Helen’s stomach dropped. Her heart dropped. “Oh.”
There was a long stretch of silence as she processed his words. It hurt—a lot. And it felt final. If he didn’t think about her that way, then he didn’t, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” he said eventually, sounding rather strained. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said with a casual shrug she didn’t feel. “It was just a thought.”
She didn’t talk much the rest of the drive. She tried not to think about it too much. If she did, it would hurt too much, and she didn’t want to ruin her whole Christmas.
Her life was quite happy and satisfying in almost every way now.
She didn’t have to have everything.
* * *
She was on her way down to dinner when Cyrus stopped her on the landing of the stairs.
“Helen, wait,” he said, his voice a little thick.
She looked up at him—heartbreakingly handsome in all black. His blue eyes were strangely urgent.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course,” she said with a smile that was only slightly forced. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Don’t lie to me, Helen. I know you’re upset. But I don’t think you’ve thought it through enough. I think, once you do, you’ll see I’m right.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said with another smile, “If you don’t want me that way, then you just don’t. You’re not the first man to not want me.”
“Don’t say it like that. I just can’t—“
“Seriously, Cyrus,” she said, “I’m a little disappointed, since I was starting to think…but it’s no big deal really. I’ll get over it.”
He peered at her so closely she thought he might see into her soul, but he didn’t say anything. Just reached out and stroked her hair gently before she turned and started walking back down the stairs.
* * *
After dinner, she went up to change into something more comfortable—which happened to be a soft purple lounge set Cyrus had bought her for her last birthday.
She went to find him in the media room.
Dinner had been surprisingly good. Drake had been in fine form, telling stories from Greek history and demanding they all go and view the new historic weaponry he’d added to his collection in the last year. If he’d noticed something rather tense in the air between his son and Helen, he didn’t mention it.
Helen wasn’t about to miss out on her and Cyrus’s tradition this Christmas Eve, even if she was a little embarrassed and a lot disappointed.
He would still be her best friend, her family, the one person she could always rely on. He was trying to do what was best for her, even as he let her down easy.
Cyrus was already in the media room when she arrived, sitting on one end of the couch.
“Hey,” she said, going over and sitting next to him.
He smiled at her. “Hi. Someone is bringing cider and sugar cookies in a few minutes.”
Helen smiled back, her chest feeling suddenly warm and soft. “Good.”
“Are you all right?” He was peering at her closely again.
“I’m fine. Although, if you keep asking me that, I might throw something at you.”
“As long as it’s not the hot cider.”
She laughed—sincerely. She felt better. Whatever the reason for Cyrus’s hesitation, it wasn’t because he didn’t care about her. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to be with her. She could see all of that clearly in the soft, fond look in his eyes as he chuckled too.
“Start the movie,” she said, snuggling up at his side.
He hesitated for a moment, but then he wrapped an arm around her. She sighed in relief. If he’d rebuffed the snuggling, she might have felt rejected again.
After they’d eaten the cookies and cider, Helen readjusted to get more comfortable, ending up lying on the couch with her head in Cyrus’s lap.
She’d lain that way last Christmas Eve, when she’d admitted to herself—and to Cyrus—that she would have to give up on her relationship with Ethan. And she’d lain that way on other nights too. When a friend of hers had been killed in a car accident. When she’d had a horrible headache that wouldn’t go away.
She felt safe in this position. Comforted. Loved.
She made it through most of the movie, but she eventually fell asleep. She had no idea how long she’d been sleeping when consciousness started to press through the drowsy haze. Her eyes were still closed, but she could feel Cyrus’s thighs beneath her head. And she felt him gently stroking her hair.
She opened her eyes and caught for just a moment a look on his face that took her breath away.
She couldn’t process the expression immediately, and his face shifted into a teasing smile. “Didn’t we have a bet one year about whether you could stay awake for the movie?”
“I won that bet,” she said, adjusting so she was looking up at him fully without actually lifting her head from her lap. “You had to wear your sweater. But there was no bet for this year, or I would have made more of an effort to stay awake.”
He gave a breathy laugh. “I have no doubt about that.”
She sat up, mostly because her neck was getting stiff. She stretched a little, raising her arms above her head.
She noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Cyrus’s eyes dropped to her chest and lingered there. A quick glance down revealed that her top had slipped from sleeping and then stretching, and the neckline was displaying far more cleavage than was entirely appropriate.
When she turned to look at Cyrus, to verify his stare, he turned his head rather abruptly. Because she was looking for it, she noticed a very brief flicker of something on his face.
Guilt, she realized. Guilt and something like fear.
She remembered how he’d been looking at her as she’d been sleeping.
And she realized something. Something that changed everything.
She was suddenly overwhelmed with a flood of joy and recognition. She had to act on it and, since she couldn’t say anything to reveal what she now knew, she just threw herself toward Cyrus in an enthusiastic hug.
