Let it Snow

by Suzan Butler, Emily Ryan-Davis, Cari Quinn, Vivienne Westlake, Sadie Haller, Holley Trent

  “What? No! I…” She let her words trail off. No to which question? He was confusing her. Setting a trap she’d never find her way out of.

  His closed-off expression dared her to lie to him, but she couldn’t.

  Her knee started bobbing again. She didn’t know what the right answer was. Only the truth. “Did I feel anything for them? Some of them. Did I feel guilty for being with them?” Her quick glance at his face revealed a mien devoid of emotion. The Dom face.

  Is there a right answer? What does he want to hear? She didn’t want to hurt him, even if the reverse wasn’t true.

  “I—no, I didn’t feel guilty,” she said. “I had no reason to. So, no, I didn’t think they were all mistakes. Some were. Most, though, I don’t feel that way about.”

  “I see.” His voice was flat and very un-Max, Dom or not.

  “Do you? It sounds like you’re disappointed in you and me have no right to be. When you came back, you didn’t seek me out. You bumped into me accidentally here at the hotel. You always knew where I was. Mama never moved. I was easy to find, so cut the bullshit. If you wanted me, you knew how to get to me. I’m sorry that your Catholic guilt made you feel like a shitty boyfriend, but you weren’t my boyfriend.”

  “That’s how I felt during those years, Giselle. Like I’d fucked up. Like I’d cheated, when it wasn’t true.”

  Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. She put a hand over it and found it was beating as always, but faster.

  “So tell me this, honey. Tell me the truth. If I were your boyfriend back then, and we were still together now, what would you do to me, huh?” The tan in his cheeks gave way to a red color Giselle could count on two hands the times she’d ever seen, and those had all been during high school. The Max she knew now didn’t get flustered, and his sudden broodiness discomfited her.

  “Would you dump me because you can’t accept what I do for a living? Keep using it as an excuse so you don’t have to form a meaningful connection to me?”

  The rage came back. The scary rage that seem to trigger very bad behavior.

  She pinched her forearm again and again. No way she was going to zone out this time. She needed to be in the here and now. “That is not fair, Max.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to throw low blows, and I’m simply playing by the rules you seem to be making up as you go along. You’ve never been good with rules, have you?”

  “Know what?” She tossed her napkin onto the table and pushed back from the table. “I can’t even. You don’t know what’s my head or what makes me tick, so fuck this. Fuck you, and have a merry fucking Christmas wherever you end up. Hopefully you won’t be in a hospital with a bunch of bullets in your backside like two years ago.”

  She slipped away before he could reach for her, because he always did.

  She wasn’t going to sit there and let him wound her under the guise of tough love. The way she saw it was that most of her problems were because of him in the first place. She’d started her day spiraling out of control because of him, and being at The Den in his company was only making the unstable relationship between her brain and heart worse.

  She never knew which to listen to. Her brain was unreliable and her heart didn’t seem to know what was good for it.

  “If there is a God, there’ll be a cab outside.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Henri, I fucked up. I tried to get her to just fucking capitulate, but…I think the attempt backfired of me.” Max leaned onto the other man’s desk and his gaze fell on the tic in Henri’s jaw.

  Shit. Not good.

  Max knew that tic all too well.

  Henri said nothing for a long while. Just stared, and worked his jaw side to side. After a couple of minutes, he picked up his silver letter opener and balanced it on its point. “Maxell, listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you.”

  “I doubt I’ll like hearing it, but I’m listening.”

  “Good.” He turned the letter opener around a few times and rubbed the small hole it’d made on his desk calendar. “If you cause me to lose a long-standing employee I will beat the hell out of you and tell the cops the devil made me do it. As this is New Orleans, they might just believe it and let me off easy.”

  Max flopped onto the club chair in the corner and blew his hair out of his eyes. “Fuck. I gotta say I’m not so pleased to be one of the few people in your inner circle right about now.”

  “Make it up to me, then. Do you know how much staff turnover there is in this business?”

  “Approximately.”

  “Then you know our quality of service depends heavily on us having tenured, experienced staff, and I try to hold onto mine—especially the ones who work during Den events. It’s a wonder she’s been here this long since she’s obviously ill suited for her job. I haven’t spent much time in Ms. Burke’s company, but I do wonder if believes she can’t do any better. I peeked in her file. Her personality profile results were…” his words trailed off and forehead furrowed.

  Max had never known Henri to be the speechless sort, and wasn’t sure if him being so now was a good thing or a bad one.

  “Her results were what, Henri?”

  Henri let out a breath and set down the letter opener. “She may be your lover, but she’s my employee, and I have to respect her privacy. I don’t think it’d be appropriate to share.”

  “It’s pretty cruel to leave me hanging like that given everything that’s going on with her. She never told me about her memory issues. I’ve known her for twelve fucking years, Henri. She never said a peep.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t think it was important enough to bother you about. All I can say is that the results reminded me of someone I…once knew.” Henri turned toward the credenza and rubbed his chin as he rocked his desk chair.

