“No kidding?” She drew her hand down the bumpy ridge of his spine, wanting to lie with him, wondering why he was suddenly so into presents. “Coincidentally I love you, too, Link Baxter.”
“Yeah? So where’s my present?”
She rolled her eyes and got up to forage in their closet for the gift she’d gotten him, wrapped in a plain business envelope and a ribbon.
He thanked her with a kiss, tore it open, stared in disbelief, then up at her as if she’d lost her mind but he couldn’t love her more even without it. “A membership to a mail video service? You want me to watch more movies?”
“I want you to do what makes you happy. And I want to watch them with you, too.” She made a face. “Uh…some of them.”
He laughed and pulled her in for a long, grateful hug. “Thank you, Lucy. This means a lot more to me than what it is, if that makes any sense.”
She nodded and traced the strong, straight line of his collarbone with a shaky finger. “I’m sorry retroactively for all the times I—”
“Shh. None of that. We’ve both messed up. We’re looking forward now.” He put his finger on her lips. “I’ll show you what I mean. You ready for my present?”
“Yes. I’m ready.” She laughed for no reason but happiness, heart way full of love, feeling as if the world was nothing but endless possibilities again. For the two of them.
He leaned over and rummaged under the mattress. “It’s something I should have given you a long time ago.”
She flinched comically. “The boot?”
“About as opposite from that as you can get.” He straightened and handed her a black velvet jeweler’s box.
Lucy stared at it, then up at him, tears wasting no time springing into her eyes. A ring. Marriage. This was why he wanted to be home for Christmas Eve—and she almost didn’t let him. How many other times had she stood in the way of her own happiness and his?
Still he loved her, flaws and all, open and accepting. That was a real gift, one that truly humbled her.
“A lot of things have changed since we first met, Lucy. A lot of things. We’ve grown up and done most of that growing together. We’ve also managed to iron out some speed bumps along the way, a lot of them in the past few weeks.”
The tears started dripping off Lucy’s chin. She clutched the box, hardly daring to open it.
“But one thing has never changed.” His voice deepened, grew husky. He got off the bed and knelt next to it, wearing only a smile and a look of absolute adoration. “I love you, Lucy Marlow. Marry me, be my wife, stay with me forever.”
“I will.” She stared at him, nearly sobbing, and hiccuped. “Yes.”
He climbed back on the bed for an endless wet, salty kiss, then drew back and tapped the black velvet lid. “So open it.”
She opened the box and blinked at the stunning pear-cut diamond, sparkling and wavering through her tears. “It’s beautiful, Link. When did you get it?”
“You won’t believe me.” He grinned wickedly. “The day you asked me to cheat with you.”
“Why then?”
“Before that, we were on a slow boat to disaster. More like roommates than lovers. I thought you were having an affair with that guy at work.”
“Josh? God no, that was—”
“I know what it was now. Back then, I didn’t. But when you wanted me in a hotel, it was such a crazy, desperate idea, I knew he was nothing. I knew you still cared, that you still wanted us to work out.” He took the ring, slid it reverently onto her finger and squeezed her hand. “And I knew that we would.”
“I knew we would, too.” She gazed rapturously and reached for him; he wrapped her in his arms.
“Will you marry me soon, Luce? In January?”
“Yes, of course.” She touched his cheek, stroked his beautiful male jaw, unable to believe how far they’d come in such a short time, after so many months fearing they were doomed, knowing they’d keep the path they’d cleared to each other open from now on. “And when we have a baby and need space for a nursery?”
“Mmm?” To his credit he got only slightly pop-eyed with terror.
Lucy grinned and poked him in the shoulder. “I’m going to let you rearrange all the furniture.”
Christmas Eve
WHAT IS REAL?
How can you tell?
Say you spend the night with someone and the sex is perfect and the conversation is perfect and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. The next morning you wake up and realize you don’t know this person at all. And you’re faced with the fact that all that powerful magic, all that passion, that deep connection, is based only on your fantasy of who you wanted that person to be.
