“Clay… please don’t be like this.”
“Are you here to shrink me?”
To my surprise, she laughs, her eyes sparkling with pure humor. It lightens the moment, and maybe because she knows I’ve always loved her smile, she keeps it in place. “I already have. If you invite me in, I’ll take a few moments to give you my diagnosis.”
“I don’t want to know your diagnosis,” I grumble. Because it would probably be something like “lovesick fool can’t forgive himself”.
“You’re being rude,” she points out.
With a huff of resignation, I move past her and up the stoop, pulling my key from my pocket. I motion with my head for her to follow me. Perhaps if we do some social chitchatting, we can become apprised on each other’s lives for almost the past decade and move on.
I push the door open, then pin myself against it to give her space to precede me into the living room. She moves by, the light floral tones of her shampoo assailing me. It’s the same scent I remember from years ago.
“Clearly not married,” Corinne murmurs as she surveys my living area. That’s not a hard conclusion to come to. My house is the consummate bachelor pad. “Divorced?”
“Never married,” I clarify as I shut the door.
“Me either,” she says, finished with her inspection. “Never really had the time to get serious with anyone, you know what I mean?”
I scrub a hand through my hair, which is wet with sweat, and shrug. “I guess so.”
Corinne studies me carefully, tapping a finger on her chin. “I know what we need.”
“What’s that?” I ask, my nerves sizzling by the almost-cunning look in her eye.
“We need some devoted time to have a very serious talk,” she says with a firm nod.
It’s the last thing in the world I want.
“So go pack your bags,” she demands, pointing to the narrow staircase that leads to the second floor. It is where my room is located, but she’s only guessing. “You need enough for a couple of days.”
Eyebrows shooting up, I say, “Excuse me?”
“You’re coming with me to my place,” she says confidently. “You’ll spend Christmas with me because no one should be alone. You clearly don’t have anyone, so we can talk there.”
“Absolutely not,” I reply, because being alone with Corinne in her home is something I’m not sure I could handle.
“Just for tonight then,” she urges. “It’s Christmas Eve, Clay. I’ll feed you a good meal. If you don’t want to talk about anything deep, we’ll keep it light. I’ll bring you home in the morning if you want.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I mutter, trying to ignore the curiosity burning inside that wants to know how Corinne has survived the last nine years.
She takes a step toward me, reaches out, and touches my arm. Her eyes, a lovely shade of brown that matches her hair, narrow on me. There’s a glimmer of sharpness in them.
“You owe me, Clay,” she murmurs. An accusation. A truth, for sure. I failed her, then ignored her, so I do owe her. I can’t believe she’d use that against me. Damn her and her psychology powers. “I need to talk to you about… well, everything that has happened over the past nine years.”
“Corinne,” I say hesitantly, not sure whether I’m about to agree to her request or ask her to leave. My hesitation doesn’t sit well with her. I watch fury fill her eyes.
“I know you think you failed me,” she snarls, jerking away from me and putting her hands on her hips. “Okay… fine, you did. You failed me, Clay. You should have done more. Is that what you want to hear? Do you need absolution from that? Well, guess what… I want closure, so you owe me a fuck of a lot more than just a brush-off right now.”
Her words slice straight into me, an admission I’ve been waiting to hear from her—what I’ve always suspected. I failed Corinne. I’m one of the reasons her parents are dead. I wasn’t good enough at my job to get Katz before he ruined her world.
And now that she’s admitted it to me, I suppose we should talk about it. Maybe I do need the absolution, and I won’t ever doubt her if she says she needs closure.
I nod. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and pack a bag. But I’m only staying for the night.”
Chapter 4
Corinne
* * *
“You didn’t tell me your home was so far away,” Clay grumbles from the passenger seat of my Jeep.
“You didn’t ask,” I counter, which I know isn’t earning me any bonus points.
There is no mistaking Clay’s reluctance about coming with me. I definitely had to use his own guilt against him to get him to agree to it. But I’m tired of walking on eggshells. While he may not have returned the feelings I’d developed for him, I would still very much like to be friends with this man.
Of course, we’re not off to the greatest start. I head southeast out of the city, letting Clay have his silence during the ride. The things we need to talk about are deep and attempting light chitchat will just seem awkward.
“Where exactly are we going?” he finally asks, a topic that’s safe enough.
“I live near a town called Somerset in the Laurel Highlands,” I explain. To fill in the silence, I educate him on the geography since he just moved here. “It’s part of the Allegheny Mountains. Somerset County boasts the tallest mountain in Pennsylvania, Mount Davis.”
“Why so far out of the city?” he asks. “I mean, the scenery is stunning, but that’s quite a commute.”
“I don’t know,” I reply. But after a moment of thought, I realize I do. “I guess I just don’t enjoy big-city life much anymore. The commute isn’t that bad. Besides, I’m able to work from home sometimes. My job with Jameson doesn’t require normal eight-to-five type hours.”
I could go on to explain I derive peace from the solitude my fifteen acres affords me. The mountain scenery—whether it be lush green in the summer, a riot of warm colors in the fall, or covered in white in the winter—makes me feel more calm and relaxed.
