, Lisa. She was my mother, and I loved her, but at the same time I was and still am horribly ashamed of the way she treated my father. Dad’s a good man and he didn’t deserve that. He deserved a woman who was faithful to him, and instead my mother would come in after being gone all night, smelling like booze and another man’s aftershave, and when he’d ask her where she’d been she would just stare at him, knowing he knew damn well where she’d been and daring him to say anything about it.”

“Why didn’t he leave?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, and I never will, because I would never hurt him by asking,” Rory said quietly. “All I know is that morning, when you came out of that house and just looked at me like you did, all I could think was that you had done the same thing to me that she used to do to him. Never mind that I knew you better than that, never mind that you’d never given me a reason in the world to doubt you, I just thought it was happening all over again.” Rory stopped and took a deep breath. “And I just couldn’t go there.”

He reached out and took Lisa by the hand. “Lisa, I’m sorry. If I’d been thinking that morning and not reacting to old memories, I would have known you’d never do that to me, even with a good-looking stud like Russ Riley. I should have trusted you.”

Lisa felt wetness on their clasped hands and realized that the falling tears belonged to them both. She said, “I could have explained that morning and I guess I should have, but I just couldn’t.” She pulled her hand away from Rory’s and clasped it in her lap. “I never told you about my father because I wasn’t really proud, either. How my sweet, loving grandfather could have raised such an asshole for a son is beyond me, but asshole doesn’t begin to describe it. My mom never did a thing to make him doubt her. She never went anywhere or did anything or associated with anybody she shouldn’t have, but my father constantly suspected the worst and made her life a living hell because of it. I have the most horrible memories of him up in her face, just like you were up in mine”—Lisa stopped and wiped her eyes and took a breath—“and her begging and pleading with him to believe her that she hadn’t done anything wrong.”

She tried and failed to break the sobs that she felt coming. “He broke her, Rory,” she added as the sobs tore free. “H-he broke her s-spirit, and he b-broke her health, and f-finally she couldn’t take it anymore and left him and we n-never got to see grandpa anymore.” Lisa knuckled away the tears while fresh ones spilled down her cheeks. “I-I can’t go there, Rory. As much as I love you, and I do love you, I can’t live like she did. I promised her the day she died that I would never let a man treat me like my father treated her.”

“Oh my God,” Rory breathed. He slid off his bench and came around the table to where Lisa was curled up with her head in her hands. “Shh, it’s all right,” he crooned as she sobbed her heartbreak. He gathered her in his arms and rocked her back and forth as she cried out her anguish, his own eyes overflowing with the tears of her painful past and his own.

Finally, her tears spent, Lisa sat up and scooted a few inches away from him on the bench. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve never cried like that over them.”

“Maybe you needed to. Maybe we both did.”

“But that doesn’t solve the problem,” Lisa said sadly. “I want something you can’t give me.”

Rory bit his lip. “Lisa…” He scooted back around to the other bench and sat facing her across the table. “I think it’s time to open the Christmas gifts. Here, you go first.”

Christmas gifts? He wanted to open Christmas presents? Now? Mystified, Lisa took the large box labeled To Lisa from Rory and tore off the paper, wondering what could be in the box from an office supply store. She carefully opened the box and stared down at stacks and stacks of old-fashioned receipt books with something written across the top receipt.

She picked up one of the books and angled it directly under the streetlight. Trust me was written boldly there. Curious, she flipped through the receipt book and found the same thing written on every page.

Lisa picked up another book and flipped through it. Sure enough, Trust me was written on every page of that book too, and the next one, and the next one after that. “It took us all night to fill them all out,” Rory said quietly. “Dad and Benny and me. I couldn’t have gotten them all written out by myself.” He gestured to the other, much smaller package. “It’s your turn to give that one to me.”

Lisa did. She handed Rory the smaller package. He ripped off the paper and removed the lid then scooted the box across the table so she could see inside. There was a very small stack of receipt books there, just a handful, really. Lisa picked up one and held it to the light. The receipts were labeled, Please, please, tell me about it.

Speechless, Lisa looked over at him.

“This is how it’s going to work if you’ll give us another chance,” Rory said softly. “I’m not going to change overnight, and I know that sometimes those memories of Mom are going to reach up and bite me in the butt. So this is what you’re going to do. I start crap like that, you’re going to hand me one of your receipts. You’re going to use it to remind me that I can trust you and that I do trust you. This is my trust, Lisa. I’m giving you my trust.”

Lisa’s head was spinning as she looked down at the big box of receipt books in her possession. “Just like that? I hand you a receipt and you trust me, just like that?”

“Just like that,” Rory assured her solemnly. “I do trust you, and that receipt is just to remind me that I do.”

Lisa looked across the table at the receipts in front of Rory. “What about those? I know the box is smaller, but how do you plan to use them?”

From across the table, Rory looked her in the eye. “Lisa, no matter how much I trust you, and trust you I do, there are going to be times, not many, but definitely a few, when I am going to have questions and I will need to know what’s going on, for my own peace of mind if for no other reason. Or maybe just because I love you and I’m worried. Ten thousand dollars disappears out of the checking account or you lose twenty pounds and are barfing all the time, yes, I’m going to want to know. But I promise you that those times will be few and far between. And I will never, ever hand you one of my receipts because of another man. I will never distrust you that way ever again.” He pointed to the boxes. “I mean for these to last a lifetime, Lisa. That’s why you have so many and I have so few. I love you, Lisa, and I mean to trust you every day for the rest of my life.”

He paused, waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t he asked, “What do you say, Lisa? I’m giving you my trust tonight. Can you do the same and give me yours?”

Lisa looked down at her huge stack of receipts then over at Rory’s much smaller one. He was giving her the gift of his trust, his promise that he would let go of the baggage of his past and accept her as the honest woman that she was. And he was asking her to give a little too, to promise to explain to him when he really, really needed to know.

She again compared the size of the stacks. He was doing most of the giving, most of the compromising and asking her to give him back very little. Could she do it? Could she accept the gift of his trust and offer him the same, her trust that he would trust her and ask for an explanation only when he felt he must?

She looked over at Rory, his love for her shining in his eyes as he begged for her answer. And the answer became apparent: How could she not? Given the gift of his trust for her, how could she not give the same gift to him?

Lisa smiled and reached for his hand across the table. “Yes, Rory, I can give you my trust.”

Together they stood. Rory reached out, and Lisa flew into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and meeting his lips with hers. They clung together as their tears of joy and promise mingled on their cheeks, and with their kiss they pledged their love and trust to one another forever.

Finally they broke off their kiss and stared into one another’s eyes. “Come home with me tonight,” Rory whispered. “Let me give you the gift of my love.”

Lisa nodded.

Rory took her hand, and together they walked down the street to his cabin. Someone’s Christmas bells tinkled in the chilly wind, and the Christmas lights adorning the houses nearby winked brightly, but brighter still was the hope in Lisa’s heart. They stood on Rory’s porch for a moment before she wrapped her arms around the man she loved and planted a tender kiss on his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Rory. Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of twenty romance novels, Emily Mims combined her writing career with a career in public education until leaving the classroom to write fulltime. The mother of two sons and grandmother of three, she and her husband live in Central Texas but frequently visit grandchildren in eastern Tennessee and Hawaii. She plays the piano, organ, dulcimer, and ukulele, and belongs to two performing bands. She says, “I love to write romances because I believe in them. Romance happened to me and it can happen to any woman—if she’ll just let it.”

KISSING MR. SCROOGE

DataMatch Success Story No. 1

Kary Rader

For those who think laughter and kisses go together

KISSING MR. SCROOGE

Chapter Thirty-Four

Grammy of Christmas Past

When you graduate from high school, the world is your oyster. When you graduate college, you’re just expected to make a lot of clams. At least that’s how I felt six months ago at my commencement ceremony. After four years of beer bongs and business administration, the University of Illinois spewed me out into the world—whether I was ready or not. Mostly I was, or so I thought.

“Ms. Timms.”

I sigh. That bellowing sound is Nathaniel Scorge, my boss of three weeks, Mr. Scorge to me—no, really, that’s his name. He’s where the clams come in. Ninety-three thousand of them plus bonus, which is way better than anyone else in my graduating class got. Unfortunately, I’m not sure I can make it in this job the required twelve months to earn said ninety K.

“Ms. Timms!”

I’m not even sure I can make it twelve minutes.

My heart picks up a reggae beat. I gather my notepad and pen, and hurry into his office before he calls in the cavalry to start looking—or worse, the Dragonlady of HR. I’m worried. I’ll never be able to keep my mouth shut. How I managed to navigate three personality tests, two nondisclosure agreements, and fifteen interviews over four and a half months is still a mystery of the universe. It was even more involved than the hiring process for Disney or the Container Store, but SC Endeavors Inc. was the most sought-after job in the country. Yes, the benefits are great and the salaries are significantly higher than the national average, but it’s the stock options that everyone wants to get in on. The market analysts believe SCE will go public within two years, and just like at Microsoft and Southwest Airlines, employees will be given part of the action. Both companies have more millionaire secretaries than any other company in the country. And SC Endeavors promises to be even bigger than Facebook.

Nearly everyone on campus took that first two-hundred-fifty-page qualifying exam for an opportunity to work for Mr. Scorge, and apparently they’d given the entrance exam at fourteen major universities across the country. The crapping test was more involved than the SAT or even the bar, according to a law student who was friends with my roommate’s brother, Jessie. Somehow I and one other Fighting Illini made it through the process. When scary Ms. Dresden finally called me with a job offer after a very intimidating and awkward interview with Mr. Scorge where he spent most of his time ignoring me and I honestly thought he hated me, I felt like I’d just won the lotter—

“Miss Timms! Now!”

I suck in a breath at the threshold of his door. He really should learn patience. The man is exacting, demanding, and too utterly self-absorbed to be capable of empathy. Conquering my fear is a challenge every time I step into his presence. But it’s not fear like you’d think. I’m not afraid of my boss, no matter how loudly he yells. I’m afraid that he’ll piss me off and I’ll say something I shouldn’t. I’m not exactly a keep-it-to-myself kinda gal. “Yes, sir.”

It had to be pure luck that I passed those personality tests and that I met several key requirements for the admin position. I know I’m qualified, but I’m not sure I can zip my mouth and keep my job.

At first, I was hesitant about taking secretarial work, especially for corporate Attila the Hun, but the salary range soothed my pride and my fears quite a bit. I realized I could at least try to suffer through. My friends were disbelieving, knowing my outspoken nature, and my adversaries were more than a little envious. In the end, it had come down to fifteen of us for five positions. I just happened to be the one who got to work with Scorge because the test grader obviously fell asleep.

One of the chicks from Illinois, Violet Murphy, got hired as an assistant to Mr. Scorge’s partner, Jared Cassidy. I knew her from some of my classes and now work with her nearly every day. I like her. She’s quiet, a bit straitlaced, but decent and hardworking—working for Casanova Cassidy she has to be, or the man would charm her right into his bed or onto his desk like he did his last assistant, who, according to company gossip and TMZ, reportedly got an undisclosed sum of money to leave. The other three hires were sprinkled into positions all over the company: one guy in marketing, one knockout bombshell named Betsy in product development—we aren’t sure she even took the tests—and one guy who now works as a recruiter for the Dragonlady, aka Ms. Dresden. I do not envy him. If ever there was an impossible-to-please person—besides Scorge, that is—it’s her.

Of course, now I understand why my position pays so much. I work nearly every evening until dark and in three weeks have had not one single day where the man didn’t call and I didn’t have to go running off somewhere to courier, FedEx, drive some top-secret document over to him, organize something, or change something I’ve already done six times. Even though he’s rarely in the office, I communicate with him eighteen to twenty hours a day. I swear he’s some kind of immortal who exists solely on caffeine because I don’t think he ever sleeps or eats. I’ve seen him drink coffee, but that’s it.

He obviously hears me enter the room because he’s ceased his hollering. His dark head is bowed over the clutter that doubles as a desk, but he never looks up from the contract he’s reviewing. His ultra-modern furnishings lend a masculine bent to the office, and the chrome accents highlight the floor-to-ceiling windows gracing two walls of the corner office.

“Have you made the reservations for Atlanta next week?”

“I just got off the phone with Southwest Air—”

“Jared isn’t going. I need them changed.”

Of course he does. He always needs them changed, and usually he’s not so considerate. He generally needs them changed the day before he leaves—or on his way to the airport. I grit my teeth and add a measure of cheer to my voice. “Not a problem. When would you like to go?”

He’ll probably say “today,” and I’ll have to run by the travel agent’s office to pick up the tickets and drop them off at his house again. I force myself not to sigh. I was so looking forward to catching up on TiVo tonight. If he wants to pay me six digits with bonus to cater to his every travel whim, so be it. This is the life I’ve chosen and I shouldn’t grumble about it.

Mr. Scorge grunts. “Change the reservations for the following week.”

“But that’s…” I stare out the twenty-six-story window behind him, trying to decide if I should complete my sentence. The December wind whips light rain onto the glass, and I can barely see the buildings of downtown Chicago for the fog.

He pointedly looks up from the chaos and arches an eyebrow at me.

“Christmas,” I squeak. I don’t squeak because he’s glaring at me. He does that all the time. I squeak because my mean, angry, bellowing boss is the hottest, sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Everything about him seduces me: his tall frame; thick, dark hair; his elegant mannerisms, like the way his lean, long fingers turn the pages of his contract or grip his black and stainless-steel coffee mug; his smell, which is beyond masculine and traverses into superhero status; and even his yelling, the timber of his voice and the force with which the words leave his very lickable lips.

I shake the errant thought from my dimwitted head. You cannot lick your boss’s lips, goofball. It’s like some freakish chemical reaction. And when he quirks up his dark eyebrow over his very blue eyes, my insides turn to Hershey’s syrup.

He, of course, is oblivious to my melting ovaries, as all driven, visionary, goal-oriented, CEO workaholics are. I don’t think he’d know attraction, lust, or romance if it bit him in the butt. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: his work.

With his eyebrow still cocked, his sexiness dissolves into a look of barely threaded tolerance. “Christmas is just another day, Ms. Timms. You can celebrate with”—he dismissively flicks his fingers and bends his head back to his work because I am not worthy of more than a cursory glance—“whomever on another day.”

I harness my hormones and gather my composure enough to be somewhat insulted by his high-handed barb.

No, I can celebrate Christmas on Christmas. He can celebrate whenever he wants to, because they’re his travel arrangements. Not mine. “Fine, Mr. Scorge. I’ll make the changes for you.”

“And add yourself as we’ve discussed.”

As we’ve discussed? I feel like my stomach just fell out the window. He does this to me all the time. His comment about celebrating the holiday another time constitutes an entire conversation where, apparently in his mind, I have capitulated to being dragged to Atlanta, Georgia, the week of Christmas, which I clearly have not. “But Mr. Scorge…it’s…”

He looks up again, and again arches an eyebrow at me.

“Christmas,” I squeak…again. Only this time I squeak because he is glaring at me, mean and angry. Rude. Is this job really worth ninety thousand a year? I can’t answer that right now because even though he is still making my hormones race, I’m pretty upset. Christmas is…sacred. It’s holy, for Christ’s sake—literally. You don’t mess with Christmas. Everybody knows that.

He apparently senses my resistance. “Ms. Timms, as part of your job description did you not agree to various business trips and overtime as necessary?”

“Yes, sir.” Of course I’d agreed. I would’ve consented to wear a Chick-fil-A cow suit for ninety grand a year. But I never thought Ebenezer Jr. here would force me to work on Christmas.

“We’ll be back by Christmas Eve.”

As if that makes it alright. I dig my acrylic nails into the meat of my palm to keep from socking him in those brooding blue, heavy-lidded, sexy bedroom eyes. I pivot on my discount leather pumps and march to the door. “I’ll get it done, Mr. Scrooge.” I say it so quickly he can’t possibly have noticed the slur, but the hair on the back of my neck prickles with what I know to be his intent gaze as I leave. Maybe he had noticed.

****

“What do you mean you’re at the airport, honey? You aren’t driving home?”

I take note of the airport decorations and wince. At least they tried to look festive. Some of the crowd of passengers are wearing Christmas-themed clothes, which helps the sparse attempt at holiday cheer by the O’Hare Airport Authority, but nothing is going to improve my dampening spirit—especially not this conversation, which I’ve held off on having until the very last possible moment, hoping for a change in itinerary. No such luck. The one time I need him to change plans, of course they remain firm.

“No, Mom. I’m not driving over. I’m on a business trip.” I’m struggling to corral all of our bags together and balance the phone between my ear and shoulder.

