by Jen Morris
“Why not?”
“I think she’s just worried that I won’t be able to transition into fiction.”
I feel a prickle of defensiveness for him. I know all too well what it’s like to have people not support your writing. “I’m sure you could, you’re a great writer. Have you written any of it?”
“Not yet. I’ve taken notes, but it seems kind of pointless to get started on something that’s not going to go anywhere.”
I frown, thinking of my romance novel. I’m quite certain it’s not going to go anywhere, and yet, I love writing it. I’m even getting close to finishing it, I think. “You wouldn’t do it just for the fun of it? Surely that’s reward enough in itself, right?”
He scrubs a hand over his beard. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” His gaze lingers on me, his expression thoughtful, and there’s a little frisson through me. “What about that romance novel of yours? What are your plans with that?”
“Oh.” I twirl my wineglass. “I’m not sure. Probably nothing.”
“I’d like to read it.” There’s an undeniable spark in his eyes now, and my heartbeat quickens. I just want to push him back against his bookshelves and drop to my knees in front of him.
Gah! Don’t think about that!
“Why historical fiction?” I blurt.
Despite my abrupt subject change, he gives a sincere smile, unable to resist answering my question. “I love history, learning about the way people used to live, what their lives were like. You know, there’s a universality to it—to being human. We all struggle with the same things, even thousands of years ago. I thought with fiction, I could create these characters who live in a different time, and…”
As he speaks, his whole face lights up and his eyes come alive like that time at the skating-rink. There’s so much passion in his voice, in the way that he’s gesturing with his hands, talking about his ideas with unguarded excitement now, and my heart feels like it could burst.
This man, he’s just… he’s so gorgeous, so smart, so passionate.
I stare at his mouth as he speaks, mesmerized by the fullness of his bottom lip, the way it curves up slightly higher on one side, the way it looks so soft beside the coarseness of his dark beard. And, fuck, that beard. I don’t know what it is, but it’s so manly, so—
“You okay?”
Shit. I was so busy obsessing over his mouth I didn’t even notice he’d stopped speaking.
I meet his gaze with a nervous laugh. “What? Yes, I’m fine. I was just…” Thinking about your mouth, what it tastes like, how it would feel all over my body. I shiver forcefully at the thought and Michael’s eyes flash, a seductive smile slanting his lips.
Jesus. Am I that bloody transparent?
“Hi, Alex!”
I leap back from Michael as Henry appears in the hallway. “Hi, Henry,” I mumble, sinking down onto the leather sofa and trying to ignore the amused look from Michael. My face heats as I mentally scold myself. What am I doing, thinking these thoughts about Michael? This is Christmas Day—with his son, for Christ’s sake. I need to behave appropriately.
Henry flops down on a chair and I turn to him with a smile. “Thanks for letting me crash your Christmas dinner.”
“I’m glad you could come.”
“I’m glad you could come too,” Michael murmurs as he heads back to the kitchen, his gaze briefly meeting mine. That sexy smile is still dancing on his mouth, and it makes my heart kick against my ribs as I raise my glass to my own smiling lips.
“Could you get that?” he calls when there’s a knock at the door. “It will be Agnes.”
“Hello, dear,” Agnes says as I open the door. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” I take in her outfit—a festive red sweater, slim black pants, and tiny glass Christmas tree ornaments dangling from her ears. As I close the door behind her, gratitude swells inside me to be spending this evening with her and Michael and Henry when I could have been alone. I reach out to hug her and she squeezes me tight.
“Merry Christmas, Agnes,” Michael says affectionately when we enter the living room. He gives Agnes a kiss on the cheek before she lowers herself onto the sofa beside me.
“What a lovely man,” she murmurs, and I have to smile. I can see exactly why she sings his praises so much.
My gaze drifts over to watch as Michael sets a huge turkey down on the table. There’s something incredibly sexy about a man who can cook, which I’d never realized until this very moment. He turns to catch me staring and I blush. When I glance at Agnes, she’s watching me curiously.
