Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

by Carly Alexander

  Yawning, I thought about crawling into bed beside him, but that would be way too comfy. Instead, I called the desk to leave a wake-up call, then curled into the room’s only chair with my coat over me. How long had it been since I’d pulled an all-nighter? I tried to calculate as I turned on the television and flipped through the channels of Sky-TV

  I would get Leo to the airport on time. But, good friend that I was, I would hold this one over his head for a long, long time.

  19

  This was not at all the way I’d imagined my reunion with Ian.

  Having found a seat on the train to Falkirk beside a middle-aged man who seemed dedicated to his London Times, I turned and caught my reflection in the window. The girl who stared back at me was scary. Her eyes were swollen like small pink onions. Her hair, suffering static electricity from her hat, seemed determined to stand up straight as if transmitting through the ceiling, and a stress zit was angrily rising on the side of her nose. Who was this pathetic candidate for a makeover?

  I plunked my hat back onto my head and rubbed my face. Okay, maybe a nap on the train, then I’d be sure to lather on makeup in the restroom before we reached my destination.

  The train pulled out of the station, passing through the dark of tunnels. I would stay awake to watch the scenery as we left London, then take a short nap.

  The flickering light over my seat partner’s newspaper was the last thing I remembered when I woke up, rocking with the motion of the train. Outside the landscape resembled a moonscape. Trees and fields and buildings were covered with snow, and flecks of white danced in the air.

  I bolted upright. Where were we? My seat partner had vanished, leaving only a skeletal newspaper strewn in his wake. I had a moment of panic that I’d slept past my stop, but a woman across the aisle brought me up to speed, assuring me that I had plenty of time. I grabbed my cosmetics bag and purse and scooted up the aisle to the W.C. Although I have never been a fan of public restrooms, this one seemed cleaner than I’d expected. I soaped up my hands, splashed warm water on my face, blotted with a paper towel, and set to work.

  God bless Estée Lauder! Clinique is magnifique!

  With a newly drawn face and fluffed-up hair, I emerged from the restroom and took my seat, all too aware of the rising anticipation at seeing Ian. Settling back into my seat, I stared out at the snow-covered hills and trees, the colored lights blinking in sparse intersections, the spires of churches, the edgy profiles of rooftops clustered together. This seemed like a friendly place, a welcoming place. Would Ian and I soon be calling it our home?

  We had certainly started off with a bang, more than a year and a half ago. That hangover had lasted nearly a week. I think I had just been contemplating the thought of sipping a martini once again when Ian had called me to announce that he was back in New York. He wasn’t supposed to be back in New York for months, but Ian had revamped things because he couldn’t wait to see me.

  Meanwhile I had spent that first week since we’d met wondering if he was a dream-come-true or an obnoxious prick who got his jollies getting girls drunk. The night he called I complained bitterly to Jenna as I dressed for dinner. “I don’t remember why I liked him. Wasn’t he kind of loud? Was he really that cute?”

  “You two had a blast together the night you met,” Jenna had said. “But I can’t picture his face. Was he the one with the nose ring?” I held back my scream.

  When he appeared at the door—minus nose ring—I wanted to swoon in his arms. He was definitely more prince charming than girl abuser, and as we ate sushi and salmon at Sushi Taki, the spark between us was obvious. Like the shh! when you strike a match, that’s the way the air crackled when I was with Ian.

  That night I went back to his hotel for a drink, and over brandy he made a joke about showing me his room. To my surprise, I took him up on the offer and we spent the night making love in his monster king-sized bed. It was so unlike me to get physical so fast, since I’d learned after college that sex adds stress to a relationship that isn’t mature. But later I rationalized that Ian and I experienced a speedy evolution; sometimes it happens when you meet your soul mate.

