CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I COULDN’T EAT another thing.’
His eyes find mine, laughing and scorching, reminding me of the way I took him into my mouth.
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he drawls, his accent thick, his words seductive.
I grin. We are sitting beside one another, looking out of the window at the street beyond. I lean over a little so that my breath warms his cheek. ‘At least, not for a while.’
His eyes meet mine and I see anticipation heat them. Beneath the table, his hand curls over my thigh, his fingers resting there as though that is natural and normal.
And it feels it; it feels wonderful.
We are in a tiny bistro somewhere in the Latin Quarter. We passed the Sorbonne as we came to dinner, our taxi moving quickly, with scant regard for my desire to take everything in. Then again, perhaps if he’d slowed down, I would have been overwhelmed. Not just by the beauty of Paris in the lead up to Christmas, all twinkling and magical, but by the feelings throbbing between Noah and me. By the way my heart, mind and body all seem to be bursting with something warm and huge, something I can’t define but that I am greedy to feel more of.
We’ve feasted on baked Camembert, scampi, steak and frites, oysters; we’ve sipped wine and shared a crème brûlée for dessert. I am full, satisfied and fuzzy around the edges in the nicest possible way. His hand on my thigh is the cherry on top of a night that is already one of the best of my life.
I place my hand over his, lacing our fingers, no longer feeling it to be an odd intimacy. I’ve known him for weeks, slept with him, and I glimpse in him something that I didn’t even know was missing in my life. I feel a strange completeness when we are together. If you’d asked me a month ago if my life was missing anything, I would have denied it. I’ve worked hard to build a great life for Ivy and me. I never considered letting anyone else into the fold. How could I risk it after what Aaron was? How could I trust my judgement?
Strange then that I know Noah is keeping so much of himself closed off from me and yet I still feel like I could trust him with my life. Some things, some instincts, go beyond what is said. This is a feeling, and I like it.
‘Do you come here often?’ I rub the pad of my thumb over his hand gently. His eyes fall to our fingers, his expression inscrutable.
‘We have an office here.’ He nods. ‘And a factory in the south. Gabe and I split the responsibilities.’
He hasn’t spoken of his friend much. I go gently, careful not to scare him off. ‘Do you do basically the same thing in the company?’
Noah’s smile is rich with amusement. ‘No.’ I wait for him to expand and he does, taking a sip of his beer before continuing. ‘I’m the coding side. I love programming. I don’t do it so much now, except for fun—’
‘Like the shower you talk to?’ I tease.
He nods. ‘Exactly. Gabe was never into computers. He’s the business side. He got our first bank loan that floated the company, that allowed us to launch; he runs all that stuff. I’ve got no interest in that.’
‘What is it about programming you like?’ I wrinkle my nose and he leans over and places a light kiss on its tip. My heart twists.
‘Everything.’ There is an intensity in the word.
‘Elaborate.’
He laughs. ‘Are you ordering me, Doc?’
‘Yep.’ I smile to soften the command. ‘I’m curious. It’s very foreign to me. I wouldn’t know where to start.’
He shifts his body weight and his hand on my thigh moves higher. Sparks of desire shift inside my gut. ‘I used to do it to get into my own head,’ he says, the words almost dragged from him. His eyes are stormy, filled with past pains. I hold my breath, aching for him and needing him to tell me more. ‘I was twelve when I first started. I got a book from the library and devoured it, cover to cover. I was in a boys’ home at the time,’ he says, so casually, as though that’s not devastating in and of itself. ‘And they had good facilities.’ He laughs awkwardly. ‘At the time, I thought they were good facilities. Now I see it was just a couple of old PCs, but for me, being able to load them up and practise what I’d read was what saved me.’
He has a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s in the past. There is a haunting pain. Holly who is his lover wants to kiss it away. Holly who is a professional therapist wants to dig into the wound and expose it, knowing it gets worse before it can ever get better.