Ebenezer Scorge had summarily deposited his carry-on and laptop at my feet and gone to get himself a cup of java—his life source. I scowl after him as I try to imagine what excuses I can give to Mom.

“A business trip? At this time of year? Storms are coming in, Madeline. A winter weather advisory is forecast for most of the country, and everyone is heading home for the holidays.”

“I doubt the Deep South is part of a winter weather advisory, Mom.” I throw the strap of Mr. Scorge’s man-bag over my shoulder, and it nearly dislodges the phone wedged in against my ear. My purse strap falls to my elbow but there’s no way I can reach for it. I’m a house of suitcases waiting to topple.

“But…it’s Christmas.” Disappointment weighs her words.

“I know it’s Christmas. Trust me, I know.” Unless you’ve met my mom and seen our house at this time of year, you can’t possibly understand the importance she places on the family holiday. And in my twenty-three years I’ve never missed one. None of us has. “But I’ll be home by Christmas morning.”

At my parent’s house, we don’t have an attic. We have a Christmas decoration storage facility. More than two dozen forty-gallon bins containing lights, garland, knickknacks, wreaths, three nativity scenes, two gingerbread houses, countless candles, books, boxes, and stuffed animals are stacked ten wide and two deep. It takes us a week to decorate. Dad, Max, and Jordy are in charge of the outside; Mom and I, the inside. She replaces the sheets on our beds with flannel Santa Claus sheets and the shower curtain, bath mat, and bathroom accessories with all holiday-themed items. A porcelain penguin soap dispenser and a matching toothbrush holder decorate our Jack and Jill bath. That’s how detailed it is. No room in the two-story, twenty-five-hundred-square-foot home is untouched. Family portraits are removed from bookshelves and walls to make way for Christmas hangings and tapestries. People drive from three counties to stare at our lights and front-yard decorations.

And the trees. Oh my God, the trees. A small three-foot tree is placed in every room. The family room adjacent to the kitchen is where our twelve-foot monstrosity goes.

Dad’s family, including his brother and sister-in-law and their kids and now even a couple of grandkids, comes Christmas Eve. We celebrate with snacks and games, drinking eggnog and playing late into the night. Christmas morning is reserved for Santa and the immediate family. Then Christmas afternoon we have a feast to rival Thanksgiving with Mom’s family. Mom roasts a turkey, bakes each of us kids our favorite dessert, and makes cornbread dressing just like Grammy taught her. Aunts, uncles, and cousins fill the house with presents and more food. It’s happy chaos for seven to eight hours.

“But what about Christmas Eve with Uncle Edwin?”

“I’ll just have to miss it.”

“Miss it?” She says it like I’m committing an unpardonable sin.

“I’m not getting in until late. I’ll drive over the next morning. Mom, you have to know that as we grow up to live our lives, Jordy, Max, and I will not always be able to come home for the holidays.”

It’s a weak point because I know neither of my younger brothers, regardless of how far they were, would ever miss Christmas, if just for the sheer fact that they wanted a home-cooked meal.

“This job—is it really worth it, Maddie?”

Crap. I can hear her voice crack. “Mom, it’s worth it…for now. Christmas Eve is just another day.” I hate using his words, but it is a valid point, and it pops easily to my mind. “We can still celebrate on Christmas Day.”

“It’s not the same.”

She’s crying full force and the shame heaps over me with every hiccup. I drop my head and sigh. The strap falls and his laptop bag bangs against my leg. “It’ll be fine, Mom. It’s nothing to get upset over.”

“I guess you can bring your gifts by later.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “We’ll get them to your father’s family somehow.”

“I left them with Max. He’s bringing them for me.”

She rallies her defense. “You know, this could be our last year with Grammy.” There’s another pause and another hiccup. “There are not an infinite number of Christmases in life, Maddie. We have to celebrate when we’re blessed with them.”

I juggle my purse and the two carry-on handles to readjust the phone against my other ear. She’s pulling out the big guns. This is Mr. Scrooge’s fault. “We will celebrate this year. Just maybe not in our traditional way.”

“Flight 724 to Atlanta boarding at Gate 17A.”

I take a breath. “Mom, they just called my flight. I have to go. I’ll see you Christmas morning.”

“Alright. Be safe. And keep warm.” I can hear the resignation in her voice. Her ride down Guilt-Trip Boulevard is over. She played her cards and lost.

“Bye. Love you.” I smile because I do love her and because she means well.

“Love you too. Bye.”

I readjust both my purse strap and the laptop bag over my shoulder and drop my phone back in my purse. A genuine sadness settles over me because I realize that I’ll really miss being with everyone on Christmas Eve. Pulling both carry-ons, I inch toward the boarding line. I’m dreading the minute I have to drop everything and pull out my boarding pass because I’ve no idea where I put it.

I feel a hand on my shoulder removing the laptop strap. Mr. Scorge sets the bag at his feet and steps in front of the lady behind me, who scowls at him. Oblivious to the visual daggers, he bends his head over his souped-up, high-tech cell phone, for which the IT guys spent months developing custom apps. I peer around his head to see he’s on his custom weather app.

“If I’m wrong—and I’m never wrong—we should have smooth flying all the way to and from Atlanta.”

Did he really just say that? I shake my disbelieving head. “Grab your carry-on, Prince Humperdinck. The flight is boarding.”

He lifts his gaze from his nerd phone. “Pardon?”

It’s clear he heard but didn’t get my Princess Bride reference, and there’s no reason to explain. I smile brightly. “The plane is boarding.”

He glides, like all immortals, effortlessly between the rows of passengers, a few of whom are still in the aisle. I follow him toward the back of the plane, bumping things, and mumbling under my breath, “You’d think Ebenezer Moneybags could spring for first class.”

He spins and meets my gaze. “First class is a gross waste of money, Ms. Timms.”

How had he heard me? My cheeks heat furiously. I knock a big guy’s elbow with my rolling carry-on and wince. “Excuse me.” It careens on two wheels into an elderly lady with a knitting bag behind me. “Sorry.”

By the time I extricate my handle from her yarn, Mr. Scorge is already lifting his bag into the overhead bin. He looks down at mine, sighs, and lifts it into the bin next to his. “Take the window.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a concession, Ms. Timms. I prefer the aisle.”

“Of course.” I scoot to the window seat, settle my purse between my legs, and buckle up. He folds his tallish frame in next to me. I’ve of course always realized he was tall, but generally he’s out of town or behind his monster desk. Now he’s crowding my legs and hogging the armrest, and I’m hyperaware of the fair skin on his wrist just tiny centimeters from me, the slight dusting of hair on his hand and the lower knuckles of his deft fingers, which I imagine could unbutton, unhook, and unzip things in a way that would seem like art. A shiver runs through me and I cross my arms tightly over my chest. I should’ve put us in separate rows, but this being my first business trip with him, I didn’t realize. I’ll know next time.

He’s checking his NASA phone again. “I’m confident we’ll not see any weather this trip.”

I roll my eyes and turn on my eReader, trying to ignore the fact that his knee is a microscopic distance from mine and one tiny jolt will cause our legs to touch. It’s not that he’s handsome so much as there’s just an intense pull of all my pink parts toward him. The call with Mom still has me unsettled, but I need to focus on work or at least this flight, and attempt to not embarrass myself with a hormonal heart attack.

A mother and her four-year-old bramble down the aisle to sit directly in front of us. I know the little guy is four because he’s stopped along the way to tell anyone who’ll listen, “I’m four years ode.”

The boy looks at me. I groan softly. At least he isn’t seated behind me for the whole flight. All I need is some whiney kid kicking me in my lower lumbar for three hours. I give him a brush-off smile, trying to balance the line between non-encouraging and rude.

The plane taxis and takes off. The battery on my eReader dies because I forgot to power it off after I charged it. The kid begins to squirm and a tiny shift in the plane causes Mr. Scorge’s leg to knock mine. Tingles spread through my body, and I can feel heat suffuse my face. I hate this trip. I stare out the window, pulling my legs as far to the side as I can.

“Ms. Timms.”

I turn my head toward him. His face is smooth and serious, but there is a glint of humor in his eyes that makes me wonder if he’s as oblivious as I suspect or just plain indifferent. “Yes?”

“This business meeting—it’s important to the future of the company. We’re trying to partner with Tate Consumer Analysis for a groundbreaking venture.”

He’s never spoken to me so directly about work. I assumed it was top-secret confidential. I’m never allowed to see reports. I barely type correspondence for him. Mainly all I’ve done is schedule his calendar, book his travel, and courier sealed documents to different people. With all the confidentiality agreements I had to sign and general waivers, I can only guess he’s trying to secure some high-level government contract. Maybe cyber weapons defense or security. But who knows? It could be anything.

“I’ll need your participation in the meeting. As you know, Mr. Cassidy is the marketing part of our company, but he was unable to attend this trip.”

I feel the weight falling firmly on my shoulders. This business trip is my opportunity. Excitement builds in my chest. It’s just like on Mad Men when Don lets Peggy break out of her secretary shell and become a copywriter.

“I don’t think I need to remind you of the confidential nature of the material you’re likely to see.”

“No. Of course not. What is the venture about?”

He scans the plane like some covert spy. I almost laugh. “I’m not prepared to share that with you now.”

Geez. What does he think? That there’s some counterintelligence operative on board? Or maybe he thinks I’m the spy. Paranoia will destroy ya, dude.

“I don’t anticipate you’ll sit in on the meeting but, by necessity, you may see key information, and I expect your complete discretion.”

Mr. Scorge doesn’t play it close to the vest; heck, he never even takes it out of the vest.

One hour, two leg bumps, and three bathroom trips later—one for me and two for Jeffrey, the four-year old—I’m ready to take my chances outside the plane. Mr. Scorge is still bent over his phone.

“Anything interesting?” I glance over at the Doppler net on his small screen. Why hadn’t the man gone into meteorology?

“I’m tracking the weather system to the north. It will bring record-breaking snow and ice to most of the country.”

“Then why are we traveling?”

“As I said before, Ms. Timms, it won’t reach us until after the holiday. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”

I roll my eyes and turn to look out the window, muttering under my breath, “Iocaine powder—I’d bet my life on it.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I know he couldn’t have heard that.

Our meeting isn’t until eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Then after another breakfast meeting the next day, we will take our return flight, arriving in Chicago around seven p.m. on Christmas Eve.

“Hi.”

I look up at the little face staring at me from the seat in front and frown. “Hi, Jeffrey.”

“I goning to see my Gammie. She wibbs in Georgia. She habs a dog and a horse and a cows. I wike her carrot cake, but I nont wike carrots, ownwee carrot cakes kind. I gots her house sues for Kissmas. Do you wike house sues?”

“Jeffrey, turn around and sit down. Leave the poor lady alone.” His mother cranes her neck around to see me. “Sorry he’s bothering you.”

I smile dutifully. “It’s okay.”

Jeffrey just stares at me. “Do ya?”

“Do I what?”

“He’s asking if you like house shoes.”

I turn my head to meet the amused gaze of my insufferably sexy boss, who apparently speaks four-year-old. “Thank you.” I turn back to Jeffrey. “No. I don’t care for house shoes. I prefer fuzzy socks.”

That’s when I realize I’ve made a grave error. I’ve never seen a face cloud up so fast. Thunder, lightning, and then the wailing and tears. “Gammie will hate her house sues, Mama.” His loud cries echo all across the plane. “She won’t wike dem.”

His once-accommodating mother shoots me the death stare. I cringe. It isn’t my fault. This is why I don’t like kids—because they don’t like me. It’s like a blessing from heaven that I can never have any of my own, but that’s a story for a different day. I can’t think of anything to say to the little banshee.

“Jeffrey, where does your grandmother live?”

The deep voice saying the boy’s name is enough to stop the wailing, but the question from Mr. Scorge causes his tears to dry too. The little guy’s brow furrows in thought. “On de farm in Georgia.”

“I see. And does she have animals outside?”

“Uh-huh.” His skeptical little look is almost comical, but I’m just glad he has stopped wailing.

Mr. Scorge continues with the interrogation. “And the shoes you bought have rubber on the bottom like your tennis shoes?”

“Yeah.”

Now Jeffery isn’t the only one curious about where this conversation is headed. The guy on the opposite row, the kid’s mother, and I are all staring intently.

“Well, there you have it.” Mr. Scorge speaks so matter-of-factly I almost believe he’s talking to someone in marketing, not a four-year-old—of course, at times there really isn’t much difference. “She wouldn’t be able to go outside in fuzzy socks. Her feet would get dirty.” He looks over at me like he’s just rebutted a false accusation in a presidential debate. “But she could wear her house shoes outside. I think she wouldn’t care for fuzzy socks so much. I, myself, personally put no stock in fuzzy socks. House shoes are simply the way to go.”

The boy’s eyes widen in wonder. “Yeah.” He shoots me an ugly look. “Nobody wikes stupid fuzzy socks.”

“Jeffrey, turn around and sit down.” His mother taps him on the leg.

Mr. Scorge and Jeffrey are now fast friends, spending the remainder of the flight talking about farm animals and the evils of fuzzy socks. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Kisses of Christmas Present

“Ms. Timms”—Mr. Scorge plugs his laptop into the conference room outlet—“were you able to rent the projector?”

“I did order it, but it hasn’t arrived yet. I need to call them to follow up.”

He sighs. “Do that please. Now.”

If he hadn’t had me rushing all over hell’s half acre to find an extension cord for his laptop, I would’ve done it already, but now he makes it seem like I’m incompetent because I can’t do fifty freaking things at once.

Rochelle peeks her head in the room—she’s my counterpart here at Tate Consumer Analysis. “Need anything else?”

Mr. Scorge is still pulling out presentation materials and doesn’t even look up. I smile. “We’re good here, just waiting on the projector.”

She frowns. “I’m thinking the weather may keep them from delivering today.”

Yikers. My heart drops three stories.

Mr. Scorge looks up from his work, his dark eyebrows making a very harsh yet attractive V in the center of his face. A week ago, I would’ve thought that scowl meant he was blaming me for the weather, but now I think he’s just mentally running through his options. It’s weird how I’ve come to know his facial expressions. Not that they’re any less heart-pounding, but it feels good to understand him—well, understand him as much as you can understand an alpha-male company head who barely utters two hundred words a day.

“I’ll use my laptop screen. It’s just the three of them.” He stares at me in that knee-melting way for confirmation. It’s a question, just not stated as one. I look askance at Rochelle. Her eyes flit back and forth between Mr. Scorge and me, trying to decide if she’s going to answer him directly or not. But since he’s only looking at me, she finally nods in my direction. I look back to Mr. Scorge like some kind of interplanetary interpreter of body language and say, “Yes.”

But he’s already looked away from us lower life-forms to concentrate on the business at hand.

My phone vibrates. I’m hoping it’s the rental company. I pull it out as Rochelle runs to gather the three company heads for the start of the meeting. No such luck on my phone. Mom has called me three times now to tell me the storm’s moving toward us, but there is also a text about the rental: Projection Rentals will be closed today due to inclement weather. For the safety of our equipment, we will make no deliveries or pickups.

So glad they’re keeping their priorities straight. “The rental company has cancelled due to the weather.”

This morning when he met me in the hotel lobby, Mr. Scorge suggested we forego our breakfast meeting for tomorrow, and I’ve already altered our travel plans. Based on the latest reports, we’ll be cutting it close, but Scorge and his weather app swear on a stack of funny books to the moon that no ice or snow will reach us before we land safely in Chicago this afternoon—a day earlier than scheduled and in time to have Christmas Eve with the family. If the weather holds like Willard Scott over here thinks it will, I’ll be eating Grammy’s sausage balls tomorrow night. I do a mental happy dance.

The man’s weather app is pretty awesome, but I’m worried. And so is Mom. It was cloudy on our way over, but still dry. If we can’t get out today, there’s a good chance—or a bad chance, depending on how you look at it—that I’ll miss Christmas altogether.

A loud crack and then a hiss sound from the table.

“Holy hell!” Mr. Scorge jumps up from his executive conference seat.

I’ve never heard him cuss. Or move so fast. The computer falls off the table and crashes to the floor. The screen cracks then sizzles, but he doesn’t notice since his pants are on fire. Whiffs of black smoke are leaking from the outlet, from Mr. Scorge’s computer, and from his pants.

O-M-G! He’s on fire, dancing around like a Cherokee warrior. I’m cackling like a crazed woman because he looks hilarious, and I can’t get that old saying out of my head: liar, liar, pants on fire.

“I find nothing humorous in this situation, Ms. Timms.” His frosty glare is enough to put out any flame and get me canned.