What if you tell yourself to get real, but the morning after feels less real than the night before?
Then what?
What if Aimee Wellington’s book is a bestseller and makes a lot of people genuinely happy?
What if we all admit that Yum-Kake brand Chocolate Kreme KupKakes don’t taste anything like chocolate or cream, but we like them anyway?
All things and all people should come with labels. One hundred percent artificial ingredients. One hundred percent real. Fifty percent artificial ingredients but with pleasurable benefits outweighing the detriments. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent bullshit.
Who can be the Get Real labeler? I thought it was me. Now I’m not so sure. I’ll be on vacation for a couple of weeks. Maybe some of you will have answers for me when I get back. Merry Christmas.
Krista gazed mournfully at her blog post. Her readers would be furious. People expected her to know, to care, to take a stand, to spare no sarcasm where sarcasm was due.
Right now it was due at herself.
Krista Marlow seemed to think that having sex in the dark with a hunky guy made for a pretty good fantasy. She even imagined that she’d fallen in love. When exactly did she expect to Get Real herself? How was she different than Aimee Wellington, launching herself headfirst into whatever came up without stopping to check it out or think it through or at very least make sure she knew what she was doing?
Worse, once she got real, once she realized what a fool she’d made out of herself, she still couldn’t stop wanting him back—correction, wanting the fantasy of him back. Theoretically all she had to do was find someone else and transfer the excitement, the newness, the thrill of being desired, to a man she could be Krista Marlow with from the beginning, not Jane Doe.
Except she had been Krista Marlow from the beginning with Seth, not just because he’d known her identity. He’d wanted to know more about her, to understand more about her than anyone she’d ever been with, and she’d given him nothing but herself from that first night in the cabin. Most men just wanted you to know about them. And the testosterone surge at the beginning of a relationship made them pump themselves up to ridiculous lengths. Bragging about sexploits, bragging about physical prowess, intelligence, accomplishments…penis length if nothing else.
But John—Seth—hadn’t postured, hadn’t bragged. The sick irony of the situation was that unless her instinct for recognizing sincerity had misfired, he hadn’t attempted to conceal a single aspect of himself…except who he was.
So did that make what they’d shared more real? Or, given who he turned out to be and his probable motives for gaining her favor, less?
She didn’t know. She’d mulled the situation over and over in her head for the last week and a day until she was ready to scream. She’d turned in the holiday-getaway article to Budget Travel magazine, the article about cereal and the proposal for a “cranky consumer” column to Woman’s Week magazine. Submitted a quirky, fun piece asking a big Why? of people who fell madly in love with movie stars to Today’s Girl.
Since then she’d been trying to come up with other ideas, casting her mind for anything that seemed a likely topic for a diatribe. Tanning salons, hair dye, plastic surgery. People wanting to look like anything but what they actually looked like. Why not just accept that nature made you the w
ay you are?
But she worked out regularly—wasn’t that her way of not gaining the weight she’d gain if she ate as much as she naturally did? She’d spent thousands having the hair on her legs permanently removed—no more shaving, hurray! But wasn’t that artifice of a different kind? Was she the pot calling the kettle black? The resident of a glass house hefting a stone?
Stagnation.
She’d turned in the review of a new play the day before and her editor had told her the full-time staff position would definitely open up in the new year, when the current reviewer retired. For the first time she’d actually been interested. Excited at the thought of steady work, of building a career in one place, tired of the scattered life. Maybe she’d been a slightly altered version of Seth’s wandering man, but she was ready to settle down. Now she had to find some way to adjust her dream of settling down to exclude him.
After their Romeo and Juliet balcony scene had deteriorated to Lord and Lady Macbeth, she’d been on fire with the outrage of betrayal. Seth Wellington was wrong, untrustworthy, manipulative. Krista Marlow right, used, the victim.
