I stand still, staring at him as he crosses the street, my heart in my throat.
‘I came to walk you home,’ he says, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘We don’t have to talk. I won’t ask to come in. I just...want to be in your airspace for a bit. Is that...okay?’
And hope beats again, little wings seeking light.
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ I say coldly, locking my gaze straight ahead, refusing to look into eyes that have always enchanted me.
‘I know.’
We walk in silence. At the bottom of my steps I turn to him and he’s just watching me, as though trying to memorise everything.
I don’t smile. I turn away from him and walk inside. I dream of him that night and for the first time in a long time I don’t wake up feeling like a devastating cyclone has rushed over me.
He is waiting for me the next week, this time on the same side of the street as my office. We walk as before, with no conversation, no contact. But I feel him beside me, I hear his breathing and his heart calls to mine. When we reach my home, I leave him on the footpath without a goodbye.
* * *
For four more weeks we do this. But on the fifth week he has something. A gift in a bag. I frown but take it from him.
‘I don’t want presents from you.’ I think of the necklace he gave me in Paris that I’ve stuffed into a shoebox in the bottom of my wardrobe.
‘It was your birthday on Tuesday,’ he says softly.
My eyes jerk to his and my breath escapes in a ragged noise.
‘I wanted to call, to see you, but I wasn’t sure...’ His uncertainty breaks something inside me, but it’s a good breaking. It’s like the bursting of something tight and painful.
‘What is it?’ I lift the bag.
‘Have a look.’
I peek inside, but whatever he’s chosen is wrapped in tissue paper. I open it carefully, the precious ornament the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s the most delicate glass, and it’s been etched with a nativity scene, the intricacy incredible. It hangs from a red velvet ribbon and a dainty bell is inside.
‘Do you like it?’ The question is soft.
I nod. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘They’re very rare. Gabe...collects them.’ His smile is wry. ‘I had this one made for you.’
My chest heaves. ‘Thank you.’ I wrap it and place it gently into the bag. We walk, side by side, in silence. But at the steps, I turn to him.
‘I’ll see you next week?’
Triumph glows in those beautiful eyes. ‘You can count on it.’
* * *
I start to count on it. On him. Every week he is waiting for me without fail.
Sometimes he brings hot chocolates for us to drink on the walk, other times small gifts. Never anything extravagant. A book he thinks I’d like. A scarf he saw and knew I’d love. Occasionally, he goes overseas for business, but he’s always back by Friday, and when he’s been somewhere exotic he brings me something from that country. Bookmarks from Japan, magnets from Australia and then a set of princess merchandise from Disney for Ivy.
It is four months before I ask him to come inside, and even then only for a cup of tea.
I curl my fingers around the mug and look across my dining table at this man I have loved since we first met and I smile. A natural smile. A smile without reservation, a smile that is stretched by my hopes and the certainties that have slowly been re-forming.
‘How is therapy?’
His eyes hold mine and I don’t see even a hint of hesitation. ‘I still go every week.’
My heart turns over.
‘I still haven’t had a drink, Holly.’
I swallow and look over his shoulder, not knowing what to say to that. He understands. He doesn’t want to pressure me.
‘I love you,’ he says simply and then stands, pushing his tea aside. He comes to my side of the table. ‘And I’m not going anywhere.’ He brushes a kiss against my hair and then lets himself out.
I sit there for a long time, staring at his mug, his empty seat. Strange that I think of that seat as his even though he’s occupied it for only a brief period of time. Perhaps I long ago allocated it for his use, when I was painting fantasies in my mind about what my future would look like.
* * *
Five more weeks of walking home together and sharing a quiet cup of tea, and then I hear myself say as he stands to leave, ‘Can you come next Thursday instead?’
His eyes meet mine, a silent enquiry in their depths.
‘Are you busy Friday?’
There is pain in the question. Pain, like he thinks maybe I’m seeing someone else. I can’t bear to hurt him. I shake my head.
‘It’s just...’ I suck in a deep breath. ‘Ivy will be here,’ I say. ‘I thought we could have dinner.’