He responded immediately, hugging her back and laughing at the spontaneous gesture. But she felt a neediness in his clutching grip that she’d never noticed before.
She understood now. She understood. He’d lied to her before, a lie that was supposed to protect her. He did think about her that way. He did want her that way. He just thought he wasn’t supposed to.
And that was understandable, given their history. That was something that could change.
He loved her. She knew he loved her. And, what was more, he wanted her. He wouldn’t be able to hold on to his resistance forever.
She loved him too. She wanted him. But she could wait until he was ready.
Things were different now, but she was still Helen. And she was still with the same man on Christmas Eve. The man she knew intimately, trusted unquestionably, and loved deeply. The man who had found her on the side of the road exactly ten years ago.
Things were only likely to get better from here on out—which meant it was a pretty good Christmas Eve after all.
Eighth Christmas Eve
today
Cyrus was swelteringly hot, torturously itchy, and incredibly uncomfortable.
He would have liked to say he had no idea how he’d gotten roped into doing such a ludicrous activity, but he was acutely aware of why he’d agreed to something he never would have agreed to under normal circumstances.
Normal circumstances had completely flown out the window ever since Helen had entered his life.
When he was finally able to leave the festivities, he headed into a room in the back where he could he change out of his costume. He cringed when he glanced in a mirror and saw himself—long white wig, thick white beard, fake glasses, fuzzy red pants and jacket, and a very unfortunate big red hat.
Santa C
laus. Helen had actually convinced him to dress up like Santa and give out books to a bunch of children he didn’t know. She’d said it would be good for him, which hadn’t been an argument that held much weight with Cyrus. Then she’d said it would make her really happy, which was a much stronger argument as far as he was concerned. Then she’d looked sad when he’d continued to tell her no, so he’d reluctantly agreed.
Her smile had been so bright and glowing at his acquiescence that the physical and emotional discomfort was almost worth it.
Almost.
He took off his Santa hat, glasses, wig, and beard. Then he wiped some of the perspiration from his face, exhaling in relief.
Helen had started a foundation with her inheritance from Mac, which she’d come into possession of earlier that year when she turned twenty-one. One of the programs the foundation had sponsored this year was an early literacy program for low-income families in D.C. aimed at providing books and encouraging families to read with their children.
For some reason, Helen had taken on herself the responsibility for finding the sucker who would dress up like Santa to give the books to children at the Christmas program.
Which meant, of course, that Cyrus was the sucker.
But it was over now, at least. And Helen had been bubbling over with excitement, joy, and amusement for the last two hours. So there was that too.
Cyrus was about to shed his big red jacket when the door of the little room flew open without benefit of a knock.
“Hey,” he objected, “A little privacy, please. I was changing clothes.”
“Sorry,” Helen said, still grinning with a lovely, luminous glow. “I’ll close the door then.”
She did close the door, but she didn’t leave the room first. Instead, she flung herself at him with an exuberant hug. “You were wonderful,” she said, her voice muffled by the fuzzy red fabric at his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Cyrus.”
He hugged her back, frustrated that he couldn’t really feel her because of his thick costume and the amount of padding he wore beneath the jacket to widen his girth. The discomfort of the last hour vanished in the absolute sincerity of her gratitude and enjoyment.
He would do a lot more than dress up as Santa if it would make Helen happy.
“Was it too bad?” she asked, pulling away from him at last. She wore a red velvet jacket, stylish jeans, ankle boots, and an elf cap on her long hair.
She looked utterly irresistible.
“I managed to muddle through,” he replied, feigning grumbling. “You better appreciate it. And you’re going to owe me for a long time.”
She just laughed and helped him unbutton the jacket, pulling it off his shoulders with more enthusiasm than care. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You just owe me a little bit less.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, just dropped the jacket on the floor and then busily started working on unfastening his padding. When she’d gotten the padding off him, he was left wearing a white t-shirt, oversized red pants, and black suspenders.
He gazed down at her, feeling something tugging at his heart that was very familiar to him.
She glanced up at him, laughter still flickering in her eyes, but her expression changed when she saw his face. Her eyes softened. Her mouth softened. Her hands grew still on his chest, her fingers curling around his suspenders.
Cyrus told himself to be very careful. To be very careful. He was approaching an incredibly dangerous situation, and the hunger in his body and his heart would only lead him where he’d vowed not to go.
Helen swayed toward him, turning her face up toward his. Her green eyes were full of affection and what looked like desire, and her full lips had parted slightly.
Cyrus’s conscientious resolutions disintegrated, and he leaned toward her with a muffled groan. Her arms flew up around his neck without hesitation, and she pressed her little body against his as he sank into a kiss.