  I thought of the precious days we’d spent together in New York during the past year and a half: jogs along the reservoir, wine tastings in Chelsea, miniature boat races in Central Park. Because of his job and his constant pursuit of an angle for a new television concept, Ian had dragged me to some highly unromantic places. We’d pretended to cruise the Nile from the cockpit of various watercraft at the Boat Show. We had joined a Syrian family’s lavish feast in Brooklyn; though I don’t think the grandma approved of my short skirt and applique nails, she seemed to enjoy my hearty appetite for her homemade humus and meatloaf baked in a scrumptious crust. We had chatted up a man who loops his own rugs at a neighborhood flea market. Ian made me take in New York through his brassy, ballsy perspective. It was a view that I didn’t always care to explore, but it was worth the trip just to be with him.

  I tried to think back to the guys I had dated before Ian, but my mind drew a blank.

  It was as if I didn’t live or breathe before I met him.

  The train went through a suburban town—there were so many more of them than I’d expected in this rural part of northern England—and the snowy parking lot of a large Sainsbury’s opened up before me. Women fought the snow with their shopping carts. Others loaded groceries into their minis while their children drew pictures on the snow-covered windows of the cars.

  I smiled. That could be me in five years, pushing a baby in a grocery cart, dreaming up a delicious concoction for our family dinner. Never mind that I hated cooking; I wanted to be part of the great female fantasy, dammit! I wanted to have a wedding, have a house to clean, spit out a baby, then bite off more than I could chew trying to juggle work and home.

  I wanted it all, dang blast it!

  I must have had a determined expression on my face, because the woman across the aisle glanced at me and bit back her smile.

  “Don’t be worrying. It’s just a bit of snow, is all,” she said.

  “It’s beautiful.” I leaned back from the window and smiled at her. “Really puts me in the holiday spirit.”

  She just nodded as my stop was announced over the speaker. I gathered up my things and trundled toward the door of the slowing train.

  “Falkirk!” the conductor called as we pulled into the small station.

  Snowflakes tickled my face as I stepped onto the open platform and walked toward the little red station house. It was dark, definitely closed, so I walked around it to what seemed to be the main street.

  There stood a sight that seemed to be plucked right out of a snow globe.

  A short, stocky little man in a puffy red down jacket stood at the front of a curved wooden sleigh, stroking the horse on its flank. The horse shook its head, and a chorus of bells jingled in the falling snow. When I stepped forward, the man turned and greeted me with a warm smile.

  “You must be Ms. Madison Greenwood.” With his rosy cheeks and trim white beard, I’d swear the dude was Santa Claus, except that he wore a navy watchcap on his head.

  Or perhaps he was just trying to stay undercover until the big day.

  “That’s me. Do you work for the Newington Inn?”

  He came over and took my rolling suitcase from my hands. “Dearie, I am the Newington Inn. Andrew Newington, at your service.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as he was already loading my things into the sled. “I wasn’t sure you’d get the message to meet my train, but this is quite a greeting. What a beautiful sled.”

  “It’s been in the family for generations,” he said. “Too bad we only get to use it when it snows. Now if you’d be so kind as to climb in, I’ll have you to the inn in no time. The missus has some warm grog waiting for you.” He helped me up into the wooden seat. “I see this is your first visit. Only two things you need to know. Cheap and cheery. That’s our motto. You won’t find much high luxury in these parts, but we do things w
ith a smile.”

  He turned from his seat to wink at me, then clucked to the horse.

  “I’ll remember that,” I said as we slid off into the winter wonderland.

  Cheap and cheery was right. The inn was a renovated Victorian cottage with cute touches and very old plumbing. Our room was charming, with whitewashed molding, diamond-patterned wallpaper, plaid quilt on the double bed, and beveled windows that overlooked “Braveheart country,” as Andrew called it.

  Damn, I knew I should have rented that movie.

  Mrs. Newington gave me a cup of tea in the downstairs parlor, where we would be dining. The room was filled with tables with checkered tablecloths, though tea was served in a cozy sitting area with an overstuffed sofa and armchairs.

  “Would you like a shot of whiskey with that?” she offered.

  “Oh? No, thank you,” I said, not quite ready for a cocktail. “Maybe later.”

  She winked, then swept off over the flagstone floor, which gleamed in the light from the huge hearth. The fire managed to warm the entire room, a welcome source of heat, as the inn itself was drafty. I sipped my tea, absorbing the fact that this was going to be a very casual vacation.

