'Tis the Season for Romance

by Kristen Proby

  Her head whips my way, eyes wide. “Really? You don’t do one?”

  I shake my head. “Probably haven’t since moving out of my uncle’s house to go to college. He always had one for us, of course.”

  Corinne smiles since she knows my family history. Those few years we’d grown close while I hunted and captured Katz, then as we saw him convicted together, we came to learn a lot about each other. The circumstances that brought us together made us more alike than I ever wanted to be. My parents died in my early teens, and I lived with an uncle until I was eighteen. He died in my sophomore year of college, so I had no family left other than some distant cousins across the country.

  “We’re not finished,” Corinne proclaims, scanning the living room until she spies what she wants. It’s a red square box with a cellophane front, through which I can see a silver star.

  She opens it, pulls the star out, and hands it over to me. Examining it, I ask, “Not an angel?”

  Corinne shakes her head, holding my gaze. “Sort of fell out with religion.”

  I’m able to control my facial muscles, so she doesn’t see how surprised I am by her confession. Corinne and her parents belonged to an Episcopal church in Atlanta, which they were extremely active in. The church and its members were a strong component of strength for her after her parents’ deaths. I even went to several Sunday services with her. Even up until the time Katz had been convicted and we parted ways, she’d still been devoted to her faith.

  I want to ask why she would give it up, but I don’t have the courage to hear the answer. It could be something as simple as she fell out of practice because of the rigors of medical school, or it could be something deeper.

  I’m tall enough that I don’t need a stool, but I do need to go to my toes to reach the top. I turn from Corinne, stretch tall, and put the star on the very top vertical branch. When it tilts, I correct it. Corrine proclaims it to be straight, I step back once again so we can both admire it.

  “Ooh, wait,” she exclaims. She moves quickly around the perimeter of the open area, turning off all the lights—kitchen overheads, the lamps in the living room, and the rustic chandelier over the dining table. The only light now is from the fire we’d started before the tree went up and the glow of Christmas lights.

  Returning to my side, she exhales happily. “It’s so magical.”

  I dare not turn my head to see her, knowing she’d be the magic that might weaken me.

  And then… I feel her lightly slide her palm against mine. Her fingers curl to grasp my hand while mine reflexively does the same. I’m stunned when she merely sidles in closer to me to lay her head against my upper arm since she’s not quite tall enough to rest it on my shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re here, Clay.”

  The stiffening of my spine that occurred at the first touch of her hand is only momentary. By the time her head touches me, I’m ready to let her melt into me. I realize it’s her leaning on me that I missed so much. She’d told me often enough that I was her rock through everything, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to loving that.

  To loving being her hero.

  My conscience starts to argue, reminding me I can never be her hero because I had so fundamentally let her down by allowing her parents to be killed, but I immediately stop myself. Not once tonight has she given me a reason to think she feels that way.

  On the contrary, I believe her when she says she’s glad I’m here.

  Corinne starts humming to the music, and I realize it’s Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas”. It’s the best of all the classics and a perfect fit for this evening.

  And before I can stop myself, I turn into Corinne, raising our joined hands and placing my other on her waist. “Let’s dance.”

  Her eyes flare wide with surprise, then drift low as her lips curve into a dreamy smile. “I’d love to.”

  Sliding my hand from her waist to her lower back, I pull her in closer to me. Close enough that her temple rests against my jaw. We sway together, moving among the empty ornament boxes to the crooning voice of Crosby. It’s turning into the best Christmas I can remember having in a long time.

  The song ends and “Jingle Bell Rock” starts, which is far too peppy to slow dance to. It breaks the spell, and we pull away from each other just enough for Corinne to tip her head back to look up at me. Her face is so beautiful, and the sight always takes my breath away. I can’t look away from her gaze.

  Tugging her hand free from mine, she places both flat on my chest. When she rises on her tiptoes, I hold my breath as she brings her face nearer to mine. Closing my eyes, I feel her lips brush against my cheek.

  “It’s getting late,” she murmurs. My eyes pop open when I feel her stepping away from me. “I think I’m going to head to bed.”

  I study her, analyzing her words and tone. It’s not an invitation at all, merely a statement that our night together is at an end.

  I don’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated because I was sure she was getting ready to kiss me, and I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to stop it.

  Corinne smiles warmly. “Do you mind turning off the gas to the fireplace and unplugging the tree before you head to bed?”

  “Of course not,” I murmur.

  “Happy Christmas Eve,” she says. “I’ll cook a big breakfast for us in the morning.”

  And take you back home, are her unspoken words. She’d only gotten me to commit to staying for one night, after all.