Panic freezes my body and mind. Oh, oh, oh, crap, crap, crap. I can’t breathe or swallow the lump in my throat. I’m so fired. I was just laughing at my boss while he burned to death in his business suit. I’m done. I’m now unemployed. This is it. “No.” I stifle a giggle. “Of course it isn’t. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” The look on his face doesn’t exude “fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Scorge. I-I was just shock—”

He cuts me off. “Do you have your computer?”

I stare dumbly. “Not with me.”

He arches his brows at me. I can’t think properly. I’ve just laughed at his pain, humiliated myself, and now he’s turning my brain to mush with his sexy superpower. “Then we’ll have to wing it and use the hard copies.” He continues to stare. “We do have hard copies.”

It’s another question not phrased like one.

The reality of his words sinks in and sanity returns. “Oh. I-I don’t know…you’ve never let me see…” My words trail off.

“Find the assistant. Tell her we need ten minutes.” His darkening countenance is scaring me. Cogs and wheels are turning in his brutally brilliant mind and he’s eyeing me like his last hope. He pulls a flash drive from his pocket. “Take this to a secure computer, and print five copies of the document titled ‘DataMatch Presentation.’ There are precisely sixty pages. Do not leave a copy on their network or leave the pages unattended at the printer, and do not let anyone see their contents.”

I take a breath. “Okay. I’ll go do it now.”

I rush out the door and find Rochelle. “We’ve had a…hiccup.”

“A hiccup?”

I’m glad her questions are real question. “I need to make copies of our presentation. Our computer just exploded.”

“Oh my.” She holds out her hand. “Let me make the copies for you.”

“No!” I flinch and clench the flash drive to my chest. Her eyes widen. “It’s propriety. May I use your computer to print five copies?”

She smiles. “Sure.”

Her printer is lightning fast but sixty pages times five is a bunch to spit out. I tap my toe and start reading the contents. There are lots of pie charts and bar graphs with statistical information. Data Matching is the first slide header, with bullet points that include “Physical Characteristics,” “Personality,” “Temperament,” “Short-Term/Long-Term Goals,” and “Five Pairing Test Subjects.”

What in the world is this about? I’m savvy enough with the printer that I have it collate and staple. Without stopping to process what I’m reading, I grab the stack of presentations and the flash drive and hurry back to the conference room. I can’t really make sense of it.

As I enter the conference room, Mr. Scorge paces from the window to meet me. A slight smile graces his lips. My heeled boot catches on the hem of my wool skirt. My arms brace for the fall and send the pages flying over the table to scatter in a pile at Mr. Scorge’s feet. He scowls at me.

Two of the three company heads enter the room. This is turning into that bad George Clooney movie, A Perfect Storm, and I realize I’m never getting out of here alive. But instead of a rogue wave and a capsized boat, I have Mr. Scorge stooping to gather the pages with me. He whispers in my ear, “Follow my lead. Play along with everything I say.”

Our noses are barely an inch apart. I can feel the breath of his words on my face. I meet his direct gaze and a wry smile touches his lips. I gasp softly and the pages I’ve gathered slip once again to the floor.

“Let’s see if you can keep up, Ms. Timms.” He stands with all the presentations in his hand. “Good morning, gentlemen. Tate, how are you?” He’s like a different person, like some version of Henry Cavill just invaded his body.

A towering man in his early thirties steps forward and shakes Mr. Scorge’s hand. To be fair, anyone would look towering from my vantage point on the floor. His shoes are expensive Italian leather though. “Nathaniel, great to see you, my man.” His proper English accent shocks me. “How is your father?”

Mr. Scorge stiffens, his knees firmly locked into place. “He’s hearty as always.” He gestures to me. Note: I’m still crouching on the floor. “This is my assistant, Maddie Timms. Maddie, darling, meet Mr. Lewis Tate, an old family friend and college roommate. We studied at Dartmouth together.”

Mr. Scorge offers me his hand. I take it, the strength and warmth of which nearly renders my knees useless. He really has to tug to pull me to my feet and I do my best not to wobble. My face is screaming with heated humiliation. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tate.”

The man flashes me a friendly smile that sets me immediately at ease, which is odd considering the formality of his speech. But he is gorgeous. He’s slightly broader than Scorge but the same height and with blond wavy hair. Together the two of them look like a yin and yang GQ ad, one fair-faced and friendly, the other dark and dangerous—leave it to me to go the D&D route. But holy cow, these two roomed together in college? The girls didn’t stand a chance.

Mr. Tate takes my hand and actually bends to kiss it. “Please, my dear. Everyone calls me Tate.”

His lips brush over my skin. I nearly swallow my tongue. “Nice to meet you, Tate.”

“So, old boy, where’s this miraculous match you’ve been spouting off about?” Mr. Tate finally drops my hand with a roguish smile on his face.

From the way Mr. Scorge puts his arm around me and draws me close, I’m thinking there’s an underlying current here that I’m not privy to.

“Here is my miraculous match, Tate.” He gazes possessively into my eyes, and I about wet myself. “Could you pass out the presentation, darling?”

I’m not sure if I’m more shocked by the intimacy of his touch, his endearment, or the fact that he has posed a genuine question, including punctuation. “I…sure. Okay…Nate?”

He bends his head to brush his lips over my ear. “Way to keep up, darling. But don’t ever call me Nate.”

Delicious shivers tingle up and down my arms with his whispered words and I give him a cursory nod.

Tate introduces two other gentlemen, who are now seated at the conference table. I walk around like a class monitor, passing out the presentation file to each of them, while Mr. Scroge begins the presentation. “Gentlemen, we believe we’ve discovered an amazing opportunity with the new venture we’ve tentatively entitled ‘DataMatch, a smarter way to find that perfect someone’.”

One of the gentlemen asks, “You mean like Pairing.com?”

“No. Much more evolved that that. DataMatch takes into account over twenty different categories of criteria and compares compatibility.”

“You mean more like eMelody.com?” the other gentleman asks.

“But more reliable. eMelody relies on the validity of the answers provided, but DataMatch uses its own analysis in a complex algorithm to determine a couple’s compatibility. So far, we’ve tested over twenty thousand applicants to find five test couples.”

“Yes, old boy. Where is the test couple you promised to provide?”

The man is speaking like a character in a Regency romance. Not that the role doesn’t fit him, but the contrast with the modern surroundings puts an added edge to the whole surreal experience.

Mr. Scorge pulls me close again. “You’re looking at them.”

Tate seems shocked. “You? A test couple?” A look of disappointment crosses his fair features. “I never dreamed you would use yourself… Do your parents know?”

I can feel Mr. Scorge stiffen again at the mention of his parents. “Certainly not. We’re still in our testing phase, but things are going well. Aren’t they, darling?” He looks down at me and lifts his eyebrows—and you know what that does to me.

My mind can barely gather all the thoughts in my shrinking brain. Test couple? Why is he trying to trick his friend? I take a gulp of scalding coffee and nearly spew it, but I manage to force the contents down my throat before I squeak, “Right…honey…bunches.”

A dazzling smile lights his face while he holds out a chair for me. I drop into it, feeling like I’m being transported to another world, an alternate reality. His smile is for show, but I recognize that it’s not just for show. He’s pleased I’m playing along—I can actually tell, and that freaks me out even more.

The simple connections with him have built my confidence, and I continue the act by addressing Tate directly. “We’re already so close, even after only three weeks. I know how to read him and he—” I pause to see if he can keep up.

“—can read you like a book, darling.” He glances to the seated men as he stands behind me. “We do that a lot.”

“Do what?” Tate is eyeing us with amazement.

“Finish each other’s sentences.” I smile over my shoulder at Mr. Scorge like he’s the greatest show on Earth—and he kinda is.

“All the time.” Scorge captures my gaze, speaking as if only to me. “There are many similarities. It’s eerie…and comforting. We both enjoy sports, reading, walks in the park.”

I keep my expression placid, but I can feel a slight furrow building between my eyebrows. I really do like all those things. Shaking off the sense that somehow all of this is real, I join in with my own little made-up anecdote. “Nate loves when I bake him cookies.” The slight pop of his neck and tight smile thrill me. I can barely keep the giggle out of my voice. “And I get so much joy from it.” I only brought him cookies that first day. He did say they were good. Although they were gone so quickly, I assumed he tossed them. I’m loving the undercurrent of covertly messing with him and apparently he’s enjoying it too.

“That’s right, Mads.” Some heated look flashes through his eyes before he glances back at the men seated on the other side of the table. “She brought me my favorite cookies, snickerdoodles, on her first day.”

“You mean to say that you’re still working together?” Tate’s eyes grow wide.

Mr. Scorge steps toward our captive audience, having taken full stage now. “Yes. That seemed the best, most reliable, and confidential way to do a test study. Much better than dating.” He spins to face me. “Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

I nod, speechless. He’s spinning this tale with amazing skill.

“If marriage is to be contemplated, the relationship must have adequate time to flesh out.” He turns back toward our onlookers and begins to expound on statistical data. “Make no mistake, gentlemen. DataMatch is strictly for couples seeking marriage. You spend more time with the people you work with than any other people in your life. Where better to get to know someone?”

I’m having to bite down on the inside of my cheek. The idea is preposterous, but what he said is true. We do spend more time with the people we work with. It’s a wonder he hadn’t truly done his trial study on us just like he was proposing… Holy personality test, Batman. I glance down at the numbers on the presentation in front of me. Five test cases. Five new hires.

I. Am. Such. An. Idiot.

I cut a sidelong gaze toward him. All the contracts, tests, and agreements I’d signed, sealed, and delivered prior to my hire flood back to me. He had done it that exact way. But…that would mean…

“However, our 98.87 percent compatibility rating isn’t only in the ways we’re alike.”

Ninety-eight point eight seven percent compatible? I was not just a compatible match for Nathaniel Scorge—I was his near-perfect match?

I scoured my sadly functioning brain, trying to remember anything in the agreements, employee handbook, and pamphlets about romantic involvement between employees. Weren’t there laws that governed this kind of thing? I try to shake the dizziness from my head. If Tooters and Twin Mountains were allowed to operate as businesses, then how could this be worse? Besides, I’m certain I signed away any and all rights with those contracts. Mom had suggested an attorney, but like the greenhorn I am, I dismissed the idea as unnecessary. Of course I read the documents…mostly. But there were so many.

Scorge is continuing his discourse. “It’s also in how we’re different. Tate, you remember how I don’t particularly get along with the elderly.”

Tate gave an ungentlemanly snort. “I do, indeed.”

My whole world turns on its ass…ets. He really has vetted me and my personality. I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice. “I volunteer at a retirement center twice a month.”

Scorge smiles again. “Yes, darling. And I work with the children at a homeless shelter.”

“You do?” I’m craning my neck around to see him.

“I hadn’t told you?” He squeezes my shoulder in warning.

But I can’t help my bewilderment. “Children aren’t my thing.”

“Not yet.”

What the crup is happening? This isn’t just pretend; it is really real. I feel like I’m on a high cliff looking down, about to fall. Panic seizes my breath, and I can hear and feel my pumping blood in my ears.

Mr. Scorge dives into the section on statistical backgrounds, answering the men’s questions and expounding as necessary, giving a compelling presentation of test market samples and profit margins. I’m gobsmacked. I can hardly sit still in my seat.

How long have they known I fit the profile? Who all is in on it? Cassidy, for sure, and the nerdy developer I’m always sending the courier for. But who else? There’s the new marketing guy and the HR guy and Violet. We were all hired at the same time. Violet—does she know?

All through the presentation, Mr. Scorge keeps gazing affectionately at me and giving me reassuring caresses. By the end of the meeting, even I’m believing we’re a couple and wondering when the happy date will be set. Holy cow. I can’t date Nathaniel Scorge. I certainly can’t marry him. I want to jump up and ask a hundred questions.

I manage to hold my tongue until the presentation ends and the gentlemen step outside to deliberate.

Mr. Scorge turns from his easel toward me, his face completely shuttered. “You did well in a tight situation, Ms. Timms. I applaud your resourcefulness. I do hope it wasn’t uncomfortable for you.”

And just like that, I’m doubting the authenticity of the whole scene. He’s his normal self again, and I was clearly nothing more than his assistant helping out in a crisis. How could I have let myself get swept up in all that? Marry the man. Ha. Of course he isn’t compatible with his assistant. That would be cray cray, right?

The men return. They’re excited and talkative, asking Mr. Scorge questions about timelines and profit sheets. Our act has apparently worked.

“Nathaniel, old boy, we’ve decided we’d like to join the venture, but before we fully commit to the masses, we’d like to be a part of your test pilot.” His face colors in embarrassment. “You see, we’re having as much trouble as the next man finding the right girl, and you’ve done extraordinarily well.” He waves his arm in my direction and my cheeks heat. I duck my head. If he only knew.

Mr. Scorge gives me a devil’s grin. “Yes. She is something, isn’t she?”

“Well, we want our own.” He looks decidedly at the other men. “Test pilot, we mean.” They all nod. Beneath their business-like demeanor, I can sense their boyish anticipation. We hit it out of the park, but I have to wonder if SCE Inc. can deliver.

Scorge clasps Tate’s hand in a formal shake. “I’ll have legal draw up a contract and send it over. As soon as we come to an agreement, I can run your data and find your mates.” The other men vigorously shake both our hands and walk us to the elevator bank, where we step in and wave one last time.

The elevator doors close, and I can’t help the giggles that erupt from my chest. That was the most insane, fun thing I’ve ever done in my life. Even if it was a little harrowing at times.

Mr. Scorge, his face once again shuttered, looks at me speculatively. I laugh out loud, hoping to entice him into some elusive, emotion-laden expression—something that reveals he can grasp the humor of the situation—but his serious, no-nonsense glare stops me mid-cackle. He doesn’t look happy—he looks…something else. My heart trips over itself, trying to beat faster but falls to its knees instead. Heated desire rolls off Scorge in masculine waves.

Like a hungry predator, he prowls closer, turning to face me directly. My breath tries to help my heart off the ground but it fails.

He takes one more step and is rising over me. So close I can see grey-green flecks in his hard blue irises and feel the even brush of his breath against my temple. I gulp loudly, not sure if I’m excited or scared. Do I have to choose? He’s leaning closer still. Our noses are about to touch. A hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips right before they press into mine.

Before I even know what’s happening, he’s pushing me flat against the wall, shackling my wrists above my head, kissing every sentient thought from my mind. His body is hard. Everywhere. His lips are as demanding and crisp with his kiss as they are with his command. They’re firm and strong.

I’ve been wrong. He’s not oblivious. He’s scorching heat…glowing steel that hasn’t quite melted… Oh God, I can’t think. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth with slow, deliberate strokes. Every muscle in my body liquefies, tendons give way, and bones loosen. I’m going to be a pile of mush by the time he’s through, but it doesn’t seem as if he will be anytime soon. I’ve never been kissed like this. I doubt anyone I know has been kissed like this. With such languid, focused intensity. I know. I know. It’s contradictory, but give me a break here. It’s not like I can draw a clear mental picture at the moment.

At some point I must’ve started breathing again because I can smell him, the finespun wool of his suit, his soap and aftershave, and just him. My every sense is pinpointed to this, to him. He overpowers everything around me. My wrists are still pinioned with his one hand, but the other slides down my arm, past the side of my breast to my waist. He uses his leverage there to pull me more tightly against him. Thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking about my boss tumble out of control, feelings simmer below the surface, but I can’t allow them in. The pure sensation of his body, smell, and taste is all I can process. It consumes me. Then it’s lost. A chill slides over me. Hollowness.

There’s a loud ding, and I open my glazed eyes. He’s gone. I’m standing like an idiot in the empty elevator with my hands above my head. He’s utterly composed, staring placidly at me from the lobby side of the doors. His gaze flicks above me, and I look up. A sprig of mistletoe dangles over my head in mockery of what just happened.

He smoothes invisible wrinkles from the grey wool of his suit and deftly tugs the cuffs of his starched shirt from beneath his jacket sleeves. “Are you coming, Ms. Timms?”

Breath whooshes out of my body. A flicker of heated humor crosses his face. He knows damn well that I almost am.

My hand catches the sliding doors before I can suffer the humiliation of having to ride the elevator once more. I absently follow him from the building to the rental car.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Infallibility of Prince Humperdinck

My dazed mind finally clears some of its fog—at least enough to realize he’s pulling out of the parking garage. I’m just grateful we hadn’t had my laptop. I don’t think my limbs could’ve even lifted it. Although, if I’d had its protection coming down the elevator, would Mr. Scorge still have kissed me?

He kissed me! He’d pretended to be my…my boyfriend, mate, match, what!?! And he’d kissed me. Was the kiss just an act too? Confusion, disbelief swim in my brain.

