A Holiday Seduction: A Holiday Novella

by Tiffany Patterson

  A Holiday Seduction

  Tiffany Patterson

  TMP Publishing

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Where I Can Be Found

  More Books by Tiffany Patterson

  Safe Space Series

  The Townsend Brothers Series

  Untitled

  Copyright © 2020 by TMP Publishing LLC/Tiffany Patterson

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  A special thank you to Melissa at There For You Editing (thereforyou.melissa@gmail.com) for editing.

  Chapter 1

  There are few things in life as tantalizing as that first drink.

  The way my mouth used to water as the bartender filled up my glass with my favorite bourbon. My heart hammered in my chest as I watched the golden-brown liquid trickle into its holder, filling it. My fingers itched to wrap themselves around that glass as I consumed that first sip as if it were a lifeline. And for me, it was.

  Nothing in my life had ever been more seductive than that first drink. No matter how many times I swore the shit off, it called me back like a moth to a flame. It burned me just as badly, too.

  Yet, here I stand, feet away from the only other seduction that calls to me as much as alcohol.

  “I’m so sorry, Deirdre. I should’ve done more,” she says to her dead sister as she crouches over her grave.

  Desiree’s voice is a mix of sadness and desperation. Like somehow, if she could apologize hard enough, it might bring her sister back.

  I should be ashamed for spying on her like this and for intruding on such an intimate moment. However, the part of me that has kept me away from her for so long has given up. I knew before I got out of bed for my morning run that this graveyard was where I’d end up.

  As I ran down the familiar streets of my route, I parted ways with the road about three miles in. My steps lightened as the pavement changed to gravel and then dirt, leading up a trail where the bulk of the graves reside in this cemetery.

  My breathing remains faster than usual, and my heartbeat continues to thrum along as if it still needs to perform for my cardio session, though I’m standing still. This is the same reaction I always have whenever she’s near. The same reason I waited for so long to approach her.

  As I inhale deeply through my nose and let the air exhale fully through my mouth, I glance up at the grey skies overhead. Overcast. Not unusual for this time of year in the Northwest. Though weather predictions have the temperature reaching the mid-sixties, unseasonably high for October, the smell of rain is in the air.

  To my right, I spot one of the Douglas fir trees that pepper the graveyard. I inch my way behind one of them, preventing the woman kneeling before the headstone from seeing me. Pushing out a deep sigh, I stare, watching her.

  Something warm fills my chest and courses down the length of my body. This feeling has absolutely nothing to do with the four miles I ran before entering this Townes Graveyard. It has everything to do with her.

  Desiree Jackson.

  I knew she’d show up here today. It’s October 3rd.

  My fingers twitch to caress her shoulders and pull her body into mine for comfort. Instead of letting them have their way, I slide my hands into the pockets of my running shorts, reminding myself that she needs this time. This is her grieving process. Her annual visit to this grave to mourn the sister she lost.

  The heaviness of the memory of her loss settles into my chest, making it difficult to pull in my next breath. Shutting my eyelids, I force my lungs to release the breath my body wants to hold. When I open my eyes again, it’s to see Desiree swipe a tear from her cheek. Even in her kneeling position, still twenty or so feet away from me, I can make out the tremble in her body.

  My eyes rake over her profile. The smooth, warm brown skin of her face, and the dark, almost jet-black, curly hair that today is pulled up into a high bun, emphasizing her high cheekbones. Though she’s dressed in a pair of jeans and sweatshirt, the outfit does little to hide her curves. It’s impossible to hide them.

  I take a step closer, moving from behind the Douglas fir, as if pulled by an invisible force, summoning me closer to her. I suppose this was inevitable. This is the third year in a row I’ve watched her on this particular day.

  Something new emerges from the depths of my soul. The yearning I could always keep a lid on out of respect for Desiree’s grief refuses to be shackled any longer.

  It’s been long enough, it says as if this need had just been biding it’s time, deciding when and where to make my approach.

  “I’m so sorry, Deirdre,” she says again, through tears.

  “There was nothing you could’ve done.”

  Inhaling sharply, I turn to see the man who just spoke. My eyes widen when I see him. Blinking, I do my best to wipe away the moisture from my eyes, both out of embarrassment and to be able to get a clear sight of him. My mind has trouble processing that Neil McKenna stands here in front of me.

  For almost a full minute, there are no words exchanged between the two of us. Only stares. I observe the way his long hair falls to his shoulders, the tips folding over into unruly curls, the thick, slashing eyebrows that appear slightly darker than the hair on his head, and the beads of sweat that trail down his straight-edge nose, dripping down to soak the strawberry blond hairs of his beard.

