“Andrea has a real nose for people in pain. I worry that she might try to exploit you too if you run into her before I can get her to leave.” He actually sounds worried.
I can’t help but smile. “I don’t plan to let her ask me for any favors. And I don’t know why she’d talk to me. I mean, people like her … don’t notice people like me.” So why do you? I want to ask, but bite back the question because I don’t want to offend him. He might genuinely be interested. He might genuinely be trying to be nice.
“She’ll notice you soon enough if she sees that I’ve noticed you.” His mouth works, and I see the disgust in his eyes and realize that he’s trying to warn me.
I feel a little dubious about his whole situation all of a sudden. How broken up are they if she’s still hanging on with both hands? Can she be as crazy as he says, or is he one of those guys who call all their exes crazy gold diggers?
We’re staring at each other silently now, I realize suddenly, and hastily drain my tea to fill the silence. “So your ex just won’t leave, and she’s using your mother as a ticket to stay around and bother you. Maybe you should get a hotel room. That might alert your mother to the fact that there’s more of a problem going on than she has let herself see.”
He sits back, a little frown on his face as he mulls the idea over. “Well, the approach has its merits, but I’m wondering just how effective that would be. It would upset my mother, but would probably cause less strife than whatever Andrea will get up to. And no matter how things turn out, I will end up with some breathing room.”
“That’s the spirit.” I give him a tiny, forced smile.
“Yes, well. I have occasional moments of brilliance, even when I’m tired from the road—and Andrea.” He rubs his face, takes another big swallow from his mug, and sets it aside, looking around. “I notice that the place is rather sparse.”
My cheeks start heating up again, and my gaze drops to the tops of my slippers. “Yes.”
“Didn’t you want a tree or some decorations? Or a gift for yourself?” He’s looking at the snow bunny, wrapped in newspaper—a bright one, but still a newspaper.
He’s not getting it. Of course not, he’s rich. I let out a sad little laugh, and rub my temple. “It doesn’t matter what I want for myself or my little girl for Christmas. We can’t get it because there is no money.”
He blinks for a moment, and I nod sadly to myself. Just from the look on his face, I know he’s never had to go hungry so that someone else could eat. He’s never wondered where the rent is coming from, or whether there will be money to pay for heat next week.
“I didn’t realize,” he says finally, and then shoots me another confused look. “Don’t you have any friends that could help?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Around here? Do you have any idea how the standard New York rich conservative treats people who have to depend on charity to survive, even if we work more than full time? I don’t have any friends.”
He blinks in shock. “Then … there’s no family, no husband, no friends … no Christmas? Not at all?”
I have to squash a surge of anger. How can he be this dense? The guy really must have lived a very spoiled, privileged life if he’s having that much trouble processing the reality of my life. “Just the one present for my daughter, and we are lucky to have that.”
“I’m sorry, you mentioned that you work so much, and so …” He shakes his head. “How can you work more than full time and still be struggling like this?”
Now I want to cry. But I just keep that fake smile on. “Welcome to life outside the one percent. It’s not very pretty, and it’s not very fair.
“I’m not lazy. I’m not unskilled. And I probably put in way more work in a week than anyone you have ever met. But this, along with the VA denying me my husband’s death benefits, is what I wake up to every day.”
I stare at him defiantly. I’m suddenly so angry that I don’t care if he rejects me. If he does, he’s not the man I had a crush on anyway. He’s just another Hollywood fake, and the James I’ve come to have a real crush on, just another role.
I prepare myself for that, just as I once prepared myself when the two plain-clothed men from the Department of Defense showed up on my doorstep the day I was told I’d become widow. But what I see on his face instead of disdain is confusion and grief.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in such a gentle tone that it makes my heart ache. “I’ve always tried to be sympathetic toward others, but I live in a certain bubble. I know that. I don’t have any acquaintance with the kind of hardships that you describe, and I wish that you didn’t either.”
I lick my lips and look down, hearing him move over and sit on the couch beside me. Not near enough to touch, but when his weight settles on the couch with me it feels as intimate as a caress. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Manny and I worked hard. We were young and responsible. The VA was supposed to take care of us, even if something happened to him.”
I can’t keep the confusion, grief, and anger of the last two years out of my voice. Knowing that our men died for our country, just for our country to turn around and forget every promise it made us … it still stings. The honor of soldiers still exists, but the honor of their ultimate leaders seems to be gone.
He reaches over and puts his huge hand over mine, and I turn my head to see his blurry form leaning toward me. “I’m sorry. Again, I fully admit, I don’t understand. Maybe I … maybe I just wanted to believe that the world was a fairer place than this. But I suppose that I should know better.”
The self-deprecating irony in his voice disarms me, and I wipe my eyes with my free hand, a little impatient with myself. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t unload all my problems on you.”
“It’s fine. I just unloaded some of my problems on you, after all.” He leans back a little, considering me. “You know, when I ordered us turnovers in the cafe, I swear that you looked at them like the waitress had brought you a basket of gold. Even Cindy looked more excited than I’m used to seeing.”