I shoot a glance to the driver’s seat. He doesn’t seem to notice my scrutiny, and he isn’t acting any differently. For craps sake, we just pretended to be a couple. A serious couple. The M word was mentioned! And for once, not by me. What had made him kiss me? Why had he? My lips still tingle, and I can still feel the hard heat of him. I resist the urge to ask him questions, not sure if he would even tell me or if I want him to. I’ll have to think about—

The car skids across two lanes, nearly colliding with a parked SUV.

“Damn.” He frantically turns the steering wheel into the skid and lightly pumps the breaks. I pitch forward in my seat and my seatbelt catches me with a start. The car stops before impact.

The car sits idling in the middle of the road. Neither of us speaks. A barrage of rain pellets the windshield. But rain doesn’t come in pellet form. I finally realize the road is coated in a layer of ice.

Mr. Scorge turns a grim look toward me. “Are you alright?”

I nod even though I’m not sure it’s the right answer. His knuckles are white and mine are clenched and shaking.

He shifts the car into a lower gear—the ones on the automatic transmission that no one ever uses. “I’ll take it more slowly to the airport.”

He pulls back into our lane and carefully works his way back to the freeway, slipping on the pavement only a couple of times. I stare up ahead, but it’s hard to see through the sleet. I realize we haven’t passed a single car since we’ve been on the road. I haven’t had time to check the weather like I’d promised Mom. I pull out my phone and search my own weather app. My Google home page comes up. It is crowded with stories: Worst Ice Storm in a Century, South Crippled by Vicious Storm, Thousands of Holiday Travelers Stranded. Holy Christmas crap on a holiday cracker. The storm was on us, and every major highway had been shut down from New Orleans to Savannah. “The airport has been closed.”

“I’m not surprised. The ice is bad.”

I glare over at him. “Really? Well, aren’t you glad you didn’t stake your life on it?”

“We’ll see if we can make it back to the hotel.” He never turns his attention from the road, but a faint blush colors his cheeks.

Good! I hope he’s humiliated. He’s just ruined my Christmas! We’ll never get out now. Mom is going to keel over. Then every holiday for the rest of my life she’s going to haunt me like some bad Hallmark Channel version of A Christmas Carol.

The freeway ramp is blocked by a police car and a jackknifed eighteen-wheeler. Mr. Scorge passes up the on-ramp and follows a treacherous route on side streets back to the hotel.

When we arrive, the bundled valet helps us out of the car. “Are you guests of the hotel, sir?” The wind and a blast of ice whip in when he opens my door. I shiver. It’s gotten much colder.

Mr. Scorge nods. “We stayed last night and are looking to get our rooms back for the night.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re all booked up with stranded passengers from the airport closure.”

My heart sinks. With the weather like it is, I’m doubting I’ll make it home in time for New Year’s, let alone Christmas. And now I’m a homeless orphan without even a hotel room. I would cry, but I’m afraid the tears would freeze on my face.

Mr. Scorge clears his throat and stiffens his spine. “Young man, there are few things in life that are impossible, and getting a hotel room for the night certainly isn’t one of them.”

Great. He’s going into motivational-speaker mode, but the valet is having none of it. Neither am I.

“Whatever you say, sir.”

I frown. My recalcitrant boss ushers me into the lobby and deposits me on a crowded sofa behind a tall plant as he heads to the front desk. The line for check-in weaves through the lobby in a maze of velvet and brass roping. He’s never going to get a room. I peek around the leafy tree and note that Mr. Scorge has stepped into the VIP member line, which boasts only about ten people. My hope is renewed. It is a large hotel, after all. Surely they can find two available rooms.

I stare outside. The storm has worsened even since we left Tate Consumer Analysis. There is no way we could make it to another hotel safely. There is no way we could make it anywhere.

Mr. Scorge waits in line for the better part of an hour before a smartly dressed woman steps into the lobby to make an announcement. “Folks, I’m afraid we have no more rooms available. You may use our lobby to make yourselves comfortable. The roads are impassable and no one should try to leave. Everything is shut down.”

Several associates rolling carts with stacks of pillows and blankets fill the space.

“We are setting up all of our rollaway beds in the grand ballroom and those will be distributed on a first-come, first-serve basis to the people remaining in line. We’ll do our best to make everyone as comfortable as possible, but please be patient. We’re all in this together.”

People run, push, and grab like the apocalypse is coming, and my heart sinks even further because all I got was a lumpy pillow and an unopened deck of playing cards. I’m stuck with Mr. Scrooge in an Atlanta hotel lobby for Christmas, and all I’ve got is the ability to play old-school solitaire. I should make a T-shirt.

Mr. Scorge approaches. “We’ll share a room. Have our bags sent to 1543.” He thrusts a small white envelope containing a plastic keycard at me.

I take it, but I can’t believe it will really work. I don’t even balk at the “we’ll share” part of his statement. I’m too elated…and skeptical, having spent the last forty-five minutes under the assumption that I needed to stake my claim on one of the lobby sofas. “You got us a room? The general manager just said they’d run out.”

A look of frustrated annoyance crosses his face, and he tilts his head upward. “Save me from people with a severe lack of means and imagination.” His temper tantrum done, he grabs my laptop without asking. “I’m going to the business office to make a few calls and send some emails. Make sure our luggage gets to the room.” He pivots on one heel and heads for the elevator bank, leaving me looking after his stuff…again.

Rooming with Scrooge. Maybe it won’t be so bad. My heart is thumping steadily with the thought. A frazzled-looking bellboy beacons me over to a rolling cart containing all our luggage. I smile sympathetically at him. “Hard day?”

“Miss, I ain’t never seen nuthin’ like this in all my born days. I’ve lived down South my whole life and I’ve seen snow and ice maybe twice, but nuthin’ like this.”

I wince. Mom was right. “How long is the storm expected to last?”

“At least through tomorrow night. The weatherman thinks it might not end till Christmas supper.”

I crinkle my brow. When exactly was supper?

I follow the young bellman to the elevator. The ding and the sliding doors immediately remind me of earlier, and my face flushes hot. The memory of kissing Mr. Scorge sends tingles down my spine…but the vibrating of my phone brings me back to reality. I groan, certain that it’s Mom again. I’m not ready to talk to her yet, but I need to take the call because who knows what she’ll do if I don’t. Probably call the Atlanta police or something equally overreactive.

“Honey, are you alright? Has that beast accosted you? You stay as far away from him as possible. Your flight’s canceled. Did you know? I’ve had Jordy monitoring it on the Internet. I told you you were going to miss Christmas. I just knew—”

“Mom! Hush!”

Silence.

I take a leveling breath. “It’s been a rough day, and I understand you’re disappointed—”

“Disappointed? Honey—”

“Mom, please. I’m not happy about it any more than you are. But this is the reality of my job and my life. We both need to get over it.”

“Well, if you—”

“Stop, Mom. Just stop. I’m safe and warm and not stuck in the airport like so many others.”

The elevator opens at our floor, and I follow the bellboy down the hall. Frankly, I’m surprised my phone hasn’t dropped the call. He stops in front of the room and holds out his hand. Does he want his money before we even go in? Mom starts prattling on again about Grammy’s Christmas cookies and how I’m not there to help decorate. “You know you do the best stockings. It just won’t be the same.”

The bellboy stares pointedly. “Key?”

“Oh, yes,” I whisper to him.

“Who are you talking to? Is that horrible man there now?”

“No, Mom. It’s just the bellman taking the bags to our room.” I silently groan as soon as the words leave my lips.

“Our room? Madeline Marie Timms.” She’s using my whole name, which, as any child young or old knows, is never good. “Do not tell me you are sleeping in the same room—the same bed—as this man.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you.”

“Tell me you’re not, Madeline. You know what Grammy says—”

I cut her off because I do know exactly what Grammy says, and I’m just not in the mood for the don’t-poop-where-you-eat lecture. “It’s the same room. They are overbooked with stranded passengers.” I sigh, roll my eyes, and hand the waiting steward the key. He unlocks the door and rolls the cart inside. “But it’s not in the same—”

Bed.

Cruppity, cratchety crap. I can’t say the last word because, as my eyes scan the room, I realize it would be a lie. There is only one bed.

“I’m sending your Uncle Fred to get you.”

“Mom, Uncle Fred cannot drive a snowplow all the way to Georgia. That thing only gets twelve miles to the gallon. Besides, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.” I hand the bellboy his tip and silently wave him from the room.

He gives me a playful salute and mouths his thanks.

“So nice of you to finally notice.” Mom’s voice breaks with emotion.

“Are you taking your estrogen pills? You seem to be crying a lot.” I say this because I know it’s the only thing that will stop her from becoming maudlin. Nothing gets her angrier quicker than suggesting that she’s hormonal. Dad’s learned that the hard way a few times.

“Young lady, you think you’re grown and can talk to me that way?”

“Mom, I am grown. I’m sorry I’ll miss Christmas. You know I would be there if I could, but we’ll celebrate when I get back.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it. I’m going to have Max and Jordy help me put all the decorations away day after tomorrow. You’ll be lucky if there is a spoonful of turkey left when you thaw out and return.”

That is slightly depressing. Jordy and I always gripe about the traditional leftover turkey meal the day after Christmas, but it’s sort of a sad prospect to know I won’t be getting it this year. “All right, Mom. That can be your revenge. I’ll be sad not to have Christmas and turkey.”

This brought on a whole new wave of emotion. “Oh baby, you know I’ll save you something.”

“I know.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom. It’s not like I’ve never been away from home, like I don’t live by myself.”

“Yes, but you’re with that man, who is going to take advantage of you. Stay out of his bed, Maddie.”

“Mom, Mr. Scorge has no interest in me.” That statement could not be definitively confirmed or denied yet—at least not without an explanation of that kiss—so therefore wasn’t technically a lie. “He’s a Scrooge, and I have no intention of getting anywhere near him or his bed.”

“Alright, honey. Call me if you need me.”

“I will. Give everyone a hug…and Merry Christmas.”

A sob slips from her. “Merry Christmas to you too, honey.”

I shut off my phone and spin around to find Mr. Scorge leaning against the wall, watching me.

Oops.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Fuzzy Socks and Christmas Future

He’s given me the bed and the remote while he takes the couch, but at least it’s a huge room, the biggest hotel room I’ve ever been in. The burgundy and burnt orange colors blend with the dark wood of the sparsely placed furniture. The hotel had clearly been sold out of the smaller suite he typically preferred. He always had me book the cheapest airfare, the most reasonably priced hotels, and when he rented a car, he always wanted economy.

He’ll never sleep comfortably on that tiny sofa. I stretch my legs out and wiggle my toes in the warmth of my fuzzy socks. I hadn’t taken him for the chivalrous type, and I shouldn’t feel guilty about his scrunched-up legs—not that he’s scrunched up now. He’s working. On my laptop. It was his stupid idea to travel this week. And now I’m going to miss the holiday with my family. Maybe he deserves a little discomfort.

I flip off the flat-screen TV, scoot off the bed, and pace over to the window. I pull back the heavy, floor-to-ceiling brocade drapes. I don’t know many multi-millionaires—actually I don’t really know any unless you count Nathaniel. Nathaniel. I’ve stopped thinking of him as Mr. Scorge? I humph out loud. I can feel him look up, and I pretend to stare out at the weather. The sleet and freezing rain have turned Atlanta into a gigantic ice sculpture.

Mr. Scorge didn’t say a word about my phone call, and I’m not sure how much he heard of the conversation. He’s not really spoken to me at all, actually, but I do keep catching him staring at me when he decides to look up from his work. He’s taken off his tie, jacket, and shoes, and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his forearms. I try not to stare at the patch of skin showing under his unbuttoned collar.

“What are you working on?” I walk to the edge of the sofa, eyeing his strong forearms dusted with the same dark hair.

“The legal documents for Tate.” His fingers idly tap on the keys but he doesn’t look up.

“Why do we need them anyway?” He clearly doesn’t want to talk, but I need at least a little conversation so I can forget the images in my mind. Like, oh, I don’t know…that kiss.

“Because they have the means to create an online version of the test, and they have a huge existing database of marketable clients.”

The lights flicker and then go out completely. The white noise from the central air ceases and we plummet into a strange quiet.

“Damn.” He closes my laptop. “I’ll save the battery for now.” He finally looks up at me, but since the only light in the room is coming from the window, I doubt he can see much. Although I can’t see much either, my pulse fizzes like club soda is rushing through my veins. Tingles prickle all over my skin.

He sighs. “I guess this means we’re not going to the lobby this evening for Christmas games.”

I’m still staring at his chiseled jaw perfectly shadowed in the dark room. “Why not?”

His eyes narrow. He’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. “For one thing, I doubt we’ll be able to see once it gets dark, and for another, I don’t care to traipse up and down fifteen flights of stairs just to get there.”

“Oh. Good point. But you don’t think they’ll get the lights back on before then?”

“Have you not just been looking outside, Ms. Timms.” The non-question doesn’t faze me…much. “Who do you think can fix the problem in this storm?”

The real question does. Crud. He’s right. “No lights, no heat. That’s not so good.” I go to the bathroom and grab one of the terrycloth robes, bundling myself in it before I freeze.

We both sit on the sofa and stare straight ahead. We’re lost in our own thoughts, but not enough to cut the tension in the room. I have a thousand questions. But somehow sitting in the semidarkness with no distractions, I can’t bring myself to ask. Maybe it’s because I’m embarrassed, but mostly it’s because I think I know the answers, and in the quiet, I’m scared of what will happen if I do.

“I think I’ll read.” I get up and grab my eReader. At least the battery is charged and will offer several hours of camouflage. I can feel his gaze on me as I sink onto the bed and fluff the pillows as I scoot back against the headboard.

****

Night has fallen. The battery on my eReader finally dies. Light from several candles flickers around the room. A lady from housekeeping came passing out the little tea light candles, but the staff recommended we only use them for emergencies.

I scooch off the bed, pulling the terrycloth robe more tightly around me. I can feel his stare. He’s been staring for a while, but I’ve been hiding in my book. Now that’s no longer a possibility. Swallowing hard, I meet his gaze and smile. “Would you like to play cards?”

“Cards.” His arm is draped across the back of the couch and one leg is bent casually on the cushion.

I wave the new deck in front of him as I sit on the other end of the sofa. “Rummy, crazy eights, poker.”

Mr. Scorge nods once. “Poker.”

“What shall we use for chips?” I bite my lower lip. What could we use? “Oh. I know. I have several boxes of Tic—”

He interrupts me. “Let’s play strip poker.”

I nearly choke. I have to decide quick if I want acknowledge him or pretend I didn’t hear. I feel a surge of blood rush through my body, heating cold extremities. I do not want to hear him repeat himself, so I go with flippant, which works for me on occasion. “Strip poker in a cold room with no heat? No, thank you. I say the winner gets to ask the loser anything she wants. We could use it as a way to get to know each other.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “My way seems much more expedient in that regard, and I don’t need to know anything about you, Ms. Timms.”

Right. I am just a little peon assistant. Why would he want—?

He expels an exasperated sigh. “Remove that wounded-dove look from your face. I don’t mean that I have no desire to know you. I mean I already do know you. And know you well.”

I give him my best sarcastic glare. “Sure you do.” The man has barely spoken three hundred words to me in the three weeks I’ve been working for him, and most of those consisted of two- or three-word commands. I doubt he knows me any more than he knows the guy who froths his latte every day.

“If I prove that I know you, we’ll play my way.”

It isn’t a question, but I give my consent anyway. “Fine.”

He pushes his back up against the arm of the sofa and peruses my person with his gaze, which is, for the record, far more effective than central heating.

“You’re twenty-three years old, the oldest of three. Your father works for the power company. Your mother is a housewife. You’ve been employed as a pharmacy clerk, a waitress, and in college you worked as a bank teller. You graduated with honors from high school but in college partied more than studied. You drink your coffee black, watch romantic comedies on the weekend, and root for regional sports teams—especially the Cubs and the Blackhawks. You’ve had three long-term boyfriends, the latest of whom cheated. You broke that relationship off over a year ago and have had none since.”

My mouth gapes open. I blink, blink, blink. I need to go put on more clothes.

“Should I continue.” Again not a question. “You like to bake cookies, take walks, and you spend far too much money on shoes.”

That wasn’t really a recitation as much as his interpretation, but still, for him to have an opinion did speak to his knowledge on the matter of my shoe wardrobe.

“Your lips are as soft and warm as they appear but your character is not. Though you have an amiable countenance, you can’t be easily swayed into something. And I must admit that I am curious about what lies directly against your skin. Ms. Timms.”