“So, what’s new with you, Agnes?” I ask, throwing back the rest of my drink.
“Not a lot I’m afraid, dear.” She smiles as Michael hands her a glass of wine. “What about you?”
Michael holds out the bottle to offer me a refill, and I nod, avoiding his gaze. “Er, nothing. Nothing at all.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “You got some good news with your writing.”
Oh, right. My writing. Shit, since being in Michael’s presence I’d all but forgotten about that. It’s like seeing him has erased my mind of everything else. And that’s not good, is it? What a train wreck.
“Well, yes. There was something with my writing.”
“Wonderful,” Agnes says. “What happened?”
“I got asked to write some articles for a website, and if they do well then I might be offered a permanent job, writing a column for them.” I think back to my chat with Harriet, attempting to remind myself how important this is to me.
“How exciting!” Agnes says. “And what are you writing about?”
Michael sets a dish of green beans down on the table and pauses, listening. It’s like an elephant has barged into the apartment and sat down between us, sucking all the oxygen out of the room, and I feel myself wilt.
“It’s about being single,” I mumble. “And how it can be fun and fulfilling to live without a man.”
Her face lights up. “That’s fabulous! I’ve been without a man for years and I’m just fine.”
I give a half-hearted smile, glancing at Michael. His gaze slides from mine as he turns his attention back to the table, and I suddenly feel guilty talking about this with Agnes when I haven’t even given Michael an answer about what I want. Is he feeling as tortured as I am by this whole situation?
Or—fuck—is all this weird tension in my head?
“But you know,” Agnes continues philosophically, “being a single lady is only fun when there isn’t anyone special. Because if you meet someone special, that’s a whole lot more fun.” She winks at me and I look down at my glass, feeling my cheeks color.
She’s right, of course. Ever since Michael and I talked at Strand, I’ve been replaying his words—there’s nothing crazy about believing in love—and as much as my past experience tells me otherwise, I want to believe him. Which makes writing about being single harder, despite the fact that I desperately want this job. And that’s why I’m in this damn predicament.
“Is it ready yet, Dad?” Henry asks, wandering over to survey the dining table.
“Sure is, bud. Let’s eat.”
As we sit at the table, Michael carves the turkey. We share a smile and I feel myself relax. Of course Michael isn’t finding this as torturous as I am. I need to get out of my head and just enjoy the meal with my friends.
“So, Henry, what did you get for Christmas?” Agnes asks as we eat.
He beams. “Dad got me a bike.”
“Woah, what an awesome Christmas present,” I say, and Michael looks pleased.
“It’s super cool. Mom said I couldn’t have it, but Dad said I could.”
“Well, we have to make sure she’s okay with it too,” Michael says.
Henry screws up his face. “She’s so mean sometimes.”
“She just worries about your safety, bud. She’s not trying to be mean.”
Henry shrugs and stuffs a forkful of turkey into his mouth.
“Ugh
. That woman,” Agnes mutters, and Michael and I both turn to look at her in surprise. She’s too busy loading turkey onto her fork to notice.
I glance from her to Henry and Michael, feeling the air around us thicken. Michael’s gaze drops to his plate and his shoulders fall almost imperceptibly. What am I missing here?
I’m about to open my mouth and ask, but decide against it. It’s not my business, and I don’t want to ruin Christmas by dredging up some long-buried family history.
Silence stretches between us as we eat, and I remember our New Year’s party. That will lighten the mood.
“What is everyone doing for New Year’s Eve?”
Michael shrugs. “Not much. Henry and I usually watch a movie.”
“We are going to have a little party in our apartment if you’d like to join us.”
“Can I come?” Henry asks.
“Of course. If it’s okay with your dad.” I glance at Michael.
“That could be fun. I’m sure it will be better than sitting at home with your old man,” he says with a wry chuckle, and Henry grins.
