by Lori Wilde
It felt nice, this domestic scene, and his mind started spinning into the future, imagining more nights like this.
Thin ice.
He was treading on thin ice and he knew it.
Didn’t care.
And that right there shocked him enough to fake a yawn and say, “It’s eleven-fifteen. How’d it get so late?”
“It’s not that late.” Paige stepped closer, draped the kitchen towel she’d used to dry dishes over the oven door handle.
She plunked down on the couch, reached out to scratch Fritzi’s belly.
Cash sauntered over to join her.
“It’s cool how he can do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“How can he sleep when I’m rubbing his belly?”
“I don’t know,” Cash said. “I certainly couldn’t.”
“I used to be like that.” She sighed.
“Slept while someone rubbed your belly?”
“Yeah.” She sounded wistful. “When I was a kid. With my dad. When I’d get a tummy ache, he’d lie down beside me and rub my belly. Put me right to sleep.”
“Your mother didn’t do it?”
“She’s not very nurturing. She had all these conditions. Dad, on the other hand, loved me unconditionally.”
“Did you have a lot of tummy aches?”
“I used to worry about dad’s job. That he was going to die in a fire. I was a shy kid with a lot of anxiety and not too many friends. But I’ve been gabbing about myself all night. Tell me about you.”
“Didn’t you read about me in your Google search?”
“I did,” she said, a smile in her voice. The kind of smile that made a man understand just how lonely he was. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Look,” he said, more to distract her than anything else. “It’s snowing.”
“What? Really?” She let out a delighted squeal, looked over a sleeping Fritzi, and out the window at the dark night.
Giving Cash a terrific view of her bottom encased in a fetching pair of blue jeans.
“So beautiful.” She breathed audibly.
“Yes,” he said, his gaze trained on her fanny. “Yes, it is.”
She turned back, beaming so widely he heard music in his head. Sweet music sparked by her stunning smile. “You know what’s missing?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The moment was perfect.
“What?” he asked.
“Decorations.” She swept a hand at the houseboat. “I know it’s a temporary rental, but there’s nothing here that celebrates the season. You need a tree and lights and—”
He shook his head. “I haven’t really celebrated Christmas in twenty years.”
“At all?” She looked as if that was the saddest thing she’d ever heard.
“I go to parties and attend events.”
“Things other people put on.”
“Yeah. I don’t bother with decorating.”
“No home traditions?”
“I’m not a traditional guy.”
“What about Simone?”
He wasn’t surprised she knew about Simone. Their breakup had been rich tabloid fodder. But it felt weird that Paige already knew so much about his background and he knew nothing of hers. “She wasn’t really into all that stuff either.”
“Do you think that’s part of the reason she left you?”
He laughed. “Because I didn’t decorate?”
“Because you didn’t have any traditions. Because you keep things on the surface.”
Her insight surprised him. “No. Simone is as allergic to tradition as I am, maybe more so. For her, everything needs to be shiny and new and different. Come to think of it, she made me look like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“That’s one of my traditions,” Paige said.
“Huh?”
“Watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Dad and I—” She broke off suddenly, tears misting her eyes. She sniffed, blinked.
Cash’s gut sloshed. “You don’t watch it with your father anymore?”
Her smile was a soggy affair, wet and halfhearted. “Dad passed away eighteen months ago.”
“Ah, Paige.” Cash sucked in a deep breath, understood that particular burn of grief. Losing a parent when you were young messed you up for life. “That’s rough.”
She shrugged, hopped off the couch, twirled around the living area. “You could put a tree here, and string some lights from the ceiling, and—”
“Is it really worth the effort? I’m only going to be here through the end of the month.”
“Of course it’s worth the effort,” she said with such earnestness a mixed-up sensation jiggled his chest. “We’re talking about the magic of Christmas.”
“You do know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus, right?” he teased.
“Just because there’s no actual Santa Claus is no reason to pooh-pooh the spirit of Christmas.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“You’re not really a Grinch.” Her eyes shone like a torch, clear and bright. “I saw how much you enjoyed playing with the kids at the day care, and how you got into those Christmas songs at the Music Review.”
“You were the Grinch on that occasion,” he said, mildly surprised by the tenderness in his voice.
“Hey . . .” She winked a natural easy wink. “I eventually got on board.”
“Because I didn’t give you any other choice.” He ran a thumbnail over his chin, slanted a sidelong glance her way.
She bounced back onto the couch cushion, peered out at the snow again. Fritzi opened one eye, gave her a “dream-killer” look, huffed, and rolled over.
“Maybe it’ll stick this time,” she said. “The ground is cold enough. Fingers crossed it sticks.” She crossed the index and middle fingers of both hands.
He chuckled.
She turned to look at him, her features beautifully lit by the gas fireplace. “What?”
“You light up when you talk about snow.”
“I grew up west of Abilene. We didn’t often get snow. I love the stuff.”
“I get it. I was born in Rankin. That’s even farther west than Abilene.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I saw that on your Wiki page. But you lived in Nashville with your mom until you were ten, right? I’m jealous. I bet you got lots of snow every winter.”