Clear as crystal—until the crystal shattered and sliced her with the pain of missing him. The phone conversation with Lucy, who’d practically taken Seth’s side, had only confused her more. What would she have done in his shoes? Would she have clung to the darkness any less tenaciously? What if his feelings had grown to feel as real as hers did?
The phone rang and she roused herself from her computer-chair brooding and reached for the receiver, trying not to think about it being Seth, because it wouldn’t be, so get over it already.
“Hey, merry Christmas Eve.” Lucy’s cheery voice made Krista want to cry.
“Hey, Luce.”
“Uh-oh. No holiday spirit?”
“I’m just…tired. Had a nap. I’m about to head to Mom’s.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Link and I aren’t going.”
“You’re not?” Krista pushed out of her chair. She’d missed the Christmas Eve family event a few times, but never Lucy. “Are you okay? Is everything okay?”
“I’ll say.” Lucy laughed giddily. “We’re having a private celebration.”
“He bought you a ring!” The last word came out on a shriek.
“Yes, can you believe it? We’re getting married next month.”
“Next month!” Krista squealed. “Lucy, that’s fabulous! Amazing!”
“See what hotel sex can do? I bet you’re next with Seth.”
“Right.” Krista’s smile faded. She went to the window, saw couples and families strolling happily down the garlanded beauty of Charles Street as if they were posing for photo ops. She wanted to stick out her tongue.
“You haven’t called him, have you.”
“Lucy…”
“Mom and Dad want to go out tonight since Link and I won’t be there. I gave them our present early and got them a last-minute reservation at the Copley. Either you go with them and play third wheel or pick up the phone and try for what you really want.”
Right. Just like that. “It’s not that easy, Lucy. I don’t even know which man I fell for or why or—”
Lucy guffawed. “Listen to you! Guess what, Krista! It is that easy. Black-and-white, just the way you like it. What felt real? Deep down, where it counts?”
Krista closed out the Norman Rockwell scene outside and thought about her time with John Smith. Deep down? She’d sensed from their first meeting he wasn’t a lunatic or a danger to her physically. At the Ritz she’d finally cleared her mind to a place that felt more real, more the essence of who she was than anything she’d ever felt before. And in that very clear place, he’d been with her. On the balcony she felt he understood her and her passions better than anyone ever had.
Was that love when you could connect that completely to another person?
“It felt real with him.” Her voice came out a terrified whisper.
“Exactly. Don’t you dare stand in your own way or I’m coming over there to kick some wimpy Krista butt.”
Krista listened to her sister, newly confident, strong, clear about what she wanted—but then, she’d always been clear about Link. Even when their relationship seemed to have all but crumbled into hopelessness.
Was it that easy? Pick up the phone, hi, hello, how are you, let’s find out what this means?
Her eyes opened. Signs of life flowed through her veins for the first time in days. Except…“It’s Christmas Eve. What are the odds he’ll even be free?”
Lucy groaned. “Krista, you don’t know the first thing about love. Trust me. If you call wanting to see him, he’ll be free. Now go do it. I’m calling back in two minutes, and if the phone isn’t busy, I’m calling him for you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Would, too.”
“No way.”
“Truce, Krista.” She laughed. “And good luck, sweetheart.”
“Truce. Merry Christmas. And congratulations, Lucy. To Link also.”
She hung up the phone, flushed, nervous as hell, and let out a stupid giggle of fear and excitement. It wasn’t this simple. It couldn’t be this simple.
She dialed his number, pacing forward, hung up on the first ring. Dialed again, pacing back, made it to two rings, hung up again. Dialed a third time standing by the window looking out at Christmas.
This time she put the receiver to her ear and waited.
15
KRISTA STOOD OUTSIDE Seth Wellington’s extremely luxurious harborside condo building, shivering. Yes, it was cold; big, fat, peaceful flakes of snow had started drifting down from the heavens like God’s perfect Christmas decoration. But most of her trembling had nothing to do with the temperature or the beauty of the evening or the occasion of Christmas Eve.