“What about you, Agnes? Do you have plans?”
She shakes her head. “Not in ten years.”
“Well, we’d love for you to come to our party.”
A smile stretches across her creased face. “That sounds lovely, dear. I’m not sure I’ll last until midnight, but I will certainly stop by.”
I grin, thinking about New Year’s Eve as I finish my meal.
After dinner, Henry puts a movie on and settles onto the sofa while Agnes rises with a yawn and makes to leave.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and watch a movie or something?” Michael asks, walking her to the door.
She squeezes his arm. “Thank you, Michael, but I’m tired and ready for bed. It was a delicious meal, thank you very much.” She leans closer and murmurs something else to him, her voice low, and as much as I strain my ears from the table, I can’t make out what she says.
“Oh.” He chuckles, his cheeks pink. “We’ll see.” He kisses her goodbye again and offers to help her up the stairs but she insists she can manage. The door closes softly behind her and he comes back over, beginning to clear the table.
I stand to help him clear the plates, and as I look around at the table where I shared a meal with my friends, warmth rushes through me. It’s that same feeling I felt when I arrived this evening, and I realize that whatever happens with Michael and my writing and everything else weighing on me, I’ll be okay. I’ve got friends who care about me here in New York, miles away from home. I feel like I belong here a lot more than I did back there, and that’s worth more than anything.
27
“Let me help with the dishes.”
Michael places a stack of dirty plates beside the sink. “It’s okay, this won’t take long.”
I stare at the counters dubiously. The kitchen looks like a bomb has hit it.
“Please,” I insist, suppressing the urge to laugh. “Let me help.”
He hesitates, then gives me a grateful look. “Okay. Thanks.”
Running the hot water, I hunt around for the dish soap and find a bottle under the sink. Michael grabs a dishtowel as I slide some plates into the soapy water.
“Do you miss your family today?” he asks.
I turn his question over in my mind as I scrub. I spent all day thinking I felt homesick, but now that I’m here in Michael’s apartment I realize it wasn’t so much homesickness as loneliness. Because I haven’t felt it once since stepping through Michael’s door.
“Not really.”
“You’re not close with them?”
I shake my head. “I’m probably closest with my younger sister, Harriet.” Saying this makes me smile. We’ve never been close before, but somehow, it feels different since I left New Zealand. “Do you have siblings?”
“Yeah, a brother. He’s five years younger, but we’ve always been pretty close. He’s out of town at the moment but if he was here we’d probably be spending the day together.” Michael dries a plate, then sets it down. “What about your folks? What are they like?”
I glance down at the book charm around my neck, wondering how much to share. I don’t often talk to others about my relationship with my parents, and I can’t help but wonder what he’ll think of me. But when I look back at Michael’s compassionate face, I feel the urge to tell him everything.
“My parents… we’re very different. They don’t understand me and they think me living over here is crazy. Last time I spoke to Mum, she wanted to know when I was coming home—back to the ‘real world.’ They think me pursuing writing is stupid. They always have. You know what my mother said when I first told her I wanted to be an author? She said, ‘oh, that’s cute.’”
Michael chuckles. “Well, that’s what most adults say to kids when they tell them what they want to be when they grow up.”
“Sure. But I was twenty-five.”
“Oh.” He grimaces.
“Exactly. I’d always known they’d never really taken me seriously, but one morning I overheard them speaking, and it—” I break off, surprised to feel a lump form in my throat.
“What did they say?” Michael asks gently.
I draw an unsteady breath. “They said I need to get my head on straight and stop dreaming of things I can’t have. They said I read too many romance novels—that they’re just full of nonsense and they’ve given me unrealistic ideas about life. They said I live my whole life in a fantasy. I mean… they aren’t totally wrong. I do have my head in the clouds a bit, I know that. I spend a lot of time daydreaming.” I huff an uncomfortable laugh, fiddling with the dish brush and staring into the bubbles. “Anyway. When you hear stuff like this from your parents, it’s kind of shit.”