He’s puzzled, not condemning. I squash a fresh surge of embarrassment. “That’s because we haven’t had a treat like that in a very long time.”
I’m not used to people knowing just how badly off I am. “I’m not looking for any handouts or anything. I don’t want your pity,” I mumble.
“You don’t have it,” he assures me. “I would have to look down on you to pity you, and I don’t.”
I look up at him again, slowly, and see the warmth in his eyes. “In fact,” he murmurs, moving closer as his hand squeezes mine gently, “I would say you’re one of the bravest women that I have ever met.”
The floor seems to tilt under me a little. I swallow, staring at him, unable to believe the tenderness in his gaze. Tears fill my eyes then, and I look away, out the undecorated window at the black street beyond.
“I know you won’t ask me for help. You’re not the sort, are you? Not looking for handouts at all, even when you desperately need it.” He sounds a little astonished, and I sniffle and give him a wan smile.
“I’ve never asked anyone for more than my baby and I need,” I say honestly. He’s still holding my hand, the warm smoothness of his palm cradling the back of mine almost tenderly, and it sends tingles shooting up my arm. The warmth melts away my grief and my shame, as if it were a layer of ice around my heart.
“You should be asking for more. You deserve more.” He’s stroking the back of my hand now. My knees clench together under my nightgown. Is this affection, or is he seducing me? Is there a difference, aside from whether his heart is in it or not?
“Around here … nobody likes a freeloader,” I murmur—and am startled when he laughs.
“My God, you’re the anti-Andrea. Lorena, dear … please. I’m asking you, as a favor to me, let me do something for you and Cindy for Christmas.” The plea in his eyes startles me into silence, and he goes on. “The job opportunity is a happy coincidence. I’m talking about a gift for you, and for
your little girl.”
I stare at him and draw a deep breath. I want to ask him to save us. To take us under his wing, to protect us and help us out just enough that I can get by until that damned death benefit finally comes through.
But he’s talking about a Christmas gift, not a long commitment. My brows draw together as I try to let my mind venture out from “what we need most desperately” territory to “what it would be fun to have” for the first time in years. It takes me a minute.
“Coats,” I manage finally. “Heavy down coats. Something that’s actually warm enough for me and for Cindy. Hers in pink. It’s her favorite.”
He blinks in surprise, and then offers a faint, wistful smile. “That’s … not much of a gift.”
“Have you ever been out in a New York winter for a long time without a proper coat? I walk dogs as part of my living. Trust me, it’s a great gift.” But then my tentative smile fades as uncertainty fills me. “I don’t have anything to give you in return, though.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true,” he replies in a tone so smooth it sends a shiver through me. His eyes hood slightly. “Though to be completely honest, what I want for Christmas from you is not something I can expect as a gift from anyone who feels obliged to give it. It’s only given by someone who wants to receive it back.”
He’s moved closer to me and our knees are almost brushing now. I swallow, amazed that this is happening, amazed at myself for wanting it to happen.
My hand is on his shoulder; I don’t know how it got there. I can feel the warm curve of muscle under my hands, beneath a thin chocolate-colored turtleneck that’s nothing like the giant sweater from earlier. It clings and shifts, sliding like silk across my fingers and molding to every contour of his rippling abs.
The sight distracts me until I feel his breath on my face and look up to see his mouth inches from mine. My eyes slide closed as I tremble. This is happening. It’s really, really happening.
When he kisses me, something detonates inside of me, and my fingers dig into his back through his shirt. Our bodies press together as he crouches over me on the couch. His mouth is hot and firm, his touch decisive as he takes me into his arms.
My head fills with a warm haze, and I kiss him back a little clumsily, my whole body feeling ready to melt into him. He lets out a contented little grunt and intensifies the kiss, his hands starting to slide over my back. Oh, that’s it. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.
We keeping kissing and stroking each other and I suddenly don’t know where this is going. I’m losing track of how long we’ve been in each other arms. My body aches with the need for more, in a way I just haven’t felt before. Not even with Manny.
Sex with Manny was about tenderness, and giving, and very slowly learning each other. Manny never hurt me, but he never learned to satisfy me either. We were too young, too new at sex, too shy, and he didn’t know how to ask—and neither did I.
With one kiss, James has already sent me to another level. My head swims. My heart pounds, and for a long time, all I can feel are the silken caresses of hands and lips on me. The faint buzzing somewhere off in the background is a mere nuisance, like the hum of a fly.
But then, before we can move on toward anything further, James reluctantly stops, and I feel him sigh through his nose against my cheek. He breaks the kiss and draws back gently, and I look up at him in hazy-eyed confusion. “Phone,” he mutters apologetically. “Only family has this number.”
Damn, I think, but I don’t speak it aloud. Family needs are family needs, even if I’m an inch from dragging him up to bed.
He leaves me shivering and tingling all over as he checks the phone screen and then answers it. “Mom? What are you doing up so late?”