A long, breathy sigh escapes my “soft and warm” lips. I’m not sure if I’m stunned because he knows my most intimate, private details or because, aside from that freakish business meeting, I’ve never heard the man string more than four words together. His arrogant look heats me to the core. If only I could transfer the warmth to my toes instead of my cheeks. I shiver and toss him the sealed pack of cards.

“Fine. I’ll play strip poker as long as I can put on a few more clothes.”

A smirk crosses his face. “Of course.”

I try to convince myself playing strip poker with my boss is not that stupid an idea. While your boss should never under any circumstances see you naked, it is unlikely I’ll lose. What else could we do to pass the time? And I can stem the awkwardness. “Since I didn’t have the benefit of unlimited DataMatch test results and an obviously capable investigative crew, you still have to answer my questions instead of removing clothing.”

Reflectively, he taps his finger on the cellophane-covered deck. I close my mouth and stand my ground—well, I sit cross-legged my ground.

My father, Chris Timms, was the 1987 and 1988 Mid-Western Poker champion. From the time we could count, he taught us kids to play. But I was the only one who had a knack for reading opponents. According to Dad, that knack, coupled with an innate luckiness I was born with, made me lethal. Dad tried to get me to enter tournaments, but I’ve never enjoyed poker outside of playing with him—but that doesn’t mean I’m not capable. Once I played with college friends. They lost big, and I never saw them again. They avoided me like the cafeteria oatmeal. Never did get that money.

He must see something in my expression, because his jaw ticks. “I don’t think—”

“Scared?” I counter. Baiting him is a cheap trick but sadly works more often than not with the male species.

He narrows his eyes. “Hardly.”

“Then my questions shouldn’t pose a problem.” Satisfied I’ve sufficiently invoked his ego, I allow myself to engage, as I would with my brothers, in a little trash talk. “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold when I beat the pants off you. Questions seem safer.”

“Do they?” He captures my gaze for a heartbeat. Then two. “Alright, Ms. Timms. I’m in.”

****

It’s an hour and a half later, and my teeth are chattering. This is our last hand. Even though I know what I’m going to do, I finger my cards and lay the last couple on the table. “I’ll take two.”

He’s changed into a set of new flannel pajamas covered by a cashmere robe, and true to his conversation with four-year-old Jeffery, he is donning his wool-lined house shoes. Without meeting my gaze, he slides me two from the deck.

We’re playing five-card draw this time. In the first three hands, I lost both shoes, a pair of socks—I’m still wearing my fuzzy sock/slippers, which will have to be pried from my lifeless body if he wants them—my coat, and my sweater. By sheer luck I won the fourth hand with three of a kind (jacks)—and that was my first clue to reading him. Dad says you can never fully read a man until he loses. There has to be a life lesson in there somewhere. Mr. Scorge is a paragon of inscrutability. Or at least he was before he lost that hand. Now I realize for sure: He can be read.

We decided that for each article of clothing I wagered, a question of equal value would be placed on the table. Outer garments or anything worn on my extremities (e.g. gloves, shoes, socks) were the least valuable and would warrant only cursory questions: hobbies, favorite things, pet peeves, etc. Anything covering my torso would allow a more in-depth question like family life, past events, future goals. And, finally, any undergarment constituted an intimate question where nothing is off limits, including inner thoughts, feelings, or motivations. My mouth is watering. I want to know more about my mystery boss. I want it more than he probably wants to see me naked—that was never gonna happen.

I lost big in the sixth hand, my sweatpants and my shirt sacrificed for strategy. But I’ve won the last three, and in the process learned Mr. Scorge was an only child. His mother died when he was six, but he is close to his second stepmother (he’s had four). He graduated high school at sixteen and spent six years at Dartmouth doing statistical research while earning his degree in 2003, which by my less-than-stellar mathematical calculations makes him thirty-three years old. Ha. I bet no one in the office knows that juicy tidbit, except maybe the Dragonlady and of course Mr. Cassidy. Mr. Scorge doesn’t like TV or movies but reads at least two books a week: one fiction and one nonfiction.

The little muscle in his left jaw twitches. I school my face, smothering a smile. He also takes two cards, but I know he’s got nothing. It took me a while, but I finally deciphered him. His signals are there, just subtler, barely perceptible even to the keenest sight. Lucky for me I’m wearing my super poker-vision goggles and my poker face. That would be my super power if I had one, and now that I know his language, I can read him like a romance novel. Watch. I’m about to make him fold.

I stand up from my straight-backed chair at the little wooden table where we’ve moved the game, shrug off the terrycloth robe I’m wearing, and toss it on the pile. “I’m all in, but I’m not taking off my undergarments unless you win.” I’m standing there in my panties and bra with a hand on my hip, trying to scare him.

He doesn’t appear scared. A predatory heat flashes over his face as he takes in my fuzzy-slippered feet and slides his gaze up my body, lingering on my torso and chest. He licks his lips and then slowly meets my gaze. I flush hot, feeling my nipples gather in and tighten—from the cold—and realize I may have made a tactical error. I can read it plain as day right there in his face. He is not going to fold. He thinks he can win. Crap, crap, crappity crap. He must’ve drawn a pair. Now all I can do is hope my hand is good enough to beat his. If it’s not, this room will get way more chilly.

It’s dark out and the ice has turned to snow. I bite the inside of my lip—one of my worst tells—and sit back down. Holding his cards loosely, he leans forward in his chair, never relinquishing my gaze. There’s no need to look at my hand lying facedown on the table.

He begins to flip his cards over one by one in dramatic fashion. Effervescent tingles run up and down my spine, spilling in little rivulets through my limbs. I really don’t want to get naked right now. Or maybe I do. My heart races. I’m holding my breath and a pair of sevens.

He flips the first card. Ace of hearts.

Second is the jack of diamonds. Please Lord, don’t let his pair be in either of those suits.

Six of hearts. He has two more left. The tension tightens around my chest. I’m so anxious I’m not even looking for his tells anymore. My gaze is fixed on his fingers and the cards. This really could go either way.

He flips over the final two cards, revealing the two of clubs and two of spades.

I close my eyes and release a leveling breath. When I open them, he’s looking at me with that same lustful heat he exuded in the elevator right before…

“They don’t beat your eights.” It’s his standard statement-question thingy.

I smile and shake my head. “They don’t beat my sevens.”

“Ah.” It’s a small word that can pack a punch, but when he says it, it feels more like the most intimate caress over my skin, and for some strange reason I feel a little disappointed. But no matter. I rally myself for the win. I can tell he’s bracing himself, calculating the number of questions he has to answer.

I shudder, pull the robe from the table, and slip back into it. “So, two articles of clothing were of the most intimate variety and my robe is worth at least some backstory. Therefore you own me three satisfactorily intimate answers.”

“What about your furry sock things?”

“My fuzzy slippers were never on the table.” I get up and grab the complimentary bottle of wine that comes with the executive suite. “Want a glass?”

“Sure.”

I hand him the bottle and opener. He pops the cork and pours, handing me one of the glasses. We settle back on the couch.

“Okay. First question: What were the three most significant, impactful Christmases of your life and why?”

He looks into his wineglass. I’m wondering how long it will take him to answer. I can tell he readily knows the answers but is dreading saying them. “The first is the year before my mother died because it was the last year we ever had a Christmas tree. I was six. The year after, because it was the first year we didn’t have a Christmas tree.” He looks up at me and whispers, “And this one.”

This one? Well. That’s interesting. He doesn’t elaborate any further, and I’m not sure if I should push for more, but I want desperately to ask him why this year Christmas is pivotal. Although it may seem obvious even to the casual observer, to me it’s also fairly unbelievable. And I don’t want to use my valuable questions up. “Okay. Fair enough.”

He looks relieved I don’t press, and maybe a little disappointed. I drink the last of my wine and pour another glass. Settling back in my seat, I peer down at the industrial-grade carpet. Do I have the guts for the next question I want to ask? The question I’ve been dying to ask for hours—since this morning. I take a deep breath. “Why did you kiss me?”

He is silent a long time. I’m confident he won’t renege, but it may be tomorrow morning before I get a good answer.

After several silent minutes, he says, “I’m not sure I know exactly.” He shrugs in a conciliatory fashion. “Because I wanted to is the simplest, most accurate answer. You were there. So full of joy. Whimsical. Beautiful. And I wanted a taste of that for myself.”

I’m speechless. His honesty floors me.

We both reach for our wine and take a sip. Then we laugh. The symmetry of our actions brings back memories of the meeting. Were we really a statistical probability? “Why did you really hire me?”

He leaves the comfort of his end of the sofa and scoots closer, the heat of his body radiating toward me. “I wanted a partner. Someone I could work with, play with, and enjoy being with. I’m not certain you realize how difficult I am to work for.”

“Really?” The sarcasm drips, but the truth is that I love my job and maybe even my boss. I shake that wayward thought out of my mind. No more wine for me.

“I’ve wasted so much valuable time trying to find the right person. It seemed logical to employ my expertise in numbers, to do for myself what I’ve done for others—find what or whom they’re looking for. About two years ago we began data testing, and as the tests evolved and expanded, so did our rates of success.”

“So I’m your guinea pig?”

His warm hand steals around my neck and he pulls me toward him. “No, darling. You’re my dream girl.”

His lips brush mine, softly caressing each one, paying homage. Slowly, he leans in. Where our first kiss was hungry and untamed, this one is controlled, tender. His questing tongue sinks into my mouth. The liquid decadence makes me moan. He deepens the kiss, never quickening his leisurely pace but consuming me. Desire mingled with wine climbs my spine and spreads its sweet tendrils through all my nerve endings. Want and need tangle inside me. I can’t remember ever feeling such force of attraction. I wonder, is this because we’re supposedly so compatible? Is this kind of chemistry what happens when you meet your perfect match?

His kisses overwhelm me. I deliberately sink into them, leaning toward him. He moans his approval in my mouth. His hand glides effortlessly down my side.

I pull back. Our breaths tangle in the cool space and I whisper, “What happens next?”

He smiles and plants another soft kiss. “I don’t owe you that answer, Ms. Timms, nor do I think you need it.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” I pull him closer.

“I’m always right.”

“Ha.” I break his kiss, lean back, and point my finger at him. “You weren’t right about the ice storm.”

“Wasn’t I?” His arched eyebrow does deliciously strange things to my insides. The twinkle in his eye sends need coursing through me. “We have at least two more days of strip poker for you to find out for certain.”

I’m incensed. Appalled. Flattered. “You…you…Scrooge!”

He grins at me. A genuine grin that isn’t a part to play. It’s a telling grin that I can’t help but return. He purposely got us stranded. That was why he kept checking the weather. He wanted the storm to come. I should be furious with him, but all I feel is amazed and a little turned on. Okay, a lot turned on. He deliberately caused me to forfeit my family holiday for his DataMatch scheme, but I can’t find it in my heart to be angry with him. Not when he’s kissing my neck. I murmur against his cheek, “It’s going to be a very, very merry…Christmas.” I squeak the last word because he’s just bitten my earlobe.

I might be missing my family, but I’m also kissing my perfect Mr. Scrooge.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kary Rader is an award-winning author, stay-at-home mom, and part-time Twitter sage, because one shouldn’t have to use more than one hundred forty characters to impart wisdom. She lives with her husband, three kids, and one low-maintenance kitty cat in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex.

Whether contemporary or fantasy, spicy or sweet, her stories always have true love, romance, and lots of humor.

TO HELL WITH CHRISTMAS

Kat St. Croix

To those who would go to Hell and back for true love

TO HELL WITH CHRISTMAS

Part 1

“I can’t do it, Father. I can’t and I won’t,” Eden said for the hundredth time.

“You will marry Nazar at the year’s end, and I do not wish to revisit this conversation. Ever!” her father commanded, the echoes of his voice rippling through their home, the grandest palace in all of the Underworld.

Eden shivered. The last few years of her life in Hell had become, well, hellish. As the only daughter of Lucifer, sole ruler of the Underworld, she was being forced into a marriage of power and convenience. Her father had arranged a union between her and the commander of his demon army, a force tasked with keeping all those who entered the gates of Hell in line. As one might imagine, that was no easy task.

She had to admit that Nazar was an incredible leader, fierce on the battlefield and desired by nearly every idiot woman (and even a few men) in the Underworld, but she found him repulsive. It was no secret that he was a philandering demon with more than a few depraved tendencies, and there wasn’t a chance in any realm on Earth that Eden ever planned on being a part of his life.

Her father had been pressuring her to find a suitable demon to mate with for years, though. He wanted grandchildren, male heirs that he could groom to one day rule by his side. Now it seemed he was through giving her time to find love. He didn’t believe in it anyway. Like most. In the Underworld, love was generally considered bullshit. Few demons in the realm found the one and actually remained monogamous. Most were inclined to find pleasure wherever and whenever, with whomever they wished, be it a Hell-born demon or a human who passed through the gates after death. But Eden refused to believe that true love didn’t exist.

Unfortunately, at the human age of twenty-two, time was running out for Eden. It seemed her father would force her to marry Nazar.

While her father treated her, and only her, with the utmost care and devotion, she was his only child and the one expectation placed upon her was that she breed. In his mind, the time for that was now. The fact that her life had no expiration date never seemed to be taken into consideration, no matter how many times Eden reminded him.

“Darling, I don’t wish you angry with me,” her father hissed in almost a sing-song way. “I just want you settled, protected, able to finally start a family. I know you don’t love Nazar, but that doesn’t necessarily have to stop you in quest for love. Maybe someday you’ll find it elsewhere. I’m sure Nazar won’t mind you having a demon on the side.”

Eden couldn’t believe the garbage dripping from her father’s lips, or his sly grin, all of which was usually only reserved for his minions. “Why are you doing this to me?” she pouted. “It’s completely archaic for you to force me to marry. And really, Dad? Nazar? You know how I feel about him. I’ve hated him since I was a child. And I know you’ve heard of his sexual habits. He’s like the king of S&M orgies. Men, women, humans, demons, come one, come all. He’ll beat them, fuck them, degrade them to no end. You name it, he’s done it. It’s disgusting, Father!”

Her father’s eyes flamed bright red, and the tiny horns on his head grew and glowed in his dimly lit office. “He will never hurt you, Eden. Nazar is a lot of things, but he is no fool. He’s fully aware that he would burn in the deepest part of this realm for an eternity if he hurt one hair on your head!”

Eden could read her father well enough to know her life as a carefree demon princess was over. There would be no getting out of this.

So…she couldn’t stay here any longer. She’d never been on her own, never had to take care of herself, never wanted for anything. She might risk losing the cushy life of luxury she had grown accustomed to by sneaking out of the Underworld, but what choice did she have? Comfort, riches, and status were no longer enough for her. It was time to see if she had what it took to make it on her own.

Part 2

Seven months later

“Oh my God, Eden! What happened to you?”

Eden straightened her clothes and calmed her breathing. She didn’t like lying to her new best friend, the girl who graciously had taken her under her wing when she first started working at the coffee shop, but it wasn’t like she could tell Megan the truth. “Oh, Megs, it was nothing. Just some punk kids looking for money. You know how desperate people get around the holidays. Once they realized I was going to put up a fight, they took off.”

Eden sighed. She couldn’t be happier with her new life in the realm of the living. Sure, it was difficult at first. Figuring it all out—her new identity, the job, money, finding a tiny apartment she could afford—wasn’t as simple as she’d expected. Thankfully, the stash of human cash her father kept hidden in his office helped her get on her feet, but it didn’t take long for that to run out. Nothing was cheap or easy, but she’d done, and she’d done it all on her own.

Everything would be perfect if only her father would back off and stop sending minions to try to capture her. Over the last few months, four of her father’s demons had managed to find her, and who knew how many more he would send to bring her home? She figured sneaking out of Hell would be the hard part and hadn’t realized how much harder it would be to stay hidden. Eden didn’t like having to destroy her own kind. Every time she zapped them into dust, she found herself consumed with guilt, but she’d be damned if she would return to the Underworld without a fight. This time had been way too close.

“Well, are you okay? Did you call the police?” Megan asked.

“No, no police.” It’s not like the police would find any evidence anyway, since all demons disappeared from Earth the moment they died. “I’m fine. Really,” Eden called out as she went to the back of the coffee shop to get ready for her shift.

She put away her purse and jacket and grabbed her apron, allowing herself time to regain her composure. She loved working at Espresso Express. She loved the regulars who still gave her a hard time about her “unusual” accent, the harried business types who visited before they sat in the endless stop-and-go traffic of the freeway on their way into downtown Austin, the smells of the freshly brewed coffees and yummy human bakery treats. She loved it all, especially at this time of year. Christmas was quickly approaching, and Eden had never celebrated the holiday before. She eagerly soaked in all the Christmas cheer and good will to men.