His smile is everything I have ever wanted in life. It is bright and beautiful, bold and so full of every single shred of joy that surges inside me. He nods. ‘Thursday.’
* * *
He’s nervous as we walk home, and I remember then that he doesn’t want children. That this is a stumbling block distinct from all others. I ask him about it, and he looks at me slowly. ‘Dr Chesser has helped me understand that I’m afraid of becoming a father. Because I never had one. I don’t know if I’d be any good...that’s all. It’s not that I don’t want that...’
I let him leave the sentence unfinished because I understand.
And by the end of the night I know what he perhaps doesn’t. He will be an excellent father, one day.
* * *
We continue to walk home together on Thursdays but also on Fridays, and three Fridays after he first met Ivy I ask him to stay for dinner—with me. Not just a hot drink. The weather is warm now and we have a salad in my courtyard.
He leaves after he’s stacked the dishwasher, and my heart drops. I contemplate asking him to spend the night, but something—a shyness born out of how new all this is—holds me silent. The old rules don’t apply. It’s as though we haven’t been together yet.
* * *
Two weeks later, I find my courage. ‘I want you to stay,’ I say simply.
His eyes shine with triumph and gladness, but he shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’
I don’t know what he’s waiting for.
A month later is Ivy’s birthday, and Noah is at the party. He is an important part of it, for Ivy now adores him as much as I do. He sings ‘Happy Birthday’ loudly, and I know then how much I love him.
Autumn nights morph into winter and we no longer see each other only twice a week. He comes over most nights for dinner, sometimes a movie. Sometimes he picks Ivy up from school when I have to work late, and stays with her until I’m back.
He is with me every day, but in a way that exists outside of our relationship. I feel like I have been holding the world on my shoulders for a very long time, and now someone is doing it with me.
* * *
Christmas approaches, and I remember this time last year, when I first met Noah. I remember the way sexuality formed so much of our relationship and now our love is full of so much more. Though God, if we don’t make love soon, I am going to combust, because I still want him as though he is the salvation to all my ills.
* * *
Ivy performs in her school concert; this year she’s a Wise Man. Noah comes with me, sits beside me, laughs with me and holds my hand. When I get tears of pride over Ivy’s performance, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my inner wrist. My heart soars.
* * *
It is Christmas Eve and Noah is with us. I didn’t invite him, but it makes no sense that he’d be anywhere else. My family come too; they are all familiar with Noah by now. And while they don’t understand our relationship, they like him. Even Aaron’s mum seems to find him charming. I serve turkey with all the trimmings,
and Ivy has made custard for dessert. It’s late when everyone leaves.
Noah doesn’t.
* * *
It’s a long time since we met, and a long time since my heart was ripped apart. A long time since hurt and pain dogged my steps and life seemed like an impossible journey.
I’m happy.
I shower, butterflies in my stomach, because I know that tonight is special. I know that he’s staying over, and that tomorrow it will be Christmas, and that beautiful morning will be all the more special because he’ll be with me. With Ivy. With us.
When I emerge into the lounge, everything is spotless. Noah has done the dishes, tidied the table and put out some mince pies. There is a little gift bag beside them.
‘Just a small trinket,’ he says with a shrug.
‘Oh, Noah.’ My heart churns. ‘Shouldn’t I save it for tomorrow?’
He shakes his head. ‘There’s more for tomorrow.’
And I look towards the tree and draw in a shocked breath. He’s right! The tree is groaning under the weight of gifts.
‘They’re mostly for Ivy,’ he admits with a self-conscious grimace. ‘I hope that’s okay.’
God. He’s so perfect. I nod and close the distance between us. The bag is simple white and inside there’s a small box. I open it, my confusion growing when I see a ring inside. A ring with an enormous sparkling diamond in the centre and several more surrounding it.
I turn to Noah to ask him what it means, but he answers me silently, for he’s knelt to the floor and his expression is loaded with feeling.
There is no long, flowery speech. What can he possibly say that will mean more than these last eleven months? He has shown me every week, every day, every minute we’ve been together that he loves me.
‘Will you marry me?’
He need say no more.
I nod. ‘Yes.’