  Max didn’t push. Although he was dying to know more about that someone, he’d known the other man long enough Henri wasn’t the kind of man who shared tidbits about his past before he was ready. After five years in his acquaintance, Max knew enough about Henri’s personal life could fill ten small Post-it notes, and Henri counted Max as a friend.

  “I’ll smooth things over,” Max said. “I’ll try not to let our personal shit affect her job. And I don’t know if she thinks she can’t do any better, but I do know she has always been the kind of woman who’d prefer a sure bet than to taking a chance.”

  Henri tented his fingers. “Just what chance would she be taking?”

  Max chuckled. “I’m not sure you’re meant to be privy to that.”

  “So, that’s the game we’re playing, is it?”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Fair enough. Can you tell me, at least, if she’s considering employment opportunities at other hotels? Or in other industries?”

  “Why? What are you going to do? Offer her a raise and dock the property damage expenses out of her newly increased pay? That reminds me. I need to write you a check.”

  Henri shook his head. “Just cancel that next invoice you’ve got coming to me, and we’ll be square. And if I thought a pay increase would do the trick, I could certainly have a conversation with human resources.”

  I’m going to get into such deep shit for this, but what’s a little more trouble when it comes to G? In for inch, in for a mile. He blew his hair out of his face again, then gave up and tucked it behind his ears. “I doubt Giselle would say no to more money, but that’s not the only problem. And can I just say that I could get myself into even more trouble by even having this conversation with you right now? She’s not the kind of woman who’d want to advance because of a favor.”

  “Favors make the world go round.”

  “Not her world. She didn’t grow up like us. We’ve got privilege. We pay people to put labels on our problems, and they’re all so normal, but in her world, Henri, problems get buried or else doused in Tylenol and cod liver oil. Favors are a luxury. Trust me. She reminded me today just h
ow little she wants me to do for her.”

  And he’d never felt so powerless in his life. He’d become a Dom in the first place because the idea of control was exciting or him. Giselle had always made him feel completely out of sorts, and leaving for college, that had scared him. What he felt for her had been so strong; he didn’t think it was real.

  So, he’d stayed away because he didn’t know how to control that wild love. And when he finally saw her again, he knew he’d been stupid to think he could control it. He control it, and he sure as shit couldn’t control G. He twined his fingers and stared at his boots.

  Damn. How do I fix this mess?

  “Perhaps I can propose an offer that would cover most bases,” Henri said.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, I must say that I don’t read her to be much of a people person, though she puts on a good show when she wants to.”

  “Yeah, people-person and G don’t belong in the same sentence ever,” Max said.

  “You seem to love her in spite of it.”

  “Probably because of it.” Her guardedness was what had made earning her friendship so fulfilling when they were teens. Maybe it was the same reason he’d always wanted her for his submissive, too. He had ego enough to admit he took joy in being one of the few people she really connected with.

  “Do you think there’s a job at the hotel she’d be happier in?”

  Max nodded. “I can’t say anything more.”

  “I’ll work with that.” Henri twirled his pen between his fingers. “All the same, if this blows up in my face, then I not only heard it from you, but will say that you masterminded the entire scheme.”

  “Whatever happened to your I’m a lover, not a fighter philosophy? Get tired of being a hotelier, you might have a career ahead of you as a special agent.”

  Henri set down his pen and rocked his chair some more, keeping his cool, blue stare on Max. “Who said I wasn’t one?”

  Max laughed, and stood. “I’m off to the gallows.”

  “Good luck. I expect to see Ms. Burke back at work in two days and in my office first thing. If she’s not, I’ll take it personally.”

  “I know you will.” Max saw himself out.

  Like Max, Henri didn’t make idle threats. Given Max had learned everything he had about being a Dom from the other man, Max knew better than to try him. Henri wanted Giselle back at work, so Max needed to clean up the mess he made.

  He’d spent years making it, so chances were poor that he’d be able to fix it in a night.

  He’d try anyway.

  * * *

  Giselle stood in front of the living room window in her small apartment and brought her mug of tea up to her lips.

  Rain.

  Wonderful. Cold and nasty, just like my mood.

  The view wasn’t much to speak of. Just an alleyway and the backside of another old house turned into an apartment building along with its small courtyard. She’d been lucky to get the French Quarter apartment, though, especially with the pittance she was able to afford for rent. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d tolerate a roommate, and she sure as shit wasn’t moving back in with her mama. Two addlebrained Burkes under one roof?

  No, thank you.

  The apartment was dated, sure, but the building it was housed in had once been elegant and stately. The pipes were creaky and the doors sometimes stuck, but the good bones were evident. And there were no ghosts. Contrary to what Mr. Beaudelaire believed, she wasn’t sensitive to them. Her mother was, though. Mama had said the place was blessedly free of them. Giselle figured that was worth seven hundred bucks per month.

  She sighed and set the mug down on the painted-over radiator. “Might have to turn the heat on.”

  It’d been sultry and warm at The Beaudelaire when she left, but not all of that was due to the hotel’s climate control. Some of that was due to Max, and figured she’d be just fine to never hear from his ass again.

  She leaned onto the windowsill and sighed. “Yeah, right.”