I could say it’s my meditation of sorts, and I feel lighter and freer here.
But everything I get out of my new home and where it’s located is directly related to the demons I run from, and that would lead into the heavy, deeper conversation that is soon to come once we are settled there.
So I spend the rest of the trip describing the variety of activities to do around the area, including my newfound love of fly fishing. When we drive through Somerset, I point out the best place to get pizza and the bar that has the coldest beer in town.
“Shanksville is near here, right?” Clay asks.
Solemnly, I nod. “About fifteen minutes due east.”
The place where United 93 went down on 9/11.
Clay doesn’t respond, so I don’t say anything more as I drive through Somerset and out into what most would consider the boonies. The road I live off is barely wide enough to fit two cars, and it has no white or yellow paint to even delineate lane boundaries. I slow my car, then turn on the right blinker. It’s hard to see my driveway when all the bushes, trees, and wildflowers grow right up to the edge of the road in the summer. But the starkness of winter makes it easily identifiable.
“You live here?” Clay asks, disbelief and curiosity threaded through his tone.
My driveway is more like a dirt path leading straight into the woods, with two parallel ruts worn into the ground by my vehicle. However, it’s filled with gravel to help with traction.
“It’s pretty rough out here,” I admit, patting my dashboard. “Which is why I have the Jeep. But I’ll pave it at some point.”
We bump along for almost a mile, the path winding upward. When we come out of a sharp right turn, Clay gasps as my house comes into view.
“Wow,” he murmurs as he takes in the A-frame log cabin I’d had custom-built, which had only been finished about two months ago. The entirety of the triangular front piece is glass—from the bottom floor to the third-floor loft. While it’s not vis
ible now, he’s going to be treated to a breathtaking view of the Alleghenies as far as the eye can see when the sun comes up. “It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s my design,” I reply proudly, bringing my car to a stop in front of the detached garage that has a covered walkway to the main house. “I mean, I had an architect and everything, but it’s my dream house.”
“So, this is your forever place then?”
I push the button to the garage door opener attached to my visor, then wait for it to roll up. This allows me to give him my full attention. “I’m ready to put down roots. I love my job, and I’ve come to love this area in a very short time.”
Clay merely nods, and I pull my car into the garage. We exit, Clay grabbing the small duffel he’d packed from the backseat. After I lead him across the walkway, I unlock the door on the side of the house that leads into the laundry room.
I lead him through a direct shot to the main living area, which is an open floor plan. The kitchen is to the left and the living room to the right with a dining table set in between to break the area up with furniture rather than walls. I set my purse on the kitchen counter, watching as Clay takes it in. When he looks at the wall of glass that extends up two stories in a triangular form due to the A-frame structure, he whistles low with appreciation. “Holy shit.”
“I know, right?” I exclaim proudly.
My property is at the top of a flattened crest that has been cleared to the edge except for some low-growing bushes. Beyond that, wave after wave of rolling mountains stretches as far as the eye can see. My real estate agent assured me this property had the best long views in the area, and I was sold the moment I saw it. I knew I’d be enjoying this view every morning for the rest of my life. Plus, every sunset since the view faces west.
“This is amazing,” Clay says softly, turning to face me. He has his duffel hitched over his shoulder.
“Let me give you a tour, then show you to your room,” I say. “And then I’ll get started on our Christmas Eve dinner.”
Clay’s gaze is wary. He knows I want to talk, and he has no clue when it’s coming.
“Relax, Clay,” I say easily, moving toward the staircase that leads to the second floor. I have a guest bedroom with its own bath up there. The stairs from that floor lead up to a loft where I have a pull-out couch. “I’m not going to bite you.”
Although, my attraction to the man is so great that there have been times in my life I have thought about doing just that. My face flames as the thought comes unbidden to my mind, but hell… it’s not surprising. If anything, he’s become even more handsome over the years.
Clay manages a forced laugh before nodding at the stairs. “How about that tour?”
The great thing about cooking an elaborate meal is that it only leaves time for a little chitchat because there’s some level of concentration needed. I had told Clay to make himself comfortable after the tour, showed him how the TV worked, and offered him a beer.
Bustling about the kitchen, I set about making a beef tenderloin, scalloped potatoes, and roasted Brussel sprouts. Clay wrinkled his nose when he saw me pull them out of the fridge. He floated between the couch to watch TV and the kitchen island to watch me work. We engaged in light conversation, mostly about current events and the good books we’ve read lately.
After I put the tenderloin in the oven, I ask Clay to help me get my Christmas tree and ornaments out of the garage. I know most folks like to decorate weeks before Christmas, but it was my family’s tradition to decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. We left it up until after New Year’s, so that’s when I take it down.
We carry several boxes into my living room, and Clay graciously moves some furniture so we can put it to the left of the stone fireplace. By the time we get the tree in the stand, I have to hurry to the kitchen to finish our meal.
In all, it ends up being an easy way to spend a few hours when things had been awkward between us before. I even dare to believe Clay is feeling at ease by the time I call him to the dining table.