  I merely incline my head. “Happy Christmas Eve. Sleep well, Corrine.”

  She turns, heading down a short hallway to the right of the staircase that leads to her master bedroom. It had been on the tour earlier when we arrived, and it’s a haven. It’s all windows, ambient lighting, and soft bedding—a place where anyone could spend days lazing in bed, watching the snowfall.

  I can’t ignore how much of me yearns to experience that with her. Maybe it’s the snow glowing under the outdoor lights, the soft twinkling lights, or the feel of her lips on my cheek, but I feel a sliver of what might be the grace of Christmas filling me.

  It gives me hope.

  It’s hours later, but I can’t sleep. Believe me, I’ve tried. No matter how comfortable the guest bedroom is, I can’t stop my mind from racing.

  Warring, really.

  There’s a side of me that wants to think maybe I can have something with Corinne while the other part loudly proclaims I’d be a fool to believe it.

  With a sigh, I roll out of bed. I’m easily able to see where I’m going by the illumination from the floodlights coming in through the shades. Half an hour ago when I checked out the window, the snow still fell so heavily it looked like thick white blankets.

  From my duffel, I pull out my iPad and return to bed, propping my back against the headboard. I fire it up, scroll to my secure FBI portal, and log in.

  It’s been a while since the last time I did this, but I pull up the Richard Katz file. I’ve had no reason to look at it lately as his last appeal was denied. Now we’re just waiting for an execution date.

  After a few taps on the screen, I find the part of my report I’m searching for. It’s the entire reason Corinne should hate me instead of ever look at me as a hero, friend, or lover.

  It’s an interim entry I made not a month before her parents were murdered. We had narrowed down our suspect pool to just three men—and Richard Katz was on the list. All three were asked to give interviews, and two lawyered up. Richard Katz had gladly agreed to talk to me, though. While most would see that as a sign of innocence, I’d recognized a smug arrogance that didn’t sit right with me.

  Oh, he’d been charming throughout the interview. An unbiased observer probably would have described him as an incredibly likable guy. In fact, when we’d interviewed his friends and coworkers, they’d all had nothing but good things to say about him.

  But sociopaths are good at that. Everyone loved Ted Bundy, too. No one who knew him could believe how evil he’d truly been when his atrocious
crimes had been revealed.

  Katz seemed completely at ease during our interview—which lasted almost six hours—and he volunteered whatever information I asked. He even had a moderately good alibi for the third murder that checked out. His cell phone had been in use, pinging off a tower more than forty miles away.

  When all was said and done, the other two men seemed more suspicious as they’d lawyered up and couldn’t provide alibis. But in my heart of hearts, I’d known Richard Katz was The Salt Slasher. Yet, I’d had no way to prove it.

  I’d had no probable cause to hold him. DNA testing had been held up in the months-long limbo that it had been then, and currently still is, our system of too many kits to test and not enough lab resources to get it done quickly.

  The fucking gut-punch of it is that after Katz murdered Corinne’s parents and I’d shown her a photo lineup of our three suspects, with three other random men who weren’t involved mixed in, she picked Richard Katz out with absolutely no hesitation.

  It had been what I needed to arrest him. Her positive identification meant he’d sat in jail until trial. Later, the case was bolstered by a DNA match to one of the murders—not her parents’—and those two key pieces of evidence were enough for the jury to convict him.

  I’d fucking had him. After interviewing him, I’d known it was him. And while I can reason my hands had been constrained by due process, I surely could have done something more. In hindsight, after getting to know Corinne, I wish I’d had the guts to do more. I could have easily planted evidence in his home, which is so illegal I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking about it.

  But I’m not. If it had prevented the pain Corinne felt then and still feels now, I would have gladly done it no matter the risks to my own career. Of course, it could be argued had I done that and prevented her parents’ murders, I would have never met Corinne. It’s that selfish thought alone that has me feeling grounded again.

  I just don’t deserve the woman. While I’m so relieved she seems to be doing well, I don’t believe I can ever move past the guilt that continues to consume me.

  I’m glad I read through the report again. I needed the pain and weight of my sins to bring me back to reality.

  I’m not good for Corinne. Come tomorrow, I’m going to stick to my terms of one night and get her to take me home, then kindly ask her not to contact me again.

  Chapter 6

  Corinne

  * * *

  I’m just about to take a sip of coffee when I hear Clay bounding down the stairs. The kitchen clock shows it’s just past eight-thirty. As he comes into view, dismay fills me when I see his duffel bag over his shoulder. His hair is still slightly damp from his shower. I should feel bad about it, but I don’t, because damn if he’s not the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.