“Snow is romantic in theory,” he said. “Not so much when you have to shovel it to get out of your driveway.”
“The only place that ever happens in Texas is in the panhandle. But I’d love to experience that kind of snowfall at least once in my life.” She turned to face him, planted her bottom on the cushion.
“You’re young,” he said. “Give it time. No telling where the future might take you.”
A troubled look spread across her face and she glanced away. He’d hit on a sore spot. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“The future’s kind of murky. I like to focus on right now.”
She hooked him with that. He was intrigued. Most people lived in tomorrow or yesterday. “Why?”
Her lips pressed into a straight line, and she gave a short, hard shake of her head.
“What was his name?” Cash growled.
“Who?”
“The man who hurt you so badly that you can’t let any guy get close to you.”
A startled eyebrow shot up on her forehead. She was surprised he’d hit so close to the bone. “Who says I don’t let any guy get close?”
“You’re keeping me at arm’s length.”
She chuffed. Paused. Chuffed again. “You say that as if you’re just an ordinary guy, Cash Colton. But you’re not. You’re rich and famous and—”
“Screw that. I wasn’t always rich and famous. It’s just an act, a costume. Not who I am inside.”
“Who are you, then?” she asked, tilting her head in an impossibly adorable way.
He wanted scoop her into his arms, take her to bed, and make love to her until
dawn. But he knew what she was doing. Stalling. Shifting things back on him. Trying to distract him from digging deep, getting answers to the questions that had been pestering him.
“Start with his name,” Cash said, keeping his voice firm and steady, hopefully letting her know she was safe with him. He slid his arm under her shoulders, tucked her closer to him. Found it encouraging that she didn’t pull away.
“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice curled into a tight ball.
“It does if that man is what’s stopping you from giving me a chance. If this thing is going to work between us, we have to be honest with each other. Trust, Freckles, is the name of the game.”
She gave him a look that said she never expected anything to work between them; she was bemused that things had gotten this far. That look sent a sorrowful ache through his bones. Somewhere, somehow, she’d been drop-kicked through the goal post of life.
“Well?” he prodded.
Silence settled over them, thick and solid. It lasted so long Cash figured she’d written him off, written them off, and that she wasn’t going to open up.
Fritzi whimpered in his sleep, his little legs running fast to nowhere. That brought a smile to her face. “Probably chasing rabbits in his dreams.”
Another stretch of silence.
A cell phone buzzed. They both jumped.
“That’s me.” She dug her phone from her back pocket. Saw the number. Made a face. Switched off her phone and set it on the coffee table.
Cash tensed. “Unwanted caller?”
“Probably a wrong number,” she said, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. She was hiding something.
It was none of his damn business, but he couldn’t help nudging her. “Paige,” he murmured. “Talk to me . . .” Cash took a deep breath, and because it was Paige, he decided to say something that went against his don’t-ever-beg-for-anything policy. “Please.”
Another long graveyard silence.
“Never mind,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. If she wasn’t ready to confide in him, she wasn’t ready. He wouldn’t push.
She hiccupped.
He placed his palm over her hand. “It’s okay, really. You don’t owe me a thing.”
Tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes and she managed to hoist up a tiny smile. “His name was Randy Pennington.”
Cash sat there, saying nothing. This was all about her. He would give her the time and space to tell her story the way it needed to unravel.
“Or rather, that’s the name I knew him by. Turns out his real name was Ludesko Thig and he was originally from Romania.”
“Awful name. I can see why he changed it.”
“It’s a terrible name, yes, but then again he was a terrible person. He had several aliases.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“No, his English was impeccable.”
“How did you find out his real name?”
“The cops.”
“I don’t like how this is sounding,” Cash grumbled, knots building a Lego town in his gut. “Not one damn bit.”
She reeled in a long breath. Held it for a full thirty seconds, released it in a slow hiss through clenched teeth. “It’s such a long story I don’t even know where to start.”
Reaching up, he toyed with her hair, sliding it through his fingers. He loved the floral smell. The silky feel. Loved the smell and feel of her.
“Take your time.”
“I hope you’re not sleepy, because that long story? You’re about to get it.” She shifted on the couch, faced him. Tucked her knees to her chin, folded her arms around her knees.
He turned so he was facing her, sat cross-legged. “I’ve got nowhere else to be and I’ve only got ears for your sweet voice.”
“That came off cheesy.” She laughed.
“Cheddar or mozzarella?”
She laughed again, her face alive and hopeful. He felt successful for lightening the mood. Her eyes drilled down, narrowing in on him. There was a lot of depth behind those eyes.
“I’ve become wary of compliments,” she confessed. “They aren’t always sincere.”
“Paige,” he said, putting starch in his voice. “I’m completely serious. You fascinate me.”
She ducked her head, looked sweet and shy. What had made her so leery?
He felt a protectiveness rise up in him, hot and fierce. He wanted to slay any and all dragons for her. Dispatch them straight to hell.