  She knew the truth. She’d always worry about him, whether she was with him or not. In fact, not being with him made her feel at times like his wellbeing was a thing far beyond her control. When she detached herself like this, she couldn’t prop him up and make him whole. Couldn’t fix him when he needed it…not that she could fix a bullet hole. She could sit by his bedside as he mended, though. She’d done that plenty.

  Lying to herself by saying that he wasn’t her problem was just her immature way of guarding her heart, but it really hadn’t mattered. With him, without him—made no difference. Her heart shattered every time he went away, and maybe that wasn’t his fault.

  It wasn’t hers, either.

  Sighing, she picked up the empty mug and carried it to the sink. Usually, she would have left it for later, but she took her time washing it out and buffing it dry. She turned the old thing around in her hands and stared at the vignette painted on the creamy ceramic. It featured an old cook on the porch of a stately antebellum house with a bowl on her lap, looking out to the fields. Giselle didn’t know who she’d inherited the mug from, but she couldn’t remember not being its owner.

  Although the cook’s face wasn’t much more than a dark swipe of paint, Giselle had always thought there was a serenity about it. Like she was at peace with her station and found joy in it. Perhaps that was why Giselle would prefer to be in the kitchen herself. She wouldn’t just be serving, but making. Even if she endured the same repetitive tasks—washing, peeling, trimming—she’d take pride in being part of the creation process. Not just the delivery. The beginning, not the end.

  But, damn, the money.

  Maybe she could make it work, though. She rubbed her thumb over the old cook’s bowl on the mug and ran the numbers in her head. If I just…

  Giselle came to at the sound of pelting against the living room window. Shit. How long was I out this time? The stove’s clock said just a couple of minutes.

  That pelting noise happened again. Hail? Not a frequent occurrence in New Orleans. She set the mug in the rack and padded to the window.

  No hail, but the rain endured.

  She jumped back when several small objects hit the glass in front of her, and clutched her chest. It took a moment for her brain to work out that they were pebbles. Who the hell was throwing pebbles?

  She squinted through the rain streaking down the glass and saw a dark figure down in the neighboring courtyard.

  “Max?”

  She lifted the window and leaned out, hissing, “What are you doing?”

  “I called. You didn’t answer. Can you open the back door?” Without waiting for her response, he vaulted over the fence and disappeared under the back door’s awning.

  “Dammit.”

  The defiant part of her wanted to keep him out there in cold rain, but the logical part of her wondered, Why? Just stubbornness? She’d conceded that she wanted him even if he ended up breaking her heart, but knowing that and letting it happen seemed to be two things with no bridge between them.

  “God.” She slipped her feet into her ratty slippers and walked to the door. Had she really thought he wouldn’t follow? It was a wonder he hadn’t done it sooner.

  He was standing with his arms crossed and hair dripping all over his motorcycle jacket when she turned at the last stair landing. He’d changed his clothes. Boots. Jeans. This was about as normal as he ever was.

  Approachable.

  So why was there a catch in her throat? Why was her stomach a lead weight in her gut?

  “Why do you have a phone if you’re never going to answer it?” he asked. He took off his jacket and shook the water off of it.

  She didn’t respond, just started up the stairs. She didn’t need the entire building seeing her in her hand-me-down bathrobe. It had more holes than a wheel of Swiss cheese.

  More holes than her brain at times.

  He hooked his coat at the door, stepp
ed out of his boots, and walked straight to the bathroom.

  She followed and leaned in the doorway, watching him twist rain from his hair.

  “I never asked you why you keep it so long,” she said. Anything to avoid a serious conversation.

  “Yours is longer.”

  “For good reason. I’m a woman.”

  “Yes, you are all woman, G.” He grabbed one of the decorative towels off the rack, started drying his hair, and winked at her when she growled. He knew she hated when he used those things, and was fairly sure he did it just to get a reaction from her.

  She sighed. Max.

  “Mostly, I keep it long because it makes me look less like a cop.”

  “Oh.” She moved away from the door. So much for keeping the conversation light.

  “G—” His hands landed on her shoulders and stilled her. “Don’t walk away. Talk to me.”

  “It seems like almost every conversation I have with you ends in panic of some sort.”

  He pulled her against his body and tucked his chin over her shoulder. “Maybe it’s because we never really resolve anything. It just carries over to the next time, right? And you’re always angry at me, and it just simmers and bubbles over sometimes.”

  “You want me to just go ahead and snap? Like I did earlier? We’re pretty short on ice dicks at the moment.”

  He chuckled and held her tighter. “No, I don’t want you to snap. I want you to tell me what’s keeping you from me. If you want to yell at me, fine. Blame me for some things? Okay. I’m sure there are a lot of things I’m overdue to take the heat on. Just don’t push me away.”

  “Pushing’s easier than talking,” she confessed.

  He chuckled. “I know. My jeans are wet. I’m going to take them off.”

  He eased away from her. She walked to the sofa and sat, watching him step out of his faded jeans and drape them over a high-backed chair. He took off his shirt next, which was soaked around the collar. It’d probably been very uncomfortable, so she held her snarky retort about him getting naked at the first possible opportunity in check. She’d be lying if she told herself she didn’t feel a special thrill in knowing she was the only woman he took his clothes off for.