  These features combined would make for a beautiful picture in and of itself, but the kicker is his eyes. The golden color is pretty, sure enough, but what elevates his appearance to breath-taking is the intensity in them. The depths in his eyes make you feel as if he were looking through you, right to your very soul. At least, that’s what I feel whenever I see him.

  “Mister McKenna.” His name pours out of my mouth on a breathless sigh, sounding both titillated and relieved to find it’s him and not some random stranger standing behind me.

  A small frown appears on his pink lips. “We’ve been through this, Desiree,” he responds, sounding disappointed. “Call me Neil.” He emphasizes his first name as if I’d somehow forgotten it.

  I start to shake my head, but his frown deepens, as does the penetrative look in his eyes, and I stop myself. Clearing my throat, I respond, “Neil.”

  His nostrils flare, and his head dips just an inch or so, approvingly.

  “What are you doing out so early?” I ask since it’s barely seven in the morning. The fact that he’s dressed in running shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt should make the answer obvious, but I’m at a loss as to what else to say.

  He steps closer and peers over my shoulder since I’ve now stood and turned fully in his direction. He stares at the headstone behind me, his lips pulling downward and a sadness invading those golden-brown orbs.

  “You couldn’t have saved her.” He allows his statement to hang in the air for a few brief moments before he pins me with his gaze.

  It’s hard to speak around the lump that forms in my throat, but I manage to eke out, “I
could’ve tried harder. Forced her to return to treatment again.”

  Neil shakes his head against my stubbornness. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Sure it does. I went to college with a guy who was in and out of rehab, and finally, when his parents kicked him out and told him they were done, he stopped. Another girl I know from high school got sober after her first stay at your rehab center. And Jackie told me about another patient with a similar story.”

  “But none of them were Dierdre,” he says dryly. So dry that it cuts off any retort I can think to say back. Why? Because he’s correct. Not one of those people I mentioned was my sister.

  I lower my gaze and turn my back on Neil, or Mr. McKenna as I’d taken to calling him since I first met him almost five years ago.

  “She should still be here,” I mumble, staring at the date of her death engraved on her headstone.

  October 3, 2017.

  “She was only twenty-eight,” I murmur and lift my head to the right. He’s standing beside me, staring at me instead of the headstone. “I’ve lived a year longer than my older sister,” I whisper. It doesn’t feel right saying it out loud.

  There’s something incredibly wrong about the fact that I’ve had a year longer on this planet than Dierdre.

  Suddenly, the chill that threatened to invade every cell of my body begins to recede. Swallowing, I look down at my right hand to find it covered by his larger, left hand. He squeezes, and my knees weaken, not to the point of toppling me over, but noticeably so.

  “I should’ve been able to save her.”

  His hand firms around mine again, this time pulling me to face him. He’s shaking his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I demand, stomping my foot in denial and anger. “She was my sister. Our parents turned their backs on her. I was the only family she had left and, I … I …”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “I didn’t do anything right,” I yell, jutting my free hand toward the headstone as if offering up proof of my failure. “She’s dead.”

  “And there’s not a damned thing you could’ve done to stop it,” he says, just as forcefully, although he’s not yelling.

  “I shouldn’t have gone out that night. I knew she was—”

  “An addict. She was an addict, and an addict is always going to keep going until they want to stop. Whether you had gone out that night or not, Deirdre would’ve found a way to get high. It wasn’t your job to stop her, and it damn sure isn’t your job to beat yourself up over it, year after year.”

  I snatch my hand away from his and take a step back. Shaking my head, I refuse to let his words penetrate my psyche.

  “I don’t know if that’s how they do things wherever you’re from, Neil, but that’s not how I do things. It’s not how I care for the people I love.” I take another step back and stare at Neil through watery lenses. Pressing my lips together, I shake my head in refusal at whatever he’s about to say.

  The words die on his lips as he firms them together again, obviously realizing that I’m not up for whatever response he has.

  “That’s not how I do things,” I say more to myself than to him. Taking one final look, I peer up at Neil and see something in his gaze that I refuse to allow myself to register. It’s too early in the morning. It’s the third anniversary of my sister’s death. And the guilt I’ve carried for the past thirty-six months is palpable.

  Refusing to add another dimension to this odd mix of emotion I find myself in the middle of, I tear my gaze away from Neil McKenna and take one final look at Dierdre’s grave.

  Beloved daughter, sister, and friend.

  Those are the three relationships that define her. Not wife or mother. Two things I knew she wanted desperately in this world. But apparently, not nearly as much as she wanted to feed her addiction.

  “That’s not how I do things,” I repeat before turning away from Dierdre’s grave and Neil, the man who also tried to save her, and head in the direction of my car, leaving them both behind.