  Okay, I wouldn’t need my pale pink, shoulderless Atelier Versace gown.

  But I had packed jeans and plenty of sweaters, and having dressed to kill for the recent stretch of parties promoting the Moone Gallery’s new exhibit back in New York, it was a welcome relief to be able to kick back in a comfortable, homey old cottage.

  “You know,” I told Mrs. Newington as she skirted past me, “maybe I will take that shot of whiskey.”

  20

  The whiskey did the trick, turning my muscles to warm jelly. Since Ian hadn’t arrived yet, I decided to jump into the shower and revive myself from head to toe. The loo was positively icy. I stepped gingerly over the cold tiles, deciding to make it a quick shower.

  An hour or so later, I was dressed in jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, my hair blown out and curled gently under. It was a good hair day, with the front tips bobbing gently under my chin. I was stretched out on the bed, reading the latest Lisa Jackson novel, when there was a rattling at the door.

  “Ian!” I stood up on the bed and hopped across to jump down in front of him.

  “Hello, luv!” He scooped me into his arms and whirled me around. “Aren’t you a lovely sight.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.” His light brown hair fell into his boyish face, while his ice-blue eyes reminded you this guy was no boy. Ian was a sex goddess’s dream come true. I liked to think of him as the Scottish version of Matt Damon, my own Good Will Hunting.

  “How long have you been here? How was your trip? Did you meet the innkeeper? Seen any of the sights yet? Do you know what they’re serving for dinner?” He rattled off the questions as he propped his satchel on the bed and took out his shaving kit. “Don’t answer me all at once, now, as we’ve got plenty of time to fill in the blanks. I’m going to catch a quick shave before dinner.”

  I rubbed a hand over the stubble on his cheek. “Yes, you’re a bit on the shaggy side.”

  “Wouldn’t want to tear up that alabaster skin of yours,” he said, leaning forward for a quick kiss, then ducking in the bathroom. “So since we’re in the area, I imagine we’ll have to do some of the local tourist things. A few castles, Edinburgh, and Hadrian’s Fucking Wall.”

  “Hadrian’s Fucking Wall?” I sat on the bed, watching him through the doorway as he stood at the sink, rinsing his hands in steaming water. “Is that a part of history—I mean, the fucking aspect? Or is it just a tradition instigated by the local lads?”

  “If you really want to know.” He switched to a pompous, high-pitched voice to explain. “Built by the Roman Emperor Hadrian around 120 A.D., this stone and turf wall marked the boundary of Roman Britain. Hadrian’s goal was to prevent attacks and smuggling by the Picts and Scots.”

  Laughing, I fell back on the bed. “I like that voice. Have you ever considered narrating documentaries?”

  He lathered shaving cream onto his face. “Amazing how a ditch with jumbled stones could warrant so much attention. There are also a few castles nearby, Stirling Castle being one of my favorites . . .”

  I let his voice wash over me as I stretched back on the quilt and wallowed in the thrill of being here with Ian. Something jabbed me in the side, and I noticed that Ian’s satchel had spilled open. I sat up to push his slippers and jeans back in when a flash of foil caught my eye—a small box wrapped in silver and blue foil with a blue bow.

  A gift.

  A small gift.

  A jewelry box.

  A ring box?

  Holding my breath, I gently picked up the package and weighed it in my hands. Yes, it was definitely a ring box.

  Joy surged through my body as Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” exploded in my head.

  It was my Christmas gift—my engagement ring.

  I pressed the package to my breast, warmed by a surge of love for the man who was now critiquing local castles as he shaved in the bathroom mirror. When was he going to ask me to marry him? Would he wait until Christmas Day? I thought of the Tiffany key chain I’d gotten for Ian. It was classy, and his leather key chain was falling apart, but it was a token next to my ring.