His body hummed with excitement, feeling, and desire, and he tangled his hands in her long, soft hair. Her mouth was very eager against his, and she enthusiastically rubbed her breasts and hips against him, causing his body to tighten with delicious need.
When he felt his groin hardening dangerously, he jerked his mouth away, unwrapping her arms from his neck and taking a few clumsy steps back.
He gasped as he tried to pull himself together and rein in the need he couldn’t seem to control.
Helen looked even more delicious than before, with her hair mussed, her cap askew, and her cheeks deeply flushed. “Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all. “You looked so yummy still half-dressed as Santa I couldn’t resist.”
He swallowed and tried to speak, but couldn’t make himself say anything coherent.
This was happening far too often. For the last few months, they’d been kissing more and more frequently. Helen would act like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was completely natural for them to stop and kiss without warning and without explanation. She never wanted to talk about it—she’d just go about her business afterwards.
And Cyrus was having trouble remembering why kissing her was so wrong.
On her twenty-first birthday, he’d gone way too far. They’d gone out to dinner with friends and his dad to celebrate. When he’d taken her home, she suggested he stick around to watch a movie, and he’d seen no reason to refuse. Helen had cuddled up beside him on the couch. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened, even though he’d tortured himself by going through every detail in his mind over and over again afterwards.
They’d just suddenly started to kiss, and he hadn’t been strong enough to pull away like he should. So the kissing had deepened. And soon she was straddling his lap and he was pushing up her top so he could stroke and then suckle her breasts. She was writhing and moaning with pleasure at his touch, and the sound was absolutely intoxicating. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Until he’d slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her pants and stroked her intimately.
He could still remember how she’d felt—warm and wet and clinging. She’d gasped with increasing urgency as he’d caressed her. And then she was shuddering, shaking, crying out with release as she came hard around his fingers.
She’d collapsed on him afterwards, hot and gasping and pliant. And he’d had to admit to himself—even through the desperate haze of his lust—that he was holding everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever needed, everything he’d ever loved in his arms.
But then he’d remembered he couldn’t have her. She’d always been a kid to him, and it was just wrong to bring her to shuddering climax like that. She’d always been small, bright, precious, innocent—he shouldn’t be thinking about her in any other way.
So he’d had to thrust her off him and scramble to his feet, hard and hot and sweating. He’d had to leave her alone, even though he knew it would hurt her.
He’d expected her to be angry with him. Wasn’t sure she’d be able to forgive him for treating her like that. But the next morning she’d acted like it had never happened and had been her normal, cheerful, affectionate self.
Six months ago, he’d been sure he was right to resist. Helen could never be his—not the way he wanted. Life wouldn’t give him everything.
But now he just wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem so wrong, and he couldn’t quite remember all of his well-rehearsed arguments about why he had to resist even thinking about her that way.
He wasn’t even sure when he’d stopped thinking of her as a kid, but he definitely didn’t anymore.
“So do you think it went well?” she asked, breaking into his reverie.
Cyrus blinked. The kiss had definitely gone well, but he wasn’t quite sure that’s what she was asking.
“The Christmas program,” she added. “Do you think it went well?”
“Yes,” he said, honestly. “The children and parents all seemed to enjoy it, and you all were able to give out a remarkable number of books.”
She beamed at him. “I think it we
nt well too.”
Cyrus was sometimes awed by Helen. He knew exactly what kind of neglected, isolated childhood she’d had, and he couldn’t imagine how she’d turned into such a generous, compassionate woman. She’d poured all of her passion and intellect into her foundation, and he knew it would accomplish so much good for so many years simply because of who she was.
He’d never be good like she was.
She sighed and her expression changed. For a moment, she looked almost poignant. “I’ve been thinking about my parents a lot today—maybe it was watching so many different kinds of parents with their children. I’m so glad I still remember them. It’s important to me to know that…” She trailed off, suddenly looking a little self-conscious.
“To know what?” he prompted softly, strangely touched by her confession.
“To know that they loved me.”
Cyrus gazed at her for a long time, forgetting about the setting, forgetting that he was still wearing the damned Santa pants, suspenders, and boots.
“You know I love you too, don’t you?” he asked, the question voiced spontaneously and without conscious volition.
Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes seemed to glisten with tears. Then she grinned. “Yeah. I’ve known that for a while.” After a pause, she added, “You know I love you too, right?”
His chest almost ached with the feeling, but the words weren’t a surprise, although she’d never said them before.
He had no idea why, but he’d known she loved him.
And he told himself he was allowed to love her.
They’d always been almost like family.
She reached out to hug him, and he hugged her back, able to feel her soft body against him now that the padding was gone.
As she drew away, he couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d been wrong all this time. As miraculous and unthinkable as it seemed, maybe he wasn't just allowed to love her. Maybe he was allowed to love her all the way.
Eight Christmas Eves Page 12