Our hearts, though, are full and they communicate for us, and when he stands and kisses me everything we’ve been, everything we are, explodes around us. I cry, but they’re happy tears. The Christmas tree shines, my ring sparkles and hope no longer beats its wings only within my chest: it is everywhere around us, and I know we deserve that.
* * *
If you enjoyed The Season to Sin, look out for the next instalment in Clare Connelly’s Christmas Seductions duet!
Bound by Their Christmas Baby
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Off Limits
Burn Me Once
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Secret Pleasure
by Taryn Leigh Taylor
CHAPTER ONE
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, put your hands together for the one and only Lola Mariposa!”
The rush of that moment, the split second before anything happened, hit like a freight train. Nervousness, excitement, fear, anticipation, all toppling over one another, crowding her chest, grappling for dominance.
The curtains whooshed open. The spotlight beat down. She could feel their gazes on her.
It thrilled her to her core.
The music started, the old song sounding a little tinny and scratchy in the top-of-the-line speakers, and just like that, Kaylee Whitfield disappeared completely into her braver, sassier, sultrier alter ego.
The blond wig, blue contacts, and stage makeup helped, of course, but there was something magical that happened when she was out on the stage. Anonymous. Free.
She sat at the prop vanity set, her back to the club, pretending to brush her hair and apply blush. Then the incomparable Ella Fitzgerald launched into the first verse of “Bei Mir Bist du Schön” and Kaylee threw a coy glance over her shoulder, careful to keep her sight line just over their heads as she placed her index finger between her ruby-red lips. In a practiced move, she tugged her black satin glove off with her teeth before twirling it over her head and tossing it aside.
She never made eye contact while she was onstage. Because her performances weren’t for the crowd.
No, this moment in the spotlight was all about her.
She let the silk dressing gown slip off one shoulder before pulling it back up. Someone in the back gave a catcall, and Kaylee’s sultry grin grew more so.
Being onstage was a physical expression for the rebelliousness she’d been swallowing down since she was old enough to realize her mother’s terse rebukes of “You’re embarrassing yourself” actually meant Kaylee was embarrassing her mother, her family, and the esteemed Whitfield name, and that some Draconian punishment awaited her when they arrived home. As a result, Kaylee had learned early on how to blend in, to not cause a scene. She was a master at dousing her wants and desires under an impenetrable veneer of propriety and good manners.
But once a week, burlesque saved her, set her free.
She loved its costumes and pageantry.
She loved its tongue-in-cheek showmanship.
And most of all she
loved how in control it made her feel.
There was power in the art of the tease, in bringing people to the brink before retreating, only to do it again. She drew power from leaving them wanting more.
She tugged off the other glove in the same fashion before pretending to do a final check of her makeup in the vanity mirror and standing up.
As planned, she twirled one end of the sash holding the dressing gown closed and did her slinkiest walk toward the front of the stage. What was completely unplanned, though, was when her coquettish sweep of the crowd—carefully aimed just above their heads, of course—collided with a pair of green eyes that stopped her dead.
Not that she could see their color from the stage. But despite the distance and the dim light of the club, she knew they were rich jade, darker around the edges, and unlike any eyes she’d seen before...or since. That they squinted when he concentrated. That they sparkled when he teased. That they cut when he was angry.
Aidan.
It had been ten years since she’d last seen him. Five since he and her brother had unceremoniously ended all contact. Still, she’d know Aidan Beckett anywhere.
Something suspiciously like desire bloomed in her abdomen, reminding her of hormone-addled summers spent pretending to read books by the pool so she could furtively admire Aidan’s sun-kissed chest and the way rivulets of water clung to his back muscles as he and her brother, Max, showed off for the omnipresent bevy of interchangeable, age-appropriate, bikini-clad girls giggling and preening nearby.
If he’d been sitting like everyone else watching the show, she never would have seen him. But instead, he was leaning against the wooden pillar at the edge of the seating area, with a bottle of beer in his hand, looking bigger and broader and more delicious than he had when he’d visited during college breaks. Manlier. Like he knew what he was doing.
The Season to Sin Page 17