Seth hadn’t answered when she called earlier—she’d had to leave a nervous message on his machine—but he’d called her back twenty minutes later. She’d picked up the phone, sure it was him, and his voice, deep, resonant and familiar coming over the line, had sent up such violent waves of longing she’d feared capsizing completely.
“Krista?” The same voice came over the intercom now, crackly, distorted but him.
“Yes.” Her shivering increased even after the buzz sounded and she pushed into the warm, silent building, all marble and columns, decorated for the season with gold urns of greenery, white frosted branches and stems of red berries.
The elevator waited; she walked on, heels clicking too loudly, clutching the silly but appropriate present she’d bought on the way over, not wanting to show up empty-handed on Christmas Eve.
This was the right thing, coming over tonight. If Krista had decided to spend the evening out with her parents, she’d be climbing the walls. One way or the other, she needed to resolve these feelings—though, of course, she preferred one way to the other by about a million to one.
The elevator arrived at the fifth floor. Krista blew out a nervous breath and pasted on a polite smile, having no idea how she’d respond to him when the doors rolled open.
Though since they were rolling open now, she was about to find out.
He stood in the foyer, tall, handsome, sexy as hell in black pants and a white shirt with green and gray that caught the hazel hues in his eyes. Sexy as hell…but a stranger. A man she’d seen on television, son of a man who’d taken his parents’ modest business and turned it into a booming success.
“Merry Christmas.” He looked serious, slightly apprehensive, as if he didn’t know whether to take her in his arms, shake her hand or bring up a protective force field.
Maybe all of the above.
“Merry Christmas.” She took an awkward step out of the elevator, feeling like a teenager on a blind date.
“Come in.” He gestured her into the familiar space, the elegant gray and black and burgundy softened and warmed by a Christmas tree and a fire burning in the fireplace.
“You decorated.”
“Aimee insisted.” He looked around as if t
he view surprised him. “I’m glad she did. It’s a nice touch.”
“Definitely.” She walked into the room and stood clutching the box she’d brought him, pretending to admire the decorations, wondering how she was going to live through the strain of the evening.
“Can I take your coat?” He came right up behind her, standing too close, hands laid on her shoulders, and suddenly he was John Smith again, and she closed her eyes, went into hormonal overdrive, wanting to lean back against him, feel his hands on her, his body—
“Krista?”
“What?”
“Your coat?”
“Oh. Yes.” She had to clear her throat and put the present on his glass coffee table. “Thank you.”
She lowered her shoulders; he took the coat off and she heard the swish of the material landing on a sofa or chair.
He didn’t move away. “Turn around.”
She turned reluctantly, dreading the expected jolt of recognition combined with a corresponding jolt of non-recognition.
“Look at me.”
She looked into his eyes, trying to see the person she’d imagined he’d be and, of course, failing.
“I want us to try again.” His gaze held hers earnestly. “If you agree, I want to start over, either as strangers—”
“We are strangers.”
“Only by sight.”
She lowered her head, studied the narrow line of her pointy-toed shiny black shoes on his Oriental rugs. He’d never seen her feet. They’d been beyond intimate several times and he had no idea what her body looked like.
“Either as strangers or…?” she prompted.
“Or as lovers.” The deep voice just over her head made her look up. Looking up made her see Seth Wellington.
She didn’t want to see Seth Wellington. She wanted to see John Smith. She didn’t even know what John Smith looked like, because John Smith wasn’t real…which didn’t seem to stop her wanting him.
Oh crap.
She was a basket case.
“Do you need time to think about it?”
“Maybe that’s a good idea.”
“Okay.”
She expected him to step back, give her room, literally as well as figuratively. Instead he tipped her chin up and caught her lips in a surprise kiss. She closed her eyes—the better not to see you with, my dear—and then, oh, she couldn’t help kissing him back, feeling the familiar, smelling his scent, touching the tantalizing firmness of his body.
All I Want… Page 20