‘Saved you from what?’ I ask, hoping to strike a middle ground by smiling brightly.
He expels a sigh. ‘You’re going to drill me until I bare my soul, huh?’
But it’s said almost with wry humour, and so I reply in kind. ‘You betcha. But I’ll make it up to you later.’ My wink is a promise we both know we’ll fulfil. Heat simmers in my blood; I ignore it. My brain is demanding more of me. I want to know him. I want to understand him.
‘I was heading for a different kind of future,’ he says stiffly. ‘The boys’ home was like a last chance for kids like me. Most of the guys I was in with had juvie records. I was there because no one else would take me. I’d been in and out of foster homes—sixteen times. I’d developed some...not good habits.’
My heart squeezes for him. ‘You were just a kid.’
‘A kid who torched cars, stole from my families, got into fights over nothing. I was always bigger than everyone else. Stronger. I was glad for that.’
‘You’re not violent, though,’ I say.
‘How do you know?’ His eyes pin me to my seat.
I speak slowly, calming a heart that is racing. ‘Because I’ve known violence. I’ve seen it, remember? I know the lure of it, the control of it, the temptation it holds for those who respond to it. You might have lashed out because you were angry and scared, because you didn’t know how to handle your emotions differently. That’s not the same thing.’
His eyes widen at my comment. I see something strange in his face. Relief? As though I have said exactly what he needs to hear?
‘Did you ever get a rush from hitting someone? Did you ever crave that?’
‘Fuck, no. Jesus, Holly. Never.’ It’s like he’s remembered where we are and who he’s talking to. He lifts his hand from my thigh, cupping my cheek, locking us together. ‘I would never hit anyone, ever. I would never hurt you. I’m not that kid I was. And I’m not Aaron.’
Something like tears clog my throat. I haven’t cried in a really long time. I can’t believe I feel that emotion now! But his assurance pulls at something deep inside me. Something that aches to be told I am safe.
‘You’re so right,’ he says, moving closer. It’s just us in the restaurant—or that’s the way it feels. ‘I didn’t want to be like that. It felt, sometimes, like the only way I could be heard.’
‘What happened? After the boys’ home?’
He frowns.
‘You told me you had seventeen homes. And just now you said sixteen. So? Where did you go next?’
‘You’re astute,’ he says, the words almost panicked.
‘I pay attention. It’s my job.’
His eyes skim my face thoughtfully. ‘I was taken in by a couple who had four grown children still living at home. It’s where I met Gabe.’
‘He’s one of their kids?’
‘He was fostered by them. They needed “strong young men”.’ He says those words differently, like he’s impersonating someone. ‘To help around the house. We were basically slaves.’ The words are said with derision. ‘Gabe had been there years before I came along.’
‘Were you happy there?’
He is thoughtful for a moment. ‘I was safe there. They fed us. The house was clean. Gabe and I shared a room, but it was big, and they were worried enough about appearances to buy us new shoes each season and dress us good. It was one of the better homes I was taken in by.’
In all ways but one, Holly thought sadl
y, her heart breaking for both Gabe and Noah. To have never known love, to have never known the security and peace of mind it offers...
‘I didn’t like him at first.’ Noah’s smile is loaded with memories. ‘He’s a good guy. Always has been. Smart. Loyal. Intelligent. He drove me crazy. But, once I got to know him, I understood he was just like me. He’d learned to cope with the foster system by flying under the radar. I coped by railing against it. We were apples and oranges.’
‘And peas in a pod,’ I say, striving to lighten the mood.
He nods. ‘Yeah.’ But he’s lost in thought. I watch him, the flicker of emotions on his face, each transition seeming to carry weight and meaning. ‘He’s the reason I came to you. It was his idea.’
And the crumbs he’d dropped in our first meeting come back to me. ‘He wanted you to get therapy.’
He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter.
‘Why? Why did he decide you need help now?’
‘You know why,’ he says with a shrug, pulling away from me, putting distance between us.