Glancing at the schedule to see who she would be working with, Eden felt her breath hitch and her chest tighten. Just the sight of his name written in scribbly blue dry-erase marker next to hers was enough to start heat pooling deep in her belly.

Wes.

Wes Jameson. Since the first time she laid eyes on him, he’d become the star of all her wicked nighttime fantasies. And her secret desire for him only grew stronger when she saw his band play and heard his deep, melodic voice. Yes, she’d been a goner right then and there. It would be just the two of them this evening. A full four hours together. Alone. And he’d just walked into the shop.

“You know it’s supposed to rain tonight, don’t you?” Megan asked. She gave Eden a playful shove, seeing where Eden’s attention was. “Aww, damn, girl! You have it bad, don’t you?”

Eden could feel a blush creeping up her cheeks, but she didn’t dare deny it. Megan would see right through her. Holy hell, that guy could even rock the Espresso Express uniform. His work polo somehow managed to highlight his sculpted chest and back without being too tight like some of the other guys wore theirs. Said shirt half-covered bulging biceps with detailed designs that most definitely didn’t come off the wall of some tattoo shop. No, his ink was different and all his own, and she wanted more than anything to see everything uninterrupted by his clothing and someday find out just what each mark meant. And his jeans, oh, his jeans! Always well-worn and hanging just right on his hips.

Damn.

“Did you even hear what I said?” Megan asked. She placed her hands on Eden’s shoulders, forcing Eden to make eye contact. “Don’t you dare walk home alone again in the rain! I know you think that you’re a tough chick, and that you can take care of yourself, but please don’t.” All stern and motherly, Megan suddenly nodded her head at the schedule and smiled with mischief. “Make Yummy-Pants drive you home. And since he’ll be there, you know…he might as well stay the night. Then call me and tell me everything!”

Eden’s friend had been trying to get her to make a move for weeks now, but Eden was just too shy, at least around Wes. He made her body sizzle with an unfamiliar heat. Eden was no innocent. She’d had her share of lovers, but she’d never felt like this before. This guy could get her all worked up with just a smile.

She faced Megan and tried to be serious. “I’ll be fine, ‘Mom.’ You are such a worrier.”

Megan put her hands on her hips like she was about to let Eden have it, but then she stopped and turned, calling, “Wes, honey, our little Eden here was attacked by some punk kids on her way to work today. You’ll drive her home and make sure she’s okay, won’t you?”

Not a second passed before Wes was at her side. Being so close to him, Eden could barely breathe. Then he grabbed her and spun her around, and caught off guard, Eden lost her footing. Her face smacked right into his chest. The Downy-fresh scent of his black polo invaded her senses, and she wanted to curl up and wrap herself around the shirt and the man inside it.

Wes’s fingers lifted her chin, and she had to fight off the desire to lean in and remove the mere inches separating their lips as she faced him. She’d never wanted to taste anything more, and she was sure he would taste even better than she imagined.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Eden’s chest tightened from the look of genuine concern in his eyes and the urgency in his voice. Suddenly she wanted more than anything to tell him the truth, admit that no, she was not okay, that she was a stressed-out mess. That she hated having to destroy the demons that her father kept sending after her. That even though she was glad she’d left Hell to escape Nazar, she missed her home and her father. And that she was lonely, but that somehow just the sight of Wes made it all a bit easier.

“I’m fine,” she said, hoping he couldn’t see the lie in her eyes.

***

Wes had been particularly excited about coming to work today.

When Trey called him last week to get a shift covered, it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he’d owed the man. Then he’d found out who he’d be working with, and Wes decided he owed the man again. He had a thing for Eden Smith. A big thing. It was to the point that he couldn’t stop thinking about her long, raven hair and piercing blue eyes, not to mention those toned legs that went on for days, or, God help him, the generous amount of cleavage that teased him relentlessly from the top of her work shirt. But what truly had him under her spell was her tattoo. That beautifully intricate design started on the side of her slender neck and traveled down into her shirt, and it had Wes longing to see where it went, wanting to trace his tongue along the curves and swirls.

Feeling Eden tense under his touch, Wes immediately dropped his hand. He didn’t know what had come over him. He’d never touched her before. He’d even been careful not to accidently bump her from fear that once he touched that beautiful skin he would never be able to stop. But hearing that she’d been attacked cast all caution to the wind. All he could think about was making sure Eden was safe tonight and every night after that.

It had been this way for some time, actually. The night Megan brought her to see his band play, Wes couldn’t take his eyes off Eden. It felt like he’d been singing only to her. He’d felt like he would cross worlds to be with her, fight monsters to keep her safe. A few times he’d thought she was watching him too, in the same smitten fashion, but even after all this time he wasn’t sure that his feelings were reciprocated.

Well, tonight he planned to find out. Life was too short to waste time watching from a distance—especially if he could be loving Eden up close and personal instead.

“She’ll be fine, Megan. I’ll make sure of it,” he promised.

If his plan worked like he hoped and she felt the same way he did, they would be having breakfast in bed together in twelve short hours.

He just had to work up the guts.

***

Eden stood watching as Wes walked into the back room to clock in for his shift. When he was far enough away that he couldn’t possibly hear, she glared at her friend and complained with every ounce of irritation she could gather, “What the hell was that, Megs? God, could that have been more awkward? I’m so embarrassed.”

“Whatever,” Megan said. “I knew you would never ask him for a ride. And I just did you a favor, girl. Did you see how he looked at you? I am so jealous!”

Eden just covered her face with her hands as her friend packed up and left the shop.

With the help of the usual evening crowd the first few hours of work flew by, but the customers hightailed it out of the store as soon as the skies darkened and the beginning drops of rain fell. Trying to stay busy, Eden cleaned the coffee station, restocked the shelves, and swept and mopped the floor, but even after all that there was still an hour left before the shop was scheduled to close. Suddenly there was nothing left for Eden to do but drool over her coworker.

Thank God he had volunteered to start the inventory in the back, so she didn’t have to tiptoe nervously around him the whole time. Then again, if she never built up enough nerve to talk to Wes, none of those incredible dreams she’d been having would ever come true. Dreams about tugging on that perfectly messy dark brown hair, of running her red fingernails down his sinewy arms and staring up into his chocolate eyes as he lay between her—

“Man it’s really coming down out there,” Wes said, jerking Eden free of her lust-filled daydream.

She blinked and looked around the empty coffee shop. “It’s been that way for a while now. We haven’t had a customer in almost an hour.”

Wes didn’t say anything. He just walked over to the window with his iced coffee and stood there staring at the rain. Eden loved it, the way he watched the thunderstorm like it was the most awesome thing he had ever seen. When he turned to face her, lightning flashed behind him, and she stopped breathing for a moment. He was even more mesmerizing than the light show outside.

He pointed to a table with two comfy chairs by the window. “Come here and tell me what happened to you tonight.”

Eden hesitated, but eventually she grabbed her coffee and walked over. “It was nothing really,” she lied, sitting down next to him. “Just some kids out looking for some Christmas money. That’s all. It really wasn’t as bad as Megan made it out to be. I really am fine to walk home.”

“Let me drive you, please,” Wes said. “I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t make sure you’re safe.” Then he reached over and took her hand. “Plus, I can’t have Megan coming after me for not taking care of you.”

As his touch, Eden’s pulse surged. She worried that he would pull away, but he didn’t. Instead, he laced his fingers though hers and grinned.

Wes’s hand was strong and warm, and she found herself never wanting to let go. His cautious, sweet smile made her want to melt into her chair, and when she dared to look him in the eyes, what she found there was anything but sweet. The desire in his expression had her crossing her legs tightly in an attempt to alleviate the sudden need building between her thighs.

In her own realm, nothing would have stopped her from straddling him in his chair and screwing his brains out right then and there, but this wasn’t the Underworld. She didn’t have a complete grasp on sex and the rules of the land of the living, but she was pretty sure that this wasn’t the right time. Plus, she wanted more than hot sex in the middle of a coffee shop. With Wes, she hoped she could have it all.

Neither of them said anything, but as the seconds passed Eden felt the dark cloud that surrounded her since she arrived in this realm lift, and suddenly she wished that she could open up and share the truth with Wes. The whole truth. She’d never imagined that it could be like this with anyone, and certainly not a human, but she felt relaxed now. Comfortable. She began to picture what it would be like to be with Wes—to really be with him—but as soon as she let herself imagine that life, a host of unavoidable problems filled her mind and ruined her fantasy.

Who was she kidding? She wasn’t human and she never would be. She’d fled the Underworld to escape a loveless marriage with Nazar. A tiny part of her had hoped she’d find someone to love too, but now that it was within her grasp, she started to realize how unrealistic her dreams of love here in the human world really were.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?” Wes asked, shaking her from her dark thoughts.

“No, no plans,” she admitted weakly.

“Good. Come to my place? Let me make you dinner.”

Before Eden could think better of it, she’d already answered. “Sure.”

Her heart raced as she watched Wes scoot to the edge of his seat. He leaned toward her, his eyes meeting hers, and his were clearly asking for permission. So she channeled all the strength and courage she had inside herself and leaned in as well.

He let go of her hand. Eden almost protested, but then his warm palm found her face and his soft lips brushed hers. He was hesitant at first, but then his arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her to her feet, their lips never parting. The length of her body was pressed against his, and a growing bulge in his pants was rock hard.

His fingertips skimmed her face, her neck, her shoulders, and every dirty thought that Eden ever had about Wes was playing out in her head. His hands explored her body then, fingers running down the sides of her torso and grazing her breasts, and a moan escaped her lips.

Only one thing could ease this need.

As if he could read her mind, his hands continued south until they wrapped firmly around her ass. He pulled her even tighter against him, and he pressed his hardness against her core. With Wes’s body molded to hers, Eden could feel his heart pounding like her own. The moment was worth the entire risk she’d taken by leaving the Underworld. She would gladly do it again. Wes was exactly what she needed. He made all her lonely thoughts vanish with each stroke of his tongue.

Needing to breathe, she broke their kiss and rested her forehead against his chest.

“My God, Eden,” Wes gasped. He ran his fingers through her hair. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you walk into this place. You came in here so confident and sure of yourself, all this gorgeous black hair pulled up and messy… You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

Eden didn’t know how to respond. He had her all wrong. She wasn’t sure or confident. Not here. Not on Earth. Not with him. He made her nervous and needy. She really hoped that wasn’t the only thing Wes liked about her, because that wasn’t her at all.

Wes lifted her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. “You are, you know. You’re strong and smart and beautiful,” he said, kissing her between each word.

She pulled away, uncomfortable. “Come on. Let’s finish up here and close this place down. Nobody’s going to come for coffee in this weather.”

“Okay, yeah. I guess you’re right,” Wes replied as he turned away. “I need about ten more minutes to finish up inventory, and then I’ll take out the trash.”

“No. I’ll do it,” Eden said. “I don’t have much left to anyway.”

“All right, but be careful. It gets slippery out there,” Wes called as he headed toward the storeroom. He didn’t look back.

Eden stood and watched him walk away. She knew she’d upset him by pulling away, but she’d needed that moment to cool down and get her head on straight. She would just have to make it up to him later. Life on Earth seemed always unpredictable. She couldn’t believe how her day had turned out, from those demons this afternoon to kissing Wes this evening.

After collecting the trash, Eden rolled the giant garbage can past the storeroom, toward the backdoor. Wes looked up and smiled, which made Eden feel a bit more hopeful. Maybe he wasn’t upset after all.

The rain was still coming down as she wheeled the can out the back door. Luckily, there was just enough cover from the overhang to keep her reasonably dry. She had just dumped the trash into the dumpster when she heard the first familiar slither.

“Eeeddeenn, you must come home,” came a whispered malevolence. She spun just in time to see the speaker stretch its arms and multiply into four discrete demonic forms. Her father must have been really pissed to send this one. Four individual demons she could take, but a multiplying demon fighting with multiple coordinated forms…well, she wasn’t so sure.

Worried for Wes’s safety should he decide to come outside, she tried to lure the quartet of enemies away from the coffee shop and into the alley along the back, but by stepping away from the dumpster Eden inadvertently allowed them to surround her. Yet she was also desperate, and a desperate demoness could be very dangerous. They knew as much.

“Stay back, friend. I don’t want to hurt you,” she warned.

“Then come home, Eden. Come with me now and end this time of discord with our king.”

She was trying to remain perfectly still and calm, but the quartet was closing in.

“I can’t. I won’t. Now, please go! I don’t want to hurt you. Please don’t make me. Just go,” she begged, wishing her father’s minions were more pervious to guilt. The demon would not strike first, out of respect, but Eden also knew he wouldn’t rest until she was back in the Underworld. It was becoming painfully clear that she was going to have to fight her way out. Again.

The sound of a car backfiring down the street caused all four demon forms to turn at once. Eden took advantage and pushed past the one on her right so that she was no longer surrounded. And if they wouldn’t strike first she—

They came at her at once. With just enough time and space, she managed to shoot off enough electricity through her fingertips to zap two forms to dust before the third even laid a claw on her, but when he did, he got her good. His fist crashed against her skull and sent her flailing backwards. She hit the ground hard, pain exploding behind her eyes, and she couldn’t tell if the demon was multiplying itself again or if it was just her vision doubling.

She struggled to her feet, nausea making her sluggish, but as soon as she regained her footing and lifted her head the demon slammed its fist into her stomach. It hit her so hard that she was actually lifted off the ground, and when she crashed to the cement below, clutching her stomach, the demon came at her again.

Eden reached out and grabbed the thing’s leg, tripping it into its partner. This gave her enough time to get back on her feet. Then she watched as the two remaining demons looked at each other before offering a concerted assault.

She managed to get one by the neck, but the other grabbed her by both arms, forcing her to let the first demon go. She felt the demon’s long, scaly fingers wrap around her throat, and she tried to punch, to kick, to do anything to struggle out of its grasp, but the thing just tightened its hold. Eden knew that the end was close. She could feel the lack of oxygen wreaking havoc on her body, and if she passed out she’d surely wake up back in Hell. So Eden fought to keep her eyes open for one last battle she couldn’t win.

Barely conscious, she wasn’t sure what happened next. One minute she was struggling for air, the next she was tossed to the ground and the demon was gone.

Part 3

“Holy fuck! Hold on, baby, hold on,” Wes cried as he lifted Eden’s battered body into his arms. His heart relaxed only slightly when she shivered and pressed her face into the warmth of his chest, and Wes hurried to get her back inside Espresso Express, only pausing to securely lock the back door with one hand.

He put her gently on the tiny storeroom sofa then knelt next to her. Her right eye was already turning purple and blood dripped from her swollen lips. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Wes brushed a piece of Eden’s ebony hair back from her face.

“Don’t move, baby,” he whispered. “I’m going to call the ambulance.”

She clasped his arm and opened her eyes to look at him. “No. No ambulance. I’m okay. Just stay with me, Wes.”

“You were attacked for the second time today, Eden. We have to at least call the police.”

Eden winced and pushed herself into a sitting position. Not being exactly human, she figured seeing a doctor or even an EMT would be a really bad idea. And, she was just a little banged up, even if it did hurt like hell to move at the moment. Certainly none of her injuries were worth risking exposure. She was just relieved that the demon fled. Things could have been much worse.

“I’m fine, really I am. I don’t want to spend the night in the ER. I don’t have insurance and they’ll just tell me to take a few ibuprofen and rest. And I don’t feel like being at the police station for hours, either. I didn’t really see the guy, so I can’t tell them anything.”

“We can’t let whoever’s out there get away with this! What if they come after you again?” Wes asked, covering her hand with his.

“They won’t,” Eden said. Seeing the apprehension in Wes’s eyes, she tried to keep the pain out of her voice. She could tell he was struggling with how best to handle the situation. “You must have scared them off when you came looking for me. I just want to go home, Wes. Please, no police. No hospital.”

Wes stood and began to pace back and forth in front of the sofa. “Okay,” he said after a moment, looking down at her. “No cops, no hospital, Eden, but I’m not leaving you tonight. You stay at my place. That way I can make sure you’re all right. You might have a concussion, you know. Are you okay with that? You don’t want to go to the hospital to make sure?”

Eden wanted to jump up and down; that’s how okay she was with staying at his place. She would finally be able to see were Wes lived, where he ate, where he watched TV… Hot damn, she’d see where he slept! And the idea of even the possibility of maybe sleeping in a bed that smelled of Wes caused little flickers of fire to ignite in her core.

Since she couldn’t answer Wes without revealing just how excited she was, she simply stood and took his hand.

***

Wes stood back, nervously watching as Eden walked around his apartment. She ran her slender fingers over the guitars hanging on his wall and asked, “Which one of these is your favorite?”