Michael sighs beside me. “They made you feel ashamed about who you are.”
I give a small nod, remembering the cold, prickly feeling that washed over me at my parents’ words, at the disgust in Mum’s tone as she spoke to Dad. I try to push the memory away but it won’t go.
“Have you tried talking to them about it?”
“No. There’s no point. Every time I do, I end up getting upset and they tell me I’m too sensitive.” I shrug, picking up another dirty plate and dumping it into the water. Rehashing all this is making me feel a bit morose, actually. I swallow against the emotion welling in my chest. “Maybe they’re right,” I mutter.
“And you think that’s a bad thing?”
I let my gaze slide back to Michael. He’s studying me intently.
“Alex…” He reaches a hand towards me, then stops himself. “It’s not a bad thing at all. And as for dreaming too much…” he trails off with a little laugh. “You’re a writer, that’s part of the job. But it’s not just that.” He sets the dishtowel down, gazing at me fondly. “It’s who you are. And there’s nothing wrong with any part of it—with any part of you.”
I stare at him, my throat so tight I can barely breathe. Then he reaches his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into a hug. My hands are still in the sink, but I twist towards him and rest my head against his chest, closing my eyes, wondering what that warm feeling is rushing through me, filling me up, making me want to sob.
And then I realize what it is. It’s the feeling of being seen, for who I am, and being accepted anyway. It’s the feeling of being understood.
“Don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for who you are or what you want,” he murmurs into my hair. He presses a kiss to the top of my head and I squeeze my eyes shut, letting a tear escape down my cheek, overcome with the strangest sense of peace. Somehow, in the space of five minutes, he’s watched me fall apart and put me back together again in a way that no one ever has before. And I don’t know what to do with that.
When he finally releases me, he smiles softly, dragging his thumb under my eye and wiping my tears away.
I give him a watery smile, attempting a laugh. “See? Too sensitive.”
“No.” He shakes
his head, gazing at me. “It just means you feel deeply—you care. I learned that about you the second you gave change to that homeless guy outside Beanie.” He picks up the dishtowel again, smiling to himself.
I look down into the sink, trying to quell my smile. I can’t believe he remembers that.
“Thanks for listening,” I say after a pause. “I don’t often talk to people about this. You probably think it’s pathetic, still worrying about what your parents think at my age, but—”
“Not at all. I understand, probably better than most. I don’t think you ever grow out of wanting your parents to be proud of you.” A shadow passes over his face as I hand him a clean plate, and I remember him telling me his parents pushed him into finance instead of letting him write. My heart squeezes.
“You think your parents aren’t proud of you?”
“Not really. Well, not my father. He’s—how do I put this? He’s a difficult man. Hard to please. Never been all that impressed with my choice to be a writer, annoyed that I gave up my ‘real job’. And when I got divorced, he was just so disappointed in me.” He focuses on drying the plate. “Anyway. I’m closer with my mom, but because of Dad I don’t see them all that much. I’m much closer with my grandmother. She lives in Vermont, otherwise we’d be spending Christmas with her.”
I feel my eyes widen. “Your grandmother is still alive?” Whoops. That might have sounded a bit rude.
“Yes, she’s still alive.” Michael cocks his head to one side, sending me an amused look. “Just how old do you think I am?”
“Shit, sorry.” I cringe. “I didn’t mean…”
His mouth twists into a smile. “You think I’m really, really old, don’t you?”
A laugh escapes me. “No. It’s just, well, my grandparents all died when I was little. And I know I’m younger than you, so I figured…” I shrug.
“Yeah, yeah,” he teases.
“So… how old are you?”
“I’m forty-one.”
I nod, turning back to the dishes. That’s about what I thought.
“Does that bother you?”
I glance back at Michael, surprised. “Why would that bother me?”