‘Because you’re not sleeping. But he must know more. He must know there’s something at the root of it. Something that has hurt you. Something new.’
‘He’s not a fucking psychic, Holly. I sought therapy because Gabe begged me to. Because I’d do anything not to worry him. I’ve done enough of that in my time. Besides, it was no hardship to come to you, believe me.’ His eyes linger on my face for a moment before dropping to the necklace at my throat and then the swell of my cleavage.
A torrent of emotions swirls through me, frustration chief amongst them. ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say softly. ‘I think you were terrified of therapy. I think you still are. I think your idea of hell would be submitting to me for a full hour, letting me pull you apart, piece by piece.’
‘I don’t know. If you were naked...’
‘You make jokes to keep me at a distance.’
He doesn’t say anything.
‘You throw up barriers every opportunity you get. You clam up when I ask you too much about your past. You are sitting on feelings and emotions that are like ticking bombs inside you. You’re not violent, but you are hurting. I’d guess that something happened recently, something that hurt you. And it reopened all the wounds of your childhood. Things you thought you’d dealt with. Feelings you didn’t even know you still carried. Until you process that, you’re not going to sleep. You’re not going to be able to breathe properly until you find a way to comprehend what you’re feeling.’
‘This is bullshit,’ he snaps, but he puts a hand over mine, almost apologetically. ‘I know it’s your job and your reputation is impressive, but you’re wrong here, Holly.’
‘No, I’m not.’ There’s sadness in my tone, because I grieve for him and for myself. He will never have a meaningful relationship until he faces these demons. There will only ever be sex for us. Sex, Paris and a beautiful necklace.
‘Fine. What do I have to do, Doc? What’s your prescription?’
‘Like I told you the day we met, there’s no easy fix. No one-size-fits-all counselling approach. You have to face whatever you’re running from.’
His eyes give nothing away when they meet mine. ‘And what are you running from?’ he prompts, turning the tables on me with ease.
‘Me?’ My lips tug downwards as I frown thoughtfully. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean—’ his hand grazes my thigh beneath the table; the intimacy is very welcome ‘—your dickhead ex has been in jail a long time. Why haven’t you been with anyone else?’
My heart rolls over. ‘I’ve been busy. Raising Ivy. Running my practice. It’s not an easy juggle.’
‘And you’re proud of yourself,’ he prompts, hearing the lines I haven’t spoken.
‘Yes.’ My chin juts forward. ‘There have been times in the last few years when I could have surrendered to a feeling of hopelessness. Of grief and shame. There have been times when each day has seemed insurmountable and I’ve wanted to curl up into a ball and refuse to go outside, to refuse to parent, to refuse to be anyone to anything because it’s all so damned hard. There have been times when I have berated and blamed myself and been so angry with the choices I made. But none of this was my fault. I fell in love with the wrong man. That’s all. And I loved him even when most people would have been long gone. I loved him until that love threatened the only person I loved more. Ivy saved my life, you know.’
‘You saved your life,’ he says seriously. ‘She might have been the catalyst, but the hard work was all you.’
I half smile in acknowledgement. ‘Had it not been for her, I probably wouldn’t still be here.’
A muscle jerks in his cheek. He’s pushing his teeth together. ‘So you never met anyone else that made you want to get back out there?’
I feel a dangerous lure in this conversation. A tug towards swirling undercurrents of an ever-darkening ocean; a riptide that will suck us under before we realise it. Because neither of us is ready to discuss what we are, what we’re doing, and defining this so prematurely might be disastrous.
‘No.’ I shut the conversation down with a bright smile. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’
He looks at me for a long moment and then lifts his hand in silent agreement, signalling for the bill. It is brought swiftly but, before Noah can brandish his credit card, I’ve pulled mine from my bag.
‘You got the flight and the hotel, not to mention the necklace and the dress. Let me get dinner.’