Wes approached and touched the limited edition Les Paul. “My grandfather gave me this for Christmas years ago. Even though I knew what it was, he made me wait to open it until Christmas morning. Considered it cheating, otherwise.” He was slightly taken aback that the words came so freely from his mouth. He didn’t like talking about his personal life, especially about his grandfather. Not to anyone. For some reason, though, with Eden nothing was off limits.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Wes was standing so close that he could smell her lavender shampoo and the residual aroma of the coffee shop. Even after being attacked, she still smelled like heaven. He wanted so badly to taste her lips again, but after the evening’s events he didn’t want to press.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, bringing the conversation back to where it belonged.

Eden waved off his concern. “I’m okay, really.” In fact, by tomorrow she would be good as new. Even now she could feel her wounds beginning to heal. Moving to the couch, she sat in the middle of it. “You don’t have a Christmas tree, Wes—or any decorations,” she muttered, looking around.

She almost sounded sad, and Wes smiled. He couldn’t help himself. After everything Eden had been through today, she was more concerned with the fact that he wasn’t going to celebrate the holidays? It was typical Eden, focusing all attention on someone else. She was humble and caring and strong. Three of the reasons Wes was so enamored with her.

Without responding, he walked over and sat next to her.

“Do you not celebrate Christmas?” she asked.

“I haven’t in a while,” he answered honestly. Eden just sat there and stared at him as if she were waiting for him to explain. Apparently, he wasn’t getting away with vague answers. To his surprise, he didn’t mind.

“I was raised by my grandfather. It was just the two of us, and after he died…I don’t know, I guess I never bothered. Holidays are for families, you know? It’s about being with the ones you love most.”

Eden definitely knew. Her father was surely furious with her, but he was still her father, and she knew no matter what she did here in this realm, he and many others who she considered family would be awaiting her return in the Underworld. Wes was all alone. It made her heart hurt, so she leaned over and pressed her lips to his cheek. “Yeah, I know,” she whispered against his skin.

Wes turned. Their lips were mere centimeters from each other, and the desire in Eden’s eyes made his heart thump and his cock swell. His brain begged him not to push things. She was wounded and—

Eden closed the gap. She didn’t want sweet and hesitant from Wes. She wanted all of him, and she wanted him now. It had been far too long since she had been with anyone that remotely mattered, and no one would ever compare to Wes. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, heat flooding her entire body and leaving her a wet and needy mess.

A desperate moan escaped her lips as her hands found Wes’s shirt and she pulled him close. Using the back of the sofa, she lifted herself up so that she could straddle his lap, and the minute she felt Wes’s erection against her center, she nearly came undone.

Wes couldn’t hold back any longer. Not with Eden rubbing herself against his rock-hard dick. He tugged Eden’s hair free from her loose ponytail and ran his fingers through the long, wavy strands as he devoured her sweet mouth. They kissed, licked, and thoroughly tasted each other until Wes finally had to pull back to take a breath before he ended things before they even began. He’d never been more turned on in his life, and all he could think about was finally taking Eden to his bed and making her scream out his name.

“Fuck, Eden, you are so beautiful,” he panted as he leaned his forehead against hers.

Eden’s breathing was just as erratic, but she has no intention of letting Wes rest for too long. She didn’t want him to decide that this was a bad idea or that she wasn’t ready because of what had happened tonight. She was more than ready. She’d been ready since she first laid eyes on him.

She ran her hands down his chest and stomach to the bottom of his black polo. With more strength than was necessary, she pulled the shirt over his head and threw it to the floor. Her eyes widened at the sight of his naked chest, and she licked her lips as she drank in those chiseled abs and inked-up pecs and arms.

Wes clutched Eden’s shoulders when he felt her soft, wet tongue tracing circles around his nipple. Desperately wanting to return the favor, he pulled her up so that he could take his time with her shirt, one button at a time.

Despite her eagerness to move things along, Eden forced herself to sit still while Wes slowly unbuttoned her shirt. The heat in his eyes told her just how much he was enjoying this. This was just like her fantasies, and she didn’t want to deny him anything. She wanted him to have it all: her body and her heart.

Wes kept his eyes locked on Eden’s until the last button came free and her shirt slipped from her slender shoulders. Her tattoo. The ink that had teased Wes for months was now right in front of him, and he allowed himself a moment to trace his tongue over the unique design. He wanted to sit back and admire it further, but his attention was quickly diverted. Her lace-covered breasts were perfection, and nothing, not even that tattoo, could keep him from them.

Eden moaned softly when Wes’s tongue swiped one covered nipple, but she nearly screamed when he pulled the lacy bra free and she felt the hotness of his mouth on her bare breast. Her fingers threaded through his hair, crushing his head to her chest as she rocked down against his erection, trying desperately to ease the ache between her thighs.

“Oh, Wes,” she breathed. The more he teased and sucked, the more her ache continued to build. Eden had never wanted someone more than this. She needed him to put the fire out, but as he moved to her other nipple the fire only grew.

Eden. She literally took his breath away. Wes leaned back, stunned by the sight and sound and taste of the most fascinating female he’d ever known. Taking a few deep and much-needed breaths, he stared into eyes of the girl who had managed to steal his heart. But he needed to be able to touch more of her, to see more, to taste more. So, wrapping his hands under her incredible ass, he rose off the sofa and carried Eden to his bed.

Laying her down, Wes briefly stepped back to admire the view. Slowly he lifted each of her legs to remove her sexy black flats; then, moving upward, he unbuttoned her black pants and slid them down her long, toned legs. He thought about ridding her of those hot-as-hell red panties, too, but seeing her clad in that scrap of lace was better than any fantasy he’d ever had and he wanted to draw out his enjoyment.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined what you’d look like lying on my bed?” he whispered as he removed his own trousers and crawled toward her on the mattress. He lay beside her, his thigh rubbing hers. “And you are so much more than I could have ever dreamed up.”

Eden pulled his face to hers and kissed him with every ounce of emotion she had. She ran her hand down his chest and then around up his back. She couldn’t wait to have him any longer. She needed Wes like she needed her next breath, and so she pulled him flush against her.

Sharing her frenzied desire, Wes inched his fingers toward her pussy, teasing the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh along the way. As sexy as those panties were, Wes wanted them gone. He couldn’t stand to have anything between them, not even that red lace.

She cried out as he grazed her lust-soaked panties with the tip of one finger, and as Wes raced to rid Eden of her last scrap of clothing, Eden pulled at his boxers, wanting the same skin-to-skin connection he sought.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” she whispered, and her confession was rewarded with the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. Unable to hide her happiness, she pulled a very naked Wes on top of her.

Settled between Eden’s legs, things suddenly became real. Wes leaned down and gently kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her chin and lips. They were face to face, body to body, heart to heart.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

Eden smiled. “Absolutely.”

Wes rolled over and retrieved a condom from his bedside table and covered himself. When he returned, he ran his finger over her beautiful tattoo and down her stomach, all the way to the apex of her thighs. He circled her clit with it once…twice, before settling himself between her legs and positioning himself at her entrance once again.

Eden kissed Wes’s chest as he hovered above her. His lips found hers as he slid inside her, and they moaned in unison as sensation overwhelmed them both.

Wes paused once he’d filled Eden completely. Nothing had ever felt more right. Then Eden’s hips urged him on, and he began to move. It didn’t feel like the first time between them. They moved with the comfortable rhythm of longtime lovers, and he brought her over the edge time and time again, and when he finally came, he lost himself completely to her.

He was hers, finally, and absolutely.

Part 4

Eden gave herself a pep talk as she walked toward work that evening. Please don’t let this be awkward. Please don’t let this be awkward. Please don’t let this be awkward. How was she supposed to act now that—?

Visions of their night together, a night that was nothing short of amazing, flashed through her mind, and she felt her face flush and her stomach twist with the anxiety of what was to come next.

Shit. This is going to be awkward.

She shouldn’t have slipped out of his bed and fled the scene so early that morning. She’d left a note, at least. But she’d never made love to a human before. She wasn’t human herself, and she had no idea how she was supposed to act the morning after. She didn’t want to mess it all up by making it all weird, especially when what had happened between the two of them was…more even than she could have ever imagined. Regardless of their differences, his mere touch set her body on fire, his smoldering eyes seemed to see right through to her very soul, if she had one, and the way they fit with each other could only be described as perfection. It was as if their bodies had been made for each other. Made to love each other.

Love? Dammit, no! What was she thinking? Could she really love him so soon? Her heart ached, and she subconsciously reached up to cover it with her hand. She already knew the answer to that stupid question. The truth was, she’d fallen in love with Wes long before they left the coffee shop last night. Stolen glances, flirty comments, and the way he always seemed to be nearby when they worked together had sealed the deal. It didn’t seem like much, but there was just something about Wes. She loved him. She just hadn’t let herself admit it.

Until now.

But that bit of information would most definitely be kept to herself. She might not be human, but she was no fool. She knew how these things worked. No one, especially not Wes, needed to know that she’d fallen hard for a guy who, for all she knew, didn’t want any more than he’d already taken. Megan would be their only buffer for the next couple of hours—and then she and Wes would be alone again. It was time to slip on her big-girl panties and figure out how to handle whatever happened tonight. The ball was in his court.

Aw, hell. She was so screwed. She would just have to keep reminding herself for the next several hours to act natural, and that under no circumstances should she make it awkward.

***

Wes stood inside the coffee shop, behind the bar and with one eye on the back door. He could hardly wait to see his girl again. Wait. His girl? Was it too soon for that? No, Eden was his girl. Truth be told, he’d been thinking of her as his for a while now, even if he’d been too chickenshit to make a move. But now? He was damn glad he hadn’t let his moment slip away.

A vision of her naked body wrapped around his made his dick twitch, and the more he tried to push the silky smooth feel of everything Eden out of his mind, the harder he became. He was quite sure he could pound nails at that very moment. It was like he was a damn teenager again, copping his first feel. No, that wasn’t true; he’d simply never felt this way before. Eden did things to him that he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t help himself. But he had to make sure she thought of herself as his, too. Her note this morning, while sweet, made him wonder what was going on in her head.

He took a deep breath while leaning over the counter, trying to settle his out-of-control hormones, reaching down to adjust the bulge straining against his zipper just as the back door swung open.

Wes. As Eden stepped inside the coffee shop, she caught sight of him with his elbows on the counter and his head hung down like he’d just run a marathon and was trying not to pass out. Her heart skipped a beat, and then he turned his head and his eyes collided with hers. Desire stirred there, and a knowing grin spread across his gorgeous face.

Damn! Eden’s pulse quickened, and all her fears from earlier vanished. Their chemistry remained, and she could literally feel the heat rising in her body. She wanted to grab him, shove him into the storage room and let him rock her world again.

With no customers in sight, Wes decided now was as good a time as any to make sure Eden knew just how much he wanted a repeat of last night. Then they could just set themselves to repeat for all of eternity, because there was no way he was letting her get away from him. Not ever. She was his girl.

He only made it two feet before he was thwarted by Megan. Appearing out of nowhere, his coworker grabbed Eden by the arm and dragged her over to a tiny table in the back. Then a customer came in, so Wes reluctantly headed to the register, smiled his most charming smile, and took the woman’s order.

Eden almost lost her footing as Megan practically flung her into one of the chairs in the back.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Eden reached up and covered the bruise on her jaw. “I got attacked again last night. Out by the dumpsters. What are the odds, right?” she said with a shrug, trying her best to make light of the situation. But she knew Megan would make it a huge deal of it. Humans. They were such damn worry-warts. “But Wes came and found me. I’m fine. Really.”

“Holy hell! How could this happen? Was it the same guys?”

With another shrug, Eden stood and headed to the front of the shop, trying to cut the conversation as short as possible. “I’m not sure. It all happened so fast. But really it’s no big deal.”

Megan hopped up and pulled Eden into a hug. “You aren’t going anywhere alone ever again. Do you hear me? One girl being randomly attacked every time she goes outside? This shit is crazy!”

Despite enjoying the gesture of friendship, Eden tried not to tense in Megan’s arms. The statement was true. Given the way the demons disappeared last night, the only way to avoid them seemed to be by staying within a human’s view at all times. Well, she could also flee and make them track her down again, but she just couldn’t think about that right now.

Pulling away she said, “Don’t worry, Megan. I’m going to see if Wes will take me home tonight. Again.” Unable to stop it, she felt a smile stretch across her face.

Megan’s eyebrows rose to new heights. “Did he finally make a move?”

“Yes. Yes, he did,” Eden confirmed with a wicked grin. Then she slipped past Megan to go to work.

Customer after customer rolled in, which meant Wes couldn’t catch a break and talk to Eden like he wanted. He did, however, take every opportunity to brush up against her as they worked the coffee station. Their eyes would lock, and she’d shoot him a sweet smile, which drove him nuts. He could hardly control himself, wanting nothing more than to wrap this girl up in his arms and kiss the life out of her. To run his hands over every inch of her body again. To shove her up against the wall and…

Shit. He needed to get a damn grip or he’d never make it through the shift. But trying to keep space between Eden and himself was a losing proposition. When he turned to hand her an iced latte, her fingertips grazed his and she offered him a cute little smirk with her thank-you. The sexy gleam in her eyes almost undid him.

Eden was going wild, too. She and Wes had hardly talked about anything other than coffee today but he casually found a way to touch her every few moments. It was heaven. Then he suddenly backed off completely, and it was hell. Maybe he was working just as hard as she was to keep under control. Harder, maybe, now that she was taking every opportunity of touching him back. He finally cleared his throat and said he’d be right back. He headed toward the rear storage room.

With only one customer left in the shop, Eden glanced over at Megan, who smiled and nodded her head. So Eden excused herself and followed Wes, her insides twisting with anxiety. Had she done something wrong? She’d kept touching him, but he’d stopped touching her. She needed to make sure he was okay before—

She was only a few steps into the storage room when a hand reached out and grabbed her, pulling her into the tiny closet. Wes’s lips crashed against hers, and she could barely breathe much less stand. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against him, and his lips were soft and sweet yet demanding. His tongue sought entrance to her mouth, and Eden opened up, more than happy to oblige.

Running his hand up her thigh, Wes pulled her even closer, making it clear how turned on he was. “My God, Eden. Please tell me you’ll come home with me again tonight. You’re killing me out there.”

Eden just tangled her fingers in his hair, pressed her lips against his and deepened their kiss.

Wes ran his hands over her ass, relishing the way his body meshed with hers. Then, to his dismay, Eden pulled away.

Her breath coming in short little pants, she said, “I wish we could leave now.”

Their eyes locked, and suddenly all he could think about was dragging Eden out of the coffee shop and taking her straight to bed. Hell, he probably wouldn’t make it to his bedroom. He’d probably pin her up against the wall near his front door. Then he’d make love to her on the floor. Then in the bedroom, and—

With another quick peck, Eden knocked the dirty thoughts right out of his head, saying, “We’d better get back out there before Megan hunts us down.”

Wes just nodded and let her lead him back out to the front of the shop.

***

As she tried to keep the coffee orders straight in her head, Eden couldn’t keep her mind off the way Wes made her feel. His kiss held more promise than she’d ever known, and that kind of scared the shit out of her. It was true that she’d always wanted love, but as much as she wanted it, she’d never truly expected to find it. She never wanted to admit it, but she was a princess of Hell, and she had to wonder, did demons know love? Could they? Her father had never seemed to think so. And now with all these new feelings coursing through her body, she found herself questioning everything.

And, Wes didn’t know the truth. How could she ever tell him? He’d be running for the hills before she could fully explain. What would she even say?

So, Wes, I know this is crazy, but I’m from what you humans refer to as Hell, and, well, my father just so happens to be the ruler down there. I guess you could say I’m kind of like the Devil’s daughter. No, really, it’s not as bad as it sounds. The Underworld is actually quite lovely. No fire and brimstone shit. Human? No, I’m not human. I was born a demon, but not a bad demon or anything. A perfectly nice and normal demon. Nothing to worry about except the bad demons that Dad keeps sending to bring me home.

Yeah, something told Eden that wouldn’t go over too well. And since there was no good way to go about confessing the truth, she decided to keep her trap shut for now. Yeah, she felt totally guilty for not being honest, but seriously, it wasn’t something she should just blurt out. They hadn’t even defined what their one hookup even meant!

When it was finally time for Megan to leave, Eden practically shoved her friend out the back door, promising that she would be safe and sound and that there was no need to worry. Then, after checking her appearance in the mirror, Eden emerged from the back to…find a long line of customers that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

She leaned close to Wes and whispered, “Where did all these people come from? There was no one here when I walked Megan out.”