My heart sinks. Even before the concern in his eyes ignites into anger, I know. I might have a lot of baggage of my own … but it’s his baggage that’s pushing us apart right now.
“Look, I went out for a drink because Andrea kept trying to get into my room.” He listens, and huffs a sigh. “Oh, she did, did she? Good thing I’m not in town yet. I’ll be back soon.”
I watch him lie to his mother to hide where he really is, and feel a weird mix of guilt and worry. But if his mother’s reporting everything back to Andrea because she mistakenly trusts her, then it’s at least a little understandable. I still watch and listen, wary of any little warning sign that I might be offering my trust to the wrong man.
He hangs up and shoots me that same apologetic look, with a hint of the same frustration I feel. “I’m so sorry. The last thing I want to do is kiss and run, but Andrea’s out literally searching the streets for my car, and I don’t want her finding it parked in front of your place. The last thing you need is her on your back.”
“No, I don’t need that at all.” Maybe I don’t need any of this drama. My body might ache from the sudden withdrawal of his touch, but if the price is harassment, I’m not sure I can take much of it. “Thank you. I … will you call me?”
My voice sounds almost pitifully sad, and the guilt on his face deepens. “You said coats. You’ll have them. And a surprise, as well. I promise.”
I blink at him. “What … kind of surprise?”
He winks. “You’ll see.”
He kisses me a last time before he walks out, leaving me watching him breathlessly through the front window as he walks away. My lips still tingle, and my head’s full of confusion now. Should I be happy? Or should I be running in the other direction?
6
James
* * *
I’m absolutely ready to strangle Andrea with my bare hands for getting in the way of the sweetest kiss I’ve ever tasted. So I know I can’t go straight home. She’ll be there, and if I see her before I cool off there’s going to be a confrontation, and my poor mother will end up in tears.
* * *
At least Mom knows I’m all right and doing something normal. I often go down to the one late night bar in Phoenicia for a few pints and maybe a hot brandy when it’s cold enough. In good weather, I can just walk down the hill.
* * *
But this time, it’s snowing thinly again, and there’s a threat of a snowstorm coming through just in time for Christmas. With all the mess going on with Andrea, I know that Mom’s anxiety is through the roof, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she called, even without Andrea bugging her.
I absolutely have to make sure that if Andrea finds me, it’s nowhere near Lorena’s, so I head out to the bar as quickly as I can. Fifteen minutes later I’m sliding onto a stool at the shiplap and carved wood bar of the one late night watering hole in town.
* * *
The place smells of woodsmoke from the potbelly stove, and the heater is rumbling away as well, keeping things cozy despite it being in the twenties outside. A few men sit at the bar, barely glancing up as I come in. Despite having family here, I’m an out-of-towner, and get treated as such by most.
* * *
I’m not the only out-of-towner in here tonight, though. A couple in their early thirties sits in the corner in high-end down coats like the ones Lorena wants—but in drab colors, the woman in olive green and the man in navy. Her red braid glimmers like copper in the semi-dark. He holds a beer he doesn’t drink in one long-fingered hand and looks back at her with occasional sad-puppy eyes when he thinks she isn’t looking.
* * *
Couple troubles. They seem universal sometimes, though they vary in circumstances. I look away politely as the burly, Navy-tattooed bartender comes up to take my order.
* * *
I order my hot brandy—a toddy this time, with honey and lemon. The bartender throws a gob of honey the size of a golf ball in the bottom, and I suddenly remember how carefully Lorena handled her last tiny bit of honey while serving tea. I wish I hadn’t been forced from her side tonight. I wanted to show her that despite the brief amount of time we’ve known each other that I’m already very interested in her—and in making her life better.
*
* *
I distract myself by looking around more—and am startled when I realize I’ve overlooked a nearby familiar face: Dr. Whitman’s. He’s perched two stools down from my seat and looks over at me with his small eyes twinkling, a smile hidden somewhere in his beard. “Trouble at home?” he rumbles, his booming voice a perfect fit for his Saint Nick looks.
* * *
“Trouble came to my home. My family’s great.” I turn to him and offer a hand. “Merry Christmas, Dr. Whitman. How are you and your son?”
* * *
He lets out a laugh that he cuts off quickly, as if aware that his voice is big and there are men with alcohol-induced headaches squinting in the shadows of this place. “Well, quite well. It’s Jack’s favorite time of year, of course. I’m sure he’ll be hitting the slopes as soon as his holiday duties are finished.”
* * *
“Holiday duties?” The Whitmans are more than eccentric; sometimes they can be downright cryptic.
* * *
“Oh, nothing serious. Decorations, arrangements, meetings with family. All the things you’d probably expect.” He smiles broadly and scoops up his small glass of schnapps, savoring a small sip. “My son’s flighty, but responsible when it matters.”
* * *
He looks over at the couple in the corner, who appear to be surreptitiously watching us. “Friends of yours?” I ask quietly.
* * *
He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, nothing like that at all. I seem to have attracted some curiosity-seekers again.”
Billionaire Romance Series: Dreams Fulfilled (1-3) Page 5