His eyes show surprise; he covers it quickly, removing my credit card from the small silver tray and sliding it towards me. His own credit card replaces it—a type I haven’t seen before. It’s matt black with a gold stripe at the top and his name is written in white cursive letters. ‘I thought you wanted to be wined and dined.’ The statement is droll and my tummy flip-flops.
A waiter removes the card and we are alone once more.
‘I thought you didn’t do that,’ I volley back.
‘So did I.’
* * *
It is snowing when we emerge onto the near-deserted streets of Paris. Just a few people walking in the distance and a swirl of white in the air that ruffles my hair. I reach for Noah’s hand, lacing our fingers together, and my pulse pounds through my body.
How perfect this moment is!
‘Thank you for dinner,’ I say, looking up at him. My breath catches in my throat. He’s so handsome, so rugged and primal and masculine and hot. It takes effort to remember to put one foot in front of the other.
‘No problem.’ He is distracted, but when he looks at me he smiles. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’
It’s such a normal question. I wonder what he was like a few weeks ago. Before whatever happened to reignite childhood traumas. Still, essentially, the same man, sure, but more socially functional. More able to perform as people expected. Without this huge chip on his broad, muscled shoulder.
‘My parents, brothers and Aaron’s mum will come over. Ivy is at an age where she wants to help with everything, so we’ll cook together.’ I lift my shoulders in a shrug. ‘What about you?’
‘Will it be a big traditional lunch?’ he asks, ignoring my own question.
‘Yeah.’ I smile but squeeze his hand because I want to know about him too. ‘Turkey, stuffing, potatoes, greens, pudding, mince pies—everything. You?’
‘Sounds delicious.’ He drops my hand but only so he can put an arm around my shoulders and hold me to him. I breathe in his masculine fragrance and something in the region of my heart pings.
I know all the dangers here and yet I feel myself sinking. I feel my heart cutting itself in two, leaping into another person’s body, offering half of itself to a man who will undoubtedly break it. Not because he’s an awful bastard like Aaron but because he won’t be able to help himself.
‘Do you spend Christmas with Gabe
?’
‘We both hate Christmas,’ he says. ‘We have an unspoken agreement not to speak of it.’
‘Wait. What?’
‘We hate it.’ His eyes shift to mine and they are swirling with emotions that are dark and resentful. His eyes warn me not to push this.
I don’t listen. ‘How can anyone hate Christmas?’
‘How can anyone love it? It has no significance to me. I’m not spiritual, religious. It’s not my holiday.’
I can’t imagine feeling as he does and yet I understand. With what he’s told me about his upbringing, I imagine Christmas was a time of great sadness. ‘Did you ever have a good Christmas? With presents and food and something that made you happy?’
His fingers stroking my shoulder pause, stilling as I speak. Then, as if he doesn’t want to, he says slowly, ‘Yes. Once.’
I am fascinated. ‘When?’
He clears his throat, tilts his head away from me. We continue walking through the snow with no destination in mind. We are moving nearer to the Eiffel Tower.
‘Years ago.’ A rebuff.
I won’t let him put me off, though. ‘How many years ago?’ The words are patient yet firm.
‘I was eight,’ he says.
Eight. My head jerks to his. ‘The Morrows?’
His answering smile is tight. Pained. The feeling that I am close to finding what has upset him settles around me. There is something in his manner that speaks of fresh hurt, not old ones. I must uncover it. And I will. But slowly, gently.
Cautiously.
‘How did you...?’
‘You told me about them,’ I say quietly. ‘Remember?’
He nods, but it’s as though he’s trapped, imprisoned, and he doesn’t want to be.
‘What did you do with them that Christmas?’ It’s a question designed to relax him. To take him back to a more pleasant time.
But Noah isn’t like anyone I’ve ever spoken to; he’s not my patient and he doesn’t act like a man who wants help. ‘It was twenty-eight years ago. Before you were born. I barely remember.’
The Season to Sin Page 12