Wes shot her a disgruntled smirk. “Who knows? It’s like a bad joke. Finally alone, but not so much.”

Rain started as about half the line was taken care of. The remaining customers looked flustered by the sudden shower and glanced at their watches and tapped their feet. Eden felt little sympathy, though. Didn’t these people know they were moving as fast as they could? Honestly, she and Wes couldn’t wait to get rid of them!

She kept an eye on the door, hoping that the rain didn’t signal any more trouble from her father’s minions like it had last night. Or maybe that was just a coincidence. When no one came storming in to drag her back to the Underworld, she finally allowed herself to relax.

Soon the crowd was gone, and the rain apparently kept any more traffic away. She hadn’t realized it was so close to closing time. She watched the last customer exit, and when the door swung shut, Eden felt her ponytail being swept aside and gentle lips graze the back of her neck.

“Finally,” Wes sighed as he stood behind her, a breath away from her ear.

Every nerve ending in Eden’s body sprang to life, and she had to grip the counter to keep from sliding down to the floor in a mess of girly hormones. Wanting nothing more than to turn around and claim Wes’s lips with hers, she nonetheless knew it wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she took a step to the side and turned to place her finger on his lips.

“You better behave yourself,” she said.

Wes kissed the tip of her finger. “Well, then, you better move out of my reach before I do something that could get us both fired—or arrested.”

His words sent a shiver down Eden’s spine and caused her body to react in other delicious ways, so before she decided otherwise, she moved to the customers’ do-it-yourself area and started to straighten it up.

Wes watched Eden walk away from him, trying to decide his next course of action. He wanted her to be his, but there was so much he didn’t know. Sure, he knew her life story, or the life story you learned over time spent working in a shop together, but there was surely so much more to her than where she’d grown up and where she’d gone to school and all the lame shit you tell people when you’re just getting to know them. He thought about what to say for several minutes before he asked, “So, Eden. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

Eden froze. She’d known when she arrived here that she needed a cover story. She’d read enough human books to know that the mysterious girl who kept her past under wraps only made people more curious, so she’d revealed bits and pieces of a made-up life during her time working in the shop. It was only natural that Wes would now want to know more.

His question hung in the air. She didn’t want to lie to him, so she did the only thing she could think of to stall: answer a question with a question.

“Like what? There’s not much to tell.”

“Like…I don’t know. If you’d be willing to date a coworker? Like, exclusively.”

Wes knew it wasn’t his best line but it was better than asking if she’d marry him and have his babies, which was what he really wanted to say. Too much, too soon? Yeah, probably.

Eden stopped what she was doing and turned. “Why, Wes, are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I am. But if it’s too soon…”

Eden glanced at the front door then walked over and grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the storage room. They only made it a few feet inside before she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for one hell of a kiss. His body reacted, and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling her close to show her just how aroused she made him.

She let out a breathy moan and looked up into his eyes. “No, it’s absolutely not too soon.”

Part 5

Wes and Eden jumped apart. That had been the loudest clap of thunder that he’d ever heard, and it had crashed just outside Espresso Express. The storm was intensifying, too, the thunder continuing to pound around the shop, shaking the shelves and causing the overhead light in the storage room to swing like mad.

“Holy shit, that was close,” Wes said as he pulled Eden back into the safety of his arms. The noise had totally ruined the moment, but he still wanted her close.

“We’d better get back out front,” Eden suggested.

She took Wes’s hand and started to lead him out of the storage room, but when she touched the door everything went black. Wes pulled his iPhone from his back pocket and used the screen to illuminate their surroundings.

He opened the door, and Eden followed close behind. Happily the coffee shop was still devoid of any customers, but the emptiness of the room made the storm outside feel even more ominous.

“It’s crazy out there,” Wes said, staring out the windows, and Eden agreed. The wind was blowing the outdoor tables up against the shop, and lightning flashed so brightly that the entire sky lit up and revealed dark storm clouds surrounding the block.

Eden reached out and took Wes’s hand, seeking his warmth and security. She knew what this meant. This was no ordinary storm. Her father had grown tired of waiting for her to be captured or to give up and come home voluntarily, so this was it. Deep down she knew that what she’d found with Wes would end now, sooner rather than later. It had been just too good to be true. A princess of Hell never deserved such happiness.

She pulled Wes around, forcing him to face her, and before it was too late she said, “I’m so sorry, Wes. I just… I just want you to know, I need you to know, that I—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the front door flew open and Eden’s father, the ruler of the Underworld, the Devil himself, strolled inside. Her father had taken human form, but his dark features and massive frame were enough to scare most anyone.

Eden felt Wes’s body tense as he pulled her behind him. He started to speak but was silenced by a wave of her father’s hand.

“Eden, my baby girl,” her father said, arms spread wide. As if she would even consider embracing him.

She turned and touched Wes’s face, then unleashed her anger on her father. “Dammit, Dad. Unfreeze him. Now!”

Luc’s nostrils flared at her insolence. After taking a calming breath he said, “You broke my heart the day you left. Nonetheless, I have allowed you some time in this realm to do what you needed to do.” He glanced pointedly at Wes.

Eden’s face flamed red. “Father, it’s not what you think.”

“It’s exactly what I think, and now it’s over. You will return with me right now, and you will marry Nazar.”

“I will not,” Eden cried. “I will never marry that evil asshole.”

Her father shook his head. “I had a talk with him, and he assured me that part of his life would end as soon as you two are man and wife. You can expect him to be devoted to you and only you. There will be no more…how did you describe it? Massive orgies?”

Eden knew that it was immature of her to roll her eyes, but she just couldn’t help herself. It was ludicrous to believe that Nazar was capable of change. Not that it would matter if he actually did. She would never love Nazar. She hated him. She always had and always would.

“If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself,” her father said, snapping his fingers.

Amusingly, Nazar’s harem of sex slaves appeared with him. Eden rolled her eyes again, glancing at her father in disbelief. He’s changed? Right.

She caught the furious look her father shot at the arrogant demon general.

Eden couldn’t deny that Nazar was a sight to behold. His eyes were a pale blue that seemed almost devoid of all color, and he was tall and strong, with muscles so well defined that you could actually trace each cord running through his body. But seeing him there only caused Eden’s stomach to coil with a wave of nausea.

Nazar stood before her, completely unabashed by his nudity and his company. Kneeling at his feet were four female demons and two males, all beaten, all bruised, each wearing only a collar.

“This is exactly why I will never marry him,” Eden said to her father. And because I love Wes. She turned to glance at her still frozen beloved, glad he could not see or hear what was happening.

Laughing, Nazar snapped his fingers, sending his harem away and adding a robe to his body.

“Happy, dear?” he asked. His accent was thick, as he’d never made an attempt to blend into the human realm.

“Thrilled,” Eden muttered under her breath.

Her father crossed his arms on his chest. “You two had better find a way to get along, because we are having a wedding tonight.”

Eden gasped. “No! No, I won’t. I can’t. I don’t love him. I’m in love with Wes,” she cried. But as soon as the words left her lips, she wished that she could take them back. Her father scowled, and Nazar laughed again.

“Is that the only problem? She loves a human?” Nazar said.

Eden suddenly realized she had only one chance to win: stand her ground. If her father knew how she truly felt, maybe, just maybe, he’d understand.

“Yes, I love him,” she admitted, pleading to her father with her eyes. “He makes me happy, Father. Happier than I’ve ever been. I can’t explain it, but he has my whole heart, and he’s…he’s perfect. Perfect for me.”

She saw him considering the situation. A flutter of hope eased a bit of the tension in her body as he appeared to soften for a moment. It didn’t last long, but she’d seen it. Maybe he would understand.

“You love that?” Nazar asked Eden. He must have seen the small weakness in his ruler as well.

She didn’t answer with words; she simply took Wes’s frozen hand in hers.

Nazar nodded, like he understood how she felt. Eden breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. Without warning, Nazar raised his hand and released a bolt of electricity strong enough to kill twelve men. Blasted backward, Wes crumpled to the floor.

Eden screamed, unable to fathom what had just happened. Just as she’d begun to hope that her father and Nazar might leave her be, Wes was yanked away, his life stolen in the blink of an eye.

Despite knowing there was nothing she could do, she flung herself onto Wes’s lifeless body. Tears flowed down her face, splashing Wes’s chest. She knew that her heart would end up breaking at some point, but this…this was too much. Too much sadness. Too much loss. Too much anger!

Unbridled rage suddenly coursed through her, beginning with the tears in her eyes and ending in the clenched fists at her sides. Eden stood and stared directly into the eyes of the animal that had stolen her chance at happiness—at true love.

Nazar made no attempt to hide the satisfaction on his face or his smirk as he turned to her father. “She loved the human. The human is dead. Problem solved.”

Unable to stand the smug look on Nazar’s face, Eden pooled all the energy inside her until her fingertips burned with the power. Then, without a second thought, she poured the current out of her hands and straight into the demon general’s chest.

Like Wes had been, Nazar was blasted backward. For a brief moment his body sizzled with electricity before he completely dissolved into thin air. She’d gone and killed him.

“Dammit, Eden! That was my best demon!” her father shouted.

Eden ignored him. She just knelt beside Wes and pressed her mouth to his cold lips one last time, and then she closed his eyes and stood. The Espresso Express Christmas poster on the wall caught her attention. So much for good will towards men.

“Fuck you, Father. And since you’ve ruined my Merry-fucking-Christmas, let’s go home.”

Part 6

Eden could sum up her life back in Hell with one word: Shit.

No, that didn’t quite do it justice. Home was a sucky-ass fucking hellhole. Literally. Wes was gone. Her chance at true love was over. Whether or not it was even possible to find someone to love again didn’t matter; she never wanted to feel those feelings for anyone else, human or demon. Wes had been it for her, and now all she had left was the life of luxury she’d previously abandoned. But she didn’t know how to live it anymore.

Taking note of the way she’d been self-sufficient on Earth, her father had officially appointed her his Chief Demon—as if that would make things better. Day in and day out, he gave her a million and one tasks to accomplish, and she managed to get them done. She wanted to hate him, but she knew in her heart that he was doing all he could to help her keep her mind off her loss. He never spoke of it, but she’d seen the surprise in his eyes when Nazar killed Wes. And when she looked into his eyes now, she saw something she’d never seen before. Remorse.

Her father’s tough exterior fooled all those around him. In order to rule the Underworld, he had to appear unconcerned, uncaring, and most importantly, unbreakable, but for the first time in her life, she knew that underneath it all he felt guilt. He was sorry for the pain he’d caused his only daughter.

However, there was no way in Hell that she would ever truly forgive him. Sure, Nazar had killed Wes, but it was her father who made it happen. He’d been the one to bring the demon into Espresso Express in the first place. He’d been the one to chase her after she left Hell, the one who hadn’t let her simply go find love on her own.

In her room, Eden curled up on her bed and allowed her thoughts to drift back to the short time she’d had with Wes: the way his touch sent her reeling, the way he smiled wickedly when he ran his fingers over her skin, the way his lips felt against her own, the way his eyes spoke volumes… The way he completed her. A human. Tears spilled from her eyes, and her heart ached with no less pain than the night she’d watched the life stolen from him.

A gentle knock at the door caused a new wave of tears to flood her eyes, and when it opened, she tried desperately to hold them back. The effort only caused her to cry harder.

“Eden,” her father said as he made his way to her bed. “Breathe, honey. Deep breaths, in and out.”

He ran his fingers through her hair as she tried to calm down. “That’s it. In and out. You’re going to get through this. I promise, honey. It’s going to be okay. I know it hurts. I know,” her father repeated as he sat down next to her and pulled her into his arms.

Eden curled into her father’s body just like she had as a child. “It’s not ‘okay,’ Dad. None of this is okay. He’s gone. And I never even had a chance to tell him that I loved him. And I did, Dad. I did. Love him.”

Holding her tightly against his chest, her father said, “I know that now. But I didn’t then. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” He ran his hand up and down her back, clearly doing what he could to console her when there was nothing he could do to take the pain away.

“Eden, I have something for you. It’s downstairs. Will you come with me?”

She shook her head, but her father wouldn’t take no for an answer. He lifted her up and supported her body weight as they made their way down the stairs.

Luc had never seen Eden so sad, so depressed, so broken. She was the strongest female he’d ever known, stronger even than her mother. While he never said so, he knew what it was like to lose love so suddenly that it shook your entire being. Years ago, when Ariana was struck down by a rogue demon, he’d felt like a part of himself died that day. A piece never to be reclaimed. That hole in his heart could never be healed, and it killed him to know that his only daughter now felt the same.

He opened the door to Eden’s favorite room in the house, the library. He had pulled out all the stops. He’d had a huge Christmas tree decorated with ornaments, lights, and tinsel. Twinkly lights were strung on the ceiling. He’d ordered tons of presents to be placed around the tree, and he had suffered strange looks from every demon who watched them delivered. He only hoped that his daughter knew he cared and that he was trying.

He really was trying.

Eden couldn’t believe her eyes. It was like Christmas had thrown up all over the library. What was her father thinking? Stunned and speechless, she turned her attention back to him and just stared.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” he said, but it sounded more like a question. “Too much?”

It was the first time she’d smiled since that night, and Eden couldn’t help but chuckle. The irony of it all was too much. “Seriously, Dad? You do realize the reason humans celebrate Christmas, right?”

“Oh, whatever. Plenty of people celebrate the holiday just for the presents and shit. I just wanted to see you smile.”

Presents, eh? Eden hugged her father even though there wasn’t a present in this realm that could make her feel better. “Thank you, Dad,” she whispered before she pulled away and turned to head back to her room.

“Wait! You’re not going to open your gifts?”

“It’s not Christmas yet. That would be cheating,” Eden replied solemnly and without looking back.

***

She awoke the next morning feeling like she’d been hit by a Mack truck. Would it ever get any easier? Books and movies and loved ones told her it would, but as each day passed she doubted the theory more and more.

Footsteps on the stairs signaled her father’s presence before he even knocked. Then, as always, he tapped gently on the door before poking his head inside. “Your Christmas breakfast is ready, and those presents aren’t going to open themselves, you know!”

Eden pulled herself from bed but couldn’t care less about the holiday she’d been so excited to celebrate only a few days ago. Now that Wes was gone, and she was back in Hell, what was the point? But her father was trying, and she knew she should too.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” she said as she slipped into the bathroom.

After splashing some cold water on her face, she trudged down the stairs and headed for the kitchen, but her father grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. “How about we do presents first?”

Shrugging, she turned around and followed him into the library.

The door was open, but her father stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. As soon as she did, she saw a gift that was more of a miracle than any she’d thought a demon princess could ever receive. Wes. He stood with his back to her, facing the window next to the Christmas tree and surrounded by presents.

From behind her, her father said, “Merry Christmas, honey.”

Eden’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. Her pulse surged as Wes turned and caught sight of her. He rushed forward, and the two met in the middle of the room. Eden jumped into his arms, and their lips met in a kiss that could have lasted a lifetime. In fact, maybe it did. He didn’t know what the hell had happened or where the hell he was. All Wes knew was that Eden was in his arms again, and that was all that mattered.

Eden reveled in her beloved’s embrace. She never wanted to let him go, but she also knew she needed to explain. She couldn’t believe her father had done this. And how had he done this?

She pulled away and, more to herself than anyone else, asked, “Is this for real?”

Her father answered. “It is. As long as Wes wishes it to be. He can stay here if he chooses, but the decision is his and his alone.”

Eden’s insides twisted into a knot. “Wes, there are some things I need to explain. I…”

He silenced her with a kiss before saying, “You can explain all day if you want, but my decision’s already made. I want to be wherever you are, Eden. I love you, and I never want to be without you again.”

“I love you too, Wes, more than anything in this world.” She kissed him again long and hard. “More than anything in either world.”

Wes pulled away, and she worried that he’d come to his senses. Being together here meant forever. Forever in Hell, which would suddenly be heaven. Eden knew that’s exactly what she wanted, forever with Wes. But what would he want?

He just smiled and said, “Merry Christmas, Eden.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kat St. Croix is the pen name for two friends who know three things to be absolutely true: all men look better with tattoos, everything tastes better with crisp, white wine, and they could never ever write without each other.

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Table of Contents

- CHRISTMAS STAR
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- AMY’S WISH
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Epilogue
- HER CHRISTMAS COWBOY
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- OUT FOR THE HOLIDAYS
- A FAMILY FOR CHRISTMAS
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- A GIFT OF TRUST
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- KISSING MR. SCROOGE
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- TO HELL WITH CHRISTMAS
- Part 1
- Part 2
- Part 3
- Part 4
- Part 5
- Part 6