We pass the platters and bowls, eat good food, and drink red wine. Just as we’re finishing, I glance out the window. The sun had long set. It was pitch black outside, but I have floodlights installed on every corner of my house that light up the outside. It’s for safety’s sake, along with the state-of-the-art security system installed by none other than Jameson Force Security.
“Oh look,” I murmur, nodding toward the window. Clay’s head turns slightly, and we watch as the floodlights illuminate falling snow. Fat, fluffy flakes fall heavily with none of the playful rolling and dipping they normally do. “Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says. “Not something we were used to down South, huh?”
Clay’s not only talking about his time in the FBI’s Atlanta field office. He was born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida. For us two Southerners, white Christmases were fantasies we saw on TV.
“Definitely not.” I laugh, rising from the table and picking up my dish. “Let me get the kitchen cleaned up, then we can decorate the tree.”
To my surprise, Clay stands and takes the plate from my hand. “I’ll clean up. You go put some Christmas music on, then start opening the boxes.”
For the first time since we’ve reconnected, he’s standing close with an easy smile on his face. Maybe it’s the wine, or perhaps he sees I have no ill will, but Clay seems to have loosened up a bit.
Of course, since we’re standing this close, I realize how easy it would be for him to kiss me. He would have to lean down because he’s so much taller, but I wouldn’t stop him. I tilt my head back just a bit to make it easier in case that’s what he’s thinking.
I can’t make the first move. I tried that once, many years ago, and had my heart broken when he pushed me away. I’m wise enough now—and educated in psychology—to understand his reasonings. It wasn’t me personally—because when he kissed me back, he was all in. Rather, it was the circumstances, the weight of guilt, and probably a million other things that made it the wrong place or the wrong time.
But now, here we stand, him smiling at me on Christmas Eve, and I can’t help but feel hopeful that maybe there’s still something between us. I’ve never forgotten him. Never even came close to loving someone like him since we parted ways.
It’s why I think our paths crossing again was some type of fated event, and I’m paying attention.
Clay nods toward the living area and the boxes we’d stacked along the couch. “Get busy. It won’t take me long to clean up since you were doing most of it while you cooked.”
“Noticed that, did you?” I laugh, sidestepping him and heading into the living room.
“You’re a multi-tasker, Corinne,” he alleges with a laugh.
I don’t disagree with that. While Clay cleans the kitchen, I put on some classic Christmas music. I open all the ornament boxes, glancing at the falling snow from time to time.
I knew it was going to snow since I religiously check the weather during the winter, and it’s supposed to snow a lot. It’s going to be beautiful tomorrow.
Just as Clay is finishing up, I head back into the kitchen and make us some spiked eggnog. After I hand him a glass, we clink edges and take a sip. The bourbon I’d used warms my belly. Between that, the falling snow, the festive music, and a gorgeous man who has always been my hero and whom I still love just a little bit, I think, I don’t believe I could be in a better mood.
Chapter 5
Clay
* * *
I’ve asked myself a million times, “Clay… what the hell are you doing?”
Relaxing.
Enjoying Corinne as she talks.
Looking a little too much at her lips while remembering what they feel like.
All the things I told myself I couldn’t have and never would deserve. Yet, in a matter of a few hours, she’s brought me into her home. Without much effort at all, she’s made me almost believe we could leave the horror of our past behind.
“Oh, this one,” Corinne exclaims, squatting next to an open box before the tree. She holds up an ornament that had previously been wrapped in tissue paper. It looks vintage—a miniature replica of an old sled, complete with iron runners, rustic planks, and a tiny little rope I can imagine a child would hold on to. “Mom got a ton of these at a Cracker Barrel we’d stopped at when they had an after-Christmas sale. They were always my favorite. We both loved old-fashioned stuff.”
I take it from her hand to examine it. It’s more than an ornament. It’s a memory of her mother that she cherishes, yet she only wears a fond smile without a hint of sadness as she bends back over the box. Eartha Kitt sings “Santa Baby” in the background, the snow falling harder than ever outside the large wall of windows. The ground is already covered in solid white, and the branches on the cypress trees droop under the snow’s weight.
I turn, placing the ornament on a branch. We’ve already strung up the multicolored lights on her artificial tree. The entire time, Corinne proclaims she’s going to a farm to cut down a live one next year. I can see her doing it, too. She has become a woman who can accomplish anything. For a fleeting moment, I have an image of being there with her.
On a snow-covered hill, our breath frosting the air while we search for the perfect tree. I’d be the one to cut it down for her, though.
I shake my head, knowing those are just pipe dreams.
“Last one,” Corrine proclaims as she pulls tissue paper off a blue ornament covered in silk thread with little beads and sequins studding it in a haphazard pattern. Giggling, she hands it to me. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“It’s got a certain charm,” I admit, turning it over to examine it. Pieces of the string covering the ball have come loose, and it looks bedraggled.
“I made that for my parents in third grade, I think it was,” she explains with a laugh. “I was never the crafty type.”
I place this last ornament front and center on the tree, stepping back beside Corinne to admire our handiwork. “You know, I don’t remember the last time I decorated a Christmas tree.”
'Tis the Season for Romance Page 3
