She scowled at him again. “Nothing happened. It’s been a long week.”
“I know you’ve been swamped, but what happened to the woman who comes to clean for you.”
“I gave her and her husband a cruise for Christmas, so she’s not been to clean for a couple of weeks,” Helen explained defensively. She wasn’t normally embarrassed about a little messiness, but she wasn’t used to living in such a disaster area and she preferred Cyrus not know she’d been doing so for the last week.
“Well, you can’t leave for Christmas with it like this,” Cyrus said, staring around at the piles of dirty dishes, books, mail, and clothes.
“I know that,” she gritted through her teeth, “I was trying to clean up a little, but I just got home.”
“Do you want me to call a—“
“No,” she interrupted, “It will just take a minute. If you want to help, you can look for more dirty dishes. I don’t care about the clothes and papers, but I’m not going to leave dirty dishes.”
Cyrus looked rather mystified, but he took off his coat and made a circuit through her area while she went to work in the sink.
“Why is there a skirt under your coffee table?” he asked, when he headed into the kitchen with a few stray glasses and a plate. “Do you have a new boyfriend you haven’t told me about?”
Helen flushed hotly, for absolutely no good reason. She hadn’t had a boyfriend in a long time, and not just because she was too busy for one. “The skirt was getting uncomfortable while I was eating the other night so I just took it off,” she said, hiding her face in the dishwasher as she loaded some dishes. “There’s no boyfriend.”
He gave her a quizzical look, which she assumed was prompted by the idea of her eating skirtless. “Who sent you the flowers?” he asked, gesturing with his head toward the bouquet of orchids and pink roses on the dining table, barely visible in the piles of textbooks she’d never put away after the end of the semester.
“Your dad did,” she said, a little surprised by the question. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he didn’t believe her when she’d said she didn’t have a boyfriend.
Since she lived one block from Cyrus, talked to him several times a day, and saw him at least once a day, she wasn’t sure how he imagined she’d be able to keep a boyfriend a secret from him.
The truth was she hadn’t felt much like dating after Ethan. She’d dutifully gone out on dates whenever one of her friends tried to set her up or a guy in one of her classes asked her out.
But it was all rather half-hearted. The truth was she’d much rather just hang out with Cyrus than try to muster up the energy to be charming and desirable on a date.
“For getting the internship?” Cyrus asked.
Helen blinked, taking a moment to remember what they’d been discussing. “Oh, yeah, the flowers were for getting the internship.”
“You wouldn’t accept anything from me for getting the internship.” Cyrus wiped down the granite kitchen island that divided the kitchen from the living area.
“If you’d sent me flowers, I would have taken them,” she said. “But I wasn’t going to take a piece of jewelry or a car or whatever ridiculous thing you were thinking of buying me.”
He rolled his eyes. “It wouldn’t have been a car.”
“Well, good,” she said, feeling a little flushed and embarrassed again for no good reason. Since they’d finished the kitchen, she went into the living room and got a handful of clothes and shoes to carry into her bedroom.
Cyrus just followed her into the bedroom. “So I take it you haven’t packed for the trip yet,” he said, eyeing the explosion of clothes and books in the room with amused astonishment.
“Just sit down and shut up,” she told him blithely, gesturing toward a chaise next to the large window.
Cyrus chuckled and went over to the chaise obediently while she dumped her armful of clothes in the closet and then went to gather another pile up from the bed and floor.
When she glanced over, she saw that Cyrus had started to pick up some of the clothes on the chaise. He held two tops, a pair of slacks, four silk scarves (since she hadn’t been able to decide which to wear the day before), and a velvet jacket. He was staring down at a ruby-red bra.
Helen laughed out loud and went to pick it up for him. She laughed even more when he glanced away from it.
“I would have thought a man who dated as much as you would be used to seeing and removing women’s bras,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed again, but she ignored the silly, flustered feeling and kept her voice dry.
To her surprise, Cyrus didn’t respond in kind. His blue eyes narrowed as he said coolly, “I haven’t dated that much for years, which you should know.”
“I do,” she said hurriedly. She dropped the bra with the other clothes she’d taken from Cyrus onto the bed and walked back over to him, feeling bad since she realized she’d offended him. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”
Cyrus dated semi-regularly, always gorgeous women but never casually or gratuitously. He would usually date them for at least a month before he moved on. His habit of one-night-stands had ended when she’d been fourteen—six years ago.
Helen assumed Cyrus was seriously looking for a woman to share his life with, and he’d even dated a couple of women who’d seemed smart, pretty, and nice. Not that she’d liked them. She didn’t really like anyone he dated.
It was probably some sort of irrational territorial instinct. Cyrus was like a best friend or family—and so he felt like he was hers in a certain way. His marriage to Rose Marie had interfered with that to a certain extent, and her relationships with Ethan had interfered with it even more. But since it had ended, they’d gotten even closer.
She was quite happy with the way things were, since it meant she could have Cyrus mostly to herself. Maybe it was selfish, but she would like it to stay that way for a little while longer.
She reached out and put a hand on his chest. “Don’t be mad at me.”