“When I was fifteen my mother had an affair with a woman she worked for. She divorced my father, left me behind.” Her eyes clouded, the icy color of pain brittle with age. “Moved in with this other woman.”
He paused a moment, giving her revelation the time it deserved. “That must have been a blow.”
“Mom thinks I hold it against her because she’s with a woman,” Paige said. “But that doesn’t matter to me. I guess I was nursing a bit of a grudge that she fell in love with Pamela when Dad needed her the most. She and Pam live in Aspen now.”
“Why didn’t your mom take you with her?”
“I wanted to stay with Dad.” Paige’s voice turned slick and solid, coming faster and heavier. Ice skating over the cracked foundation of her childhood.
“How come your mom hasn’t helped you out of your financial difficulties?”
Paige’s chin notched up. “She doesn’t know the extent of it. Call me proud, but I got myself into this mess. I can get myself out.”
“What happened with your dad?”
“The month before my mother left him, my father was diagnosed with advanced chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He was a fireman, and he was part of a local team that went to Ground Zero after 9–11. He also smoked cigars, which wasn’t smart. I’m not defending that, but he didn’t deserve to go out the way he did.” She pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth, tucked her shoulders inward.
“That sucks,” he said vehemently. He knew that particular brand of pain. A parent with a lingering illness, partially brought on by poor life choices. Hated that Paige had suffered through that too.
“It does, but that’s life. Shitty things happen to good people all the time. You have to find a way to rise above it and keep on going.”
True enough. He had the same philosophy. His own childhood had been pretty rocky too, but he refused to let it define him. He wasn’t a victim.
“Dad was forced to go on disability. Mom relinquished her part of the house in the divorce, so we had a roof over our heads at least, but it was a struggle.”
“You became your father’s caretaker.”
Another shrug. “Not in the beginning. Even though Dad couldn’t work, he could still take care of himself. The hard part came in the later stages. I was a daddy’s girl. I resented my mother for not putting her life on hold to stay with Dad because he was sick. I came to realize that was unrealistic of me and I’ve forgiven her. It was tough sledding between us for a while, but we’ve repaired our relationship. Although I don’t get a chance to see Mom as often as I would like. We’ve got plans to get together in the new year when she and Pam get back from a ski trip in the Alps.”
He reached over, touched her arm, briefly, lightly.
She seemed to draw courage from his touch. Raised her head. “Dad lived for ten years after his diagnosis. He wanted me to go to college after high school, but I felt I couldn’t leave him alone. Mom’s partner offered to pay for a live-in nurse, but neither Dad nor I wanted to be beholden to Pam. I stayed at home and got a job working as a day care assistant. I promised Dad I would go to college after . . . well, you know.”
What a tough young woman!
“It was rough at the end. Watching my big strong father waste away. He was the world to me.” Her voice caught and her lip trembled.
Cash was sorry he pushed her to talk. Every cell in his body urged him to kiss her and make everything better. But as much as he might wish he could, he couldn’t rewrite her history with kisses.
“M
y Grammie MacGregor, dad’s mom, taught me how to dance,” she said, a wry smile springing to her face. “Grammie MacGregor danced in a Vegas review when she was in her early twenties. Later, after she married Grampa, she ran a little dance studio in Abilene, taught my dad and Uncle Floyd ballroom dancing. My dad started dancing with me when I was a toddler. I’d stand on his shoes and he’d whirl me around the room.”
“No wonder you’re so good at it. Dancing is in your DNA.” Just like music was in his.
“The happiest moments of my life were when I was dancing with my daddy.” Her eyes misted over and she dabbed at them with her fingers.
“And so when he died, you stopped dancing,” Cash guessed.
“No,” she said. “I threw myself into dancing. It was my escape. But that’s also how I met Randy. I’d advertised for a dance partner who I could enter competitions with and he answered.”
Cash winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about your dad. I can be dumbass sometimes. Forgive me.”
“If you’ll forgive me for getting so upset at you.” She moistened her lips. “Turns out that night at the Music Review flipped a switch and after dancing with you I felt like my old self for the first time since . . .”
“What?”
She gulped, stared down at her hands cradled in her lap. “Randy ruined dancing for me.”
“Ah, that asshat.” Instinctively, Cash doubled up his fist. He didn’t know what the jerk had done to her, but from her skittishness, he knew it was significant.
Paige plucked at the hem of her shirt. “After Dad died . . . well, his medical bills wiped out any savings he had, but he’d left me the house free and clear. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in Abilene, especially since my uncle, cousins, and grandmother were here in Twilight.”
“Understandable.”
“I put the house on the market about the time oil and gas were booming in Taylor country and oilfield workers were desperate for family housing. I was lucky. It sold quickly for well over market value. It was more than enough to pay for college and then some. I put the money in the bank until I could decide how to invest it, and where I wanted to go to school, and what I should study or if I should even go to school, because I was thinking about opening my own dance studio. I took a temporary job as a waitress and I was renting an apartment in town. Just something to tide me over until all my father’s affairs were settled and I could decide what I wanted out of life.”