  My ring! Not wanting to spoil his surprise, I tucked the gift back into his satchel. This was definitely a moment to treasure. And I knew just how to make the most of it. Moving out of Ian’s line of vision in the bathroom mirror, I pulled off my sweater and jeans. I tugged off my socks, but left on my lacy maroon bra and matching boxers. Then, feeling suave, I stepped into the doorway behind him, moving forward until my face appeared over his shoulder in the mirror.

  His chin was lifted as he swiped off the last patch of shaving cream on his jaw. When he rinsed the razor, I pressed up behind him and swiped off a dab of lather from behind his ear.

  “Mmm,” I sniffed it, then rubbed it behind my ear like a cologne. “Smells good.”

  Ian cocked his head for a better look, then dropped the razor in the sink and spun around to look me up and down. “You’re naked!” he gasped. “Actually, you do have your knickers on.”

  “Of course,” I said, stealing a hand under his sweater to squeeze his amazing pecs. “Naked and shivering. It’s drafty in here.”

  He grinned, his blue eyes stirring my soul. “I have just the thing to warm you up.” He ran his hands over my smooth cotton boxers, then tucked his fingers between my legs firmly, as if implying ownership.

  “I missed you,” he whispered.

  “Mmm.” I lifted his hand and guided it under the waistband. We both groaned as his fingers slid down. “Good Lord, woman, you’re damp. My sweet Scottish mum would be disgraced.”

  “It’s a good thing she’s not here.” I yanked at the clasp of his trousers, eager to feel his bare skin against mine. I wanted him so much—with all my body and soul. And it was an incredible turn-on to know that I would have him now and forever.

  The pace seemed frantic as we kissed and ground against each other and explored warm flesh with eager hands. Ian’s lips were still locked on mine when he lifted me up to sit on the porcelain sink and opened my legs.

  His fingertips circled my clitoris, teasing, watching intently as I fell helpless to the rising heat. “Very nice panties,” he whispered. “Don’t know why anyone would ever build them with a crotch. It makes it so difficult to do this,” he said, easing himself into me.

  “Ooh!” I gasped as he shoved in deeper.

  “Coming already?” He leaned his forehead against mine. “I knew you missed me.”

  “Yes, it’s great,” I admitted. “But I’m not sure what’s more excruciatingly vivid: the orgasm or the frozen porcelain on my butt.”

  “Oh, that! You pampered Yanks overheat the loos, you know.” In a heartbeat, he was lifting me, holding me close so that he was still inside me, and I felt cloaked in wonder at a man who could stay hard while hoisting me in the air at the same t
ime. I wrapped my legs around him and planted my lips on his neck to nibble the smooth flesh there as he stumbled back, out of the loo, and into the cozy bedroom. In a flurry of motion, he was sitting on the bed, and I was atop him, straddling him, wanting to hold him there forever.

  “That’s better,” I said, writhing my hips a little.

  “Mmm.” He sounded so calm, but from the way his brow creased I could see I was causing him exquisite torture.

  Planting my knees on the bed, I took control. I pushed him back so that he was lying on the bed. I pressed my hands against his chest, my fingers splayed over the smooth skin, down to his tight abs. Touching him, seeing his naked chest and shoulders, I felt a new surge of moisture, which I think he felt, too, as he groaned again and lifted his hips toward me in a poignant thrust.

  “I did miss you,” I said as I started to rock over him.

  “Missed you, too,” he groaned, clearly on his way to ecstasy.

  I closed my eyes, riding him gently, then harder, harder. The motion was driving me wild, and I smiled, knowing this was just the beginning: the first day of my holiday with Ian, the first day of our very long, very sexy life together.

  In the distance I heard the jingling of bells—sleigh bells.

  “Fucking jingle bells,” Ian whispered.

  I laughed, writhing over him. “Andrew must be taking the sleigh out for an errand.”

  “Sounds like Santa Claus is coming,” Ian muttered.

  I sucked in my breath. “He’s not the only one.”

  21

  We lazed around in bed for about ten minutes before Ian was restless. He never was one to sit around, even in the midst of afterglow.

  “Let’s go for a walk in the snow,” he whispered in my ear. “It was really coming down when I drove in. A winter wonderland, just like those snow globes you’re so fond of.”