Cyrus’s face softened. “I’m not mad at you, kid.”
She frowned but didn’t say anything. She knew it was just an affectionate name for her—a remnant of their past together—but she was getting kind of tired of his calling her “kid.” She hadn’t been a kid for a long time, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his brows drawing together.
Since it wasn’t worth going into and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, she didn’t explain that she didn’t want him to call her that anymore. Instead, she just sighed and turned back to gather the clothes in her arms again. “Nothing,” she said, “I’m just rushed and flustered and not thinking straight. Let me get packed real quick.”
“Can I help?”
“Sure. Go find me a few outfits—one for dinner and something to wear tomorrow and the next day. I’ll get the rest.”
Cyrus went into her closet while she opened drawers and got socks, panties, bras, and pajamas. She’d packed them in her overnight bag when Cyrus returned with clothes draped over his arms. She nodded in approval as she inspected and then folded each article of clothing.
“Shoes,” she prompted, nodding back toward the closet.
By the time he returned with two pairs of shoes—sleek black ankle-boots and more comfortable loafers—she’d finished fitting the clothes in her bag.
She slid the shoes into the appropriate pockets and then zipped the bag. She went into her bathroom to pack her toiletries, and—as she quickly put makeup and other necessities into a small case—she simultaneously unclipped her hair and started to brush it out.
It fell in a long straight fall down her back to her waist. She should put it up again for the drive, so it wouldn’t get in her way, but she didn’t want to take the time.
“Now I just need to change clothes,” she said, taking her case into the bedroom and setting it by her bag. “Sorry it’s taking so long. I’ll just be another minute.”
&nb
sp; “No hurry,” he said. He’d been picking up books and piling them the top of the dresser, organized by size. “We still have plenty of time to get there before dinner.”
“I don’t want Drake to get annoyed because we’re late.”
“We won’t be late. He doesn’t get annoyed with you anyway.”
“Well, he might. And he’s been good to me, so I don’t want to antagonize him.”
Cyrus looked at her suddenly, as if he’d just realized something. “He likes you, Helen. He’s not going to change his mind about you.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Cyrus stepped over to her, holding her eyes seriously. “I just mean he really likes you, and that’s not going to change. He’s always liked you. He’s not going to change his feelings because you’re late for dinner.”
Helen shrugged. She felt kind of stupid suddenly, as if Cyrus had caught her in an immature moment. He’d been right about her worries, though. She realized it in a deep surge of knowledge. She’d always been very careful around Drake Owen—reading him as accurately as she could so she could act in a way that would please him. Even when she was a teenager and had been rebelling, she’d always done things she was pretty sure wouldn’t overly concern him.
The only thing she’d ever consciously done that she knew he wouldn’t like was date Ethan. And she’d done that, in part, because it wouldn’t please him, because it wouldn’t please Cyrus.
She’d wanted to prove something—to them, to herself.
But it had been a huge mistake she didn’t even like to think about now, since her stupidity humiliated her.
Everyone was stupid when they were young, they said. But that didn’t mean she was happy about being stupid herself.
To distract herself from a line of thought that made her uncomfortable, she slipped off her bracelet and earrings and put them on the dresser. She stared at herself in the mirror as she tried to unclasp her necklace. She didn’t look bad, but she looked a little flustered and flushed, and she preferred to look more stylish and in control.
The clasp on her necklace was delicate and very difficult to get without seeing. She tried for a minute but then gave up. “Can you unhook my necklace?” she asked Cyrus.
He came over without objecting and stood behind her, his handsome, masculine image next to hers in the mirror. As always, he already needed to shave again.
He gently moved aside her long hair so he could reach the clasp, and Helen stared at the two of them in the mirror for a long time.
They looked like they belonged together, she realized without warning.
She brushed the stray thought away, since there was no good reason for thinking it. But she could feel Cyrus’s warm fingers brushing the sensitive skin of her neck, and it sent strange shivers down her spine.
She lowered her eyes, reminding herself that this was Cyrus. He was like family, like her best friend. And the one time they’d been more than that, he’d immediately rebuffed her, making it clear it wasn’t at all what he wanted.
When he got the necklace undone, he put it down softly on the surface of the dresser.
“Thanks,” she said, trying to sound casual as she turned around. Her blood was racing, though, and she was breathing in fast little pants.
He was standing closer than she’d expected, and his big, strong form trapped her against the dresser. She reached up instinctively, closing her fists around the fabric of his sweater in a desperate attempt to cling to anything.
When she looked up at him, she saw he was gazing down at her with an expression that was deep, intense, intimate.
Her whole body throbbed with excitement. “Cyrus?” she breathed, stretching up toward him because every instinct in her body told her to.
She was the one who moved, who pressed against him and reach up for his lips. But he responded. He inclined his head. Then one of his hands flew up to cup the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair and holding her head in place as the kiss grew more urgent.
At first, their lips and tongues just teased—testing, questioning, learning each other. But as the throbs and shivers of pleasure intensified in Helen’s body, she moaned into the kiss, her arms twining around his neck possessively as she opened her mouth to his.