  Chapter 2

  Pausing, I sigh and glance up at the words engraved above the entrance. McKenna Rehab Center they read. Releasing the breath I’m holding and shifting a little to even out the tray of cookies in my arms, I take a step forward. Instantly the double doors widen, allowing me to enter.

  Even though I turned my back and walked away from Neil McKenna this morning, tradition is tradition. Besides, it’s like something was driving me to bake these cookies once I got home from my teaching job this afternoon.

  I stroll through the double doors with my head held high, shoulders back, and a friendly smile on my face. The heels of my ankle boots sound against the hardwood flooring of the rehab center.

  “Keep going, Desi,” I encourage myself because even though this is probably like the thousandth time I’ve entered these doors, the morose feeling that always accompanies these walls never seems to lighten.

  “Hi, can I help you?” a friendly voice chimes from my right. “Oh, Desiree.” Rachel’s smile increases. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Things have been pretty busy today,” she informs me in that flustered way of hers.

  “Hi, Rachel, no worries.” I hold up the cookies. “Just wanted to drop these off.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes drop to what I can only assume is the calendar on her desk as she says, “October 3rd.” Her brown eyes take on a somber look as she nods, her smile fading at the corners.

  I manage to make my smile even brighter, denying the lump in my throat that’s threatening to form.

  “Let me call Mr. McKenna.” The phone is in her hand before she’s able to finish her statement.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I just wanted to drop these off. I’m sure he’s got more important things to worry about.”

  Rachel waves me off and gives me a crazy expression as she tucks the phone between the side of her head and shoulder. “Hey, Gloria, can you tell Mr. McKenna Desiree Jackson is here to see him.” She pauses. “Yup, she’s brought her delicious cookies with her, of course. Okay, I will.”

  Rachel hangs up the phone and looks at me with a bit of a sparkle in her eye. “Mr. McKenna will be right out.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Another wave of dismissal. “He’d probably fire me if I let you leave this place without letting him know.”

  I run my teeth over my bottom lip, wondering why that comment felt more intimate than it should’ve. Or am I making things up? My mind wanders back to our encounter that morning.

  Will he be happy to see me after telling him he didn’t know what he was talking about? Why does the thought of him being upset with me bother me so much? I barely know him.

  “What kind of cookies did you make for us?” Rachel inquires, breaking into my thoughts.

  I lift my eyebrows and smile, happy to talk about one of my favorite subjects.

  “Well, it’s October, so of course I did the usual pumpkin spice latte cookies with the cream cheese icing, and some with chocolate chips this time around. Jackie said they were a hit last year.”

  “She was right,” Rachel exclaims.

  “Try one. Let me know what you think.” I undo the saran wrap covering, exposing some of the cookies, allowing Rachel to reach in for one. “I also made the standard chocolate chip, red velvet cookies, butter cookies, and oatmeal raisin,” I add.

  “Which are my favorite?” a deep voice asks behind me.

  I have to force my body not to shudder, so I don’t drop the tray of cookies right onto Rachel’s desk. Clearing my throat, I place the cookies down and turn to find Neil standing there, staring at me in much the same way he had this morning.

  Though there’s a warm, welcoming smile on his face, it’s the impact of the gleam in his eyes that reaches down into the depths of my core, shaking up my insides. Thinking back, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel the entire weight of that stare. Even when I spoke with Neil strictly in regar
ds to my sister’s treatment and needs, it felt as if his eyes were conveying something entirely different than detox and treatment plans.

  “Mister— Neil,” I correct when his head dips ever so slightly, and his smile wavers just a touch.

  “Desiree,” he releases my name on an exhale as if he’d been holding it in all day.

  For some reason, that forces the corners of my lips to tip up into a smile.

  “Mr. McKenna, Desiree brought her famous cookies. The pumpkin spice lattes with the cream cheese are amazing,” Rachel says behind me. “I tried to order these from your website back in September, and you were sold out.”

  Grinning, I turn to look at Rachel. “That’s because I was saving those ingredients for you all.”

  “So glad you did.” She takes another bite of her cookie, and my heart flutters a little, same as it always does when I see someone enjoying one of my creations.

  “Rachel, make sure the rest of the staff get some of those,” Neil says over my shoulder.

  Once I plant my gaze on him, I can’t look away. Unlike this morning, he’s dressed like the CEO he is, wearing a sky blue button-down tucked into dark grey trousers, perfectly outlining his runner’s build. A crisp pair of Italian loafers replace the running shoes, and his long hair sits in a low bun at the nape of his neck.

  Neil looks professional, like a man in power, but the smile on his face makes him approachable. Yet, there’s a level of respect his presence commands without being demanding or aggressive about it.

  “Rachel, I’ll need those intake folders on my desk by the end of the day.” He levels a look at her that conveys the fact that despite the smile, he’s also a man about his business.