He accepted the invitation, his tongue making a passionate advance as his other hand slid down her back to palm her bottom over the fabric of her skirt. He traced the fully curved line of her ass, fitting her pelvis more snugly against his.
Helen’s whole being hummed with excitement, with pleasure, with feeling, with primitive satisfaction. This was what she wanted. This was what she’d always wanted. This was so exactly right.
She’d started to claw at his shoulders as an urgent pressure tightened between her legs when he suddenly jerked away from her.
She stumbled back into the dresser, surprised and disoriented. “What?” she gasped. “What?”
Cyrus looked just as dazed as she did, and his body was coiled as tight as a pistol. His face was damp from perspiration, and he’d taken several hurried steps back, away from her.
“We can’t do that,” he rasped, rubbing a hand over his face. “We said we would never do that.”
“Oh.” Her mind was starting to work, and she felt a familiar sense of rejection. It was just like two years ago, when she’d kissed him in the library in front of the fire. She’d been sure it was right, but he’d been sure it wasn’t. And she was left crushed and unwanted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning away from her, which just seemed to make it worse. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I…I…” She couldn’t seem to say anything but the truth. “I thought it was…it was good.”
“We can’t,” Cyrus said, rubbing his head as if he were trying to claw something out of his brain. “I’m sorry, kid. I’ll wait down in the car.”
Then he just left. He walked out of her bedroom. Out of her apartment.
Helen stared at the door he’d walked out of. After a moment, she realized that it wasn't as bad as it felt. It wasn't as bad as last time.
She knew better now. She'd lived through enough to know that she didn’t want to stop kissing him. She didn’t think it was wrong.
It was right. It was right. So she just needed to make Cyrus see it too.
***
The first hour of the drive to Clarksburg was unusually quiet.
Cyrus was often silent and reflective, but Helen was a talker, and the time they spent together was rarely quiet unless they were both reading or working.
He drove, focusing on the road and occasionally making an idle comment, and Helen sat in the passenger seat wondering what she should say.
She was tempted to just demand that Cyrus tell her what his problem was—why he thought a relationship with her was so completely outside the bounds of acceptable.
It could be his hang-ups were irrational and thus easy to overcome, but it could be he just didn’t want her. And she wasn’t prepared to face such a brutal reality quite so bluntly.
She’d grown up getting her fair share of male attention, but most of the time she was convinced her appeal was more about the things associated with her than it was about herself. Thinking back on it now, she wondered if her perceptions were really accurate. Certainly, she’d had more than a normal number of disappointing experiences where a boy she liked revealed that he was with her primarily for the privileges of her association with the Owens or because of her inheritance. Some guys had probably liked her for real, though, and she’d assumed they hadn’t.
Cyrus had always been the one she could depend on to care about her for nothing but herself. And, when she’d been eighteen and he’d made it clear that he didn’t want her as anything but a kid-friend, she’d been hurt and insecure and had wanted to prove that she didn't need him. This had made her particularly susceptible to Ethan.
Her relationship with Ethan had just cemented in her mind that trusting men was a dangerous risk. Except Cyrus
. She had always trusted him, and he’d never let her down.
Even now, as they were awkwardly silent on the drive to Clarksburg, she saw him shooting worried glances over at her and sometimes looking as if he were trying to say something.
Eventually, her need to know got the better of her, so she summoned her courage. “I didn’t think kissing you was so bad.”
Cyrus blinked. He opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to speak.
She continued, “If you didn’t like the kiss, I’d understand. But you seemed to like it well enough. And I don’t know why it’s so off the table.”
“Helen, for God’s sake, you know why it’s off the table. I’ve known you since you were ten. You’re like—“
“Don’t you dare say I’m like a sister to you. I don’t believe it. We’ve never been like brother and sister.”
“No, not exactly like siblings. But like family.”
“So? What’s your point? Romance often turns into family, doesn’t it? Maybe we’d just do it in reverse.” She was pleased she sounded blithe and casual, since she didn’t feel it at all. Her hands were shaking a little. Now that they were actually in the conversation, however, it didn’t seem like it was likely to completely devastate her.
“It doesn’t work that way, Helen. I can’t. It just feels wrong to me.” His face was tense and his eyes guarded—not surprising, considering what they were discussing.
“Maybe it feels wrong because you’ve never thought about it before. So the best thing to do is just to start thinking about it.” She gave him a little smile.
A faint smile reflected in his eyes, but didn’t follow through to his lips. “I don’t think so.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “I think you’re being unreasonable. We’re not related. It’s never felt like we were related. You’re obviously not some perv who wanted to make a move on me when I was a kid. I’m not a kid anymore, Cyrus, and I just don't think it should be that big a deal.”
“Of course it would be a big deal,” he gritted out, suddenly urgent. “What if it didn’t work? Then what would happen? Are you saying you’re willing to risk our relationship on such a thing?” When she opened her mouth to respond, he spoke over her, “And anyway, it doesn’t matter. The kiss was just a random thing. To tell you the truth, I just don’t think about you that way.”
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