  Throughout my life, I’ve known gorgeous men, been with handsome men, and been attracted to a wide variety of men. But in my lifetime, no one has ever affected me on a visceral level the way Clay does. As some women like to say, he pushes all of my buttons.

  “Merry Christmas,” I exclaim brightly. Lowering my cup, I ask, “Want some coffee? I was just getting ready to make breakfast.”

  Clay lowers his duffel on one of the stools at the island. He smiles, but it’s strained. “I wouldn’t say no to coffee. If you don’t mind, though, would you be willing to give me a lift back to my place afterward?”

  Trying to appear nonchalant, I give him my back as I move to a cupboard for another mug. I pour him some coffee, remembering he takes his black. “Why the rush?”

  When I turn back to face him, I have to give him credit. His gaze never wavers when he says, “This wasn’t a good idea, Corinne.”

  “Breakfast or coffee?” I ask lightly.

  His expression doesn’t budge an inch. “You and I spending time together. As friends or something more. And you and I both know we could easily end up there if I’d only let it, but I can’t.”

  I hand the cup over to him. “May I point out that you haven’t even tried?”

  Clay sets it on the counter without taking a sip. “I have tried. I came here with you, had a nice evening, ate good food, and helped you decorate the tree.”

  “So, what changed between us going to bed and waking up this morning?” I demand. “Because last night felt like the start of something good.”

  Clay huffs in frustration, running his fingers through his blond hair. He wears it just a little longer than FBI regulations. He’s always been a bit of a rulebreaker like that.

  When he picks up the mug, blows over the top, and takes a slow sip, I recognize it for the stall tactic it is.

  “Clay,” I prompt. “What changed?”

  His eyes meet mine over the rim of his coffee cup. When he lowers it, his mouth is set into a grim line. “Nothing changed. And that’s the problem.”

  Cryptic and not good enough. Yes, I know he feels guilty, but I always thought it was foolish. There was no way he could have saved my parents, and I don’t understand why he can’t see that.

  “Well, I can’t take you home,” I say with a shrug.

  His mouth drops open slightly in surprise.

  “And why not?”

  “Because there’s no way I’m getting my car out of the garage and down the hill to the main road. The news said almost thirteen inches fell last night.”

  Clay whips left to look out the windows to the majestic scenery outside—rolling mountains covered in white and an impassable driveway down to the main state road.

  Now, had I watched the weather before I brought Clay here?

  I had. I’ll admit I’d known we’d be getting a lot of wintry weather, and I’d banked on us getting snowed-in.

  I also know if I truly wanted to get down that hill, I could probably make it. However, I could just as likely get stuck. But I’m not about to offer him the option.

  “So we have to what?” he asks, sounding panicked at the thought of being stuck here with me. “Wait for a spring melt until we can get back to civilization?”

  I tip my head back, not able to contain my laughter. When I bring my gaze back to his, it’s with a smirk that says he’s silly and he knows it. “Look… there are private people I can hire to plow my driveway, but they aren’t going to come on Christmas Day. And even if they could, the road below probably isn’t cleared yet. I’m sorry, but you’re going to be stuck here for one more day.”

  “Christ,” he mutters, plopping his butt on a barstool. He looks like someone kicked his puppy.

  “Breakfast?” I cheerily ask.

  “Yeah… sure,” he replies glumly.

  I decide not to press him on anything right now. I’m not sure what happened last night after he went to bed, but I’m going to find out. I don’t want to ruin a good meal, though, so while Clay sips at his coffee and surfs on his phone, I whip up some hash browns, bacon, and dippy eggs with toast. I know this is his favorite breakfast because we would sometimes meet for breakfast at a diner in Atlanta during the case.

  If he’s sentimental about the food I put before him, his expression doesn’t reveal it. He merely murmurs, “Thank you. Looks great.”

  Clay silently eats at the island, seated on his barstool, while I stand at the opposite side with my food. I shamelessly watch him, knowing his unwillingness even to look me in the eye says he’s going to do everything in his power to avoid having a hard conversation with me.

  If he only knew how much he’s underestimating me right now. Too bad he doesn’t realize my job is to delve deep into people’s demons, bring them to the surface, expose them, and finally help heal them. He’s not a patient of mine, but I’ve never seen anyone more in dire need of purging the guilt from his system than Clay. I’ve never felt more personally connected to someone who needed to do so, either, and it’s downright selfish since I’m hoping to benefit from it.

  When we’re finished, Clay insists on cleaning up. I let him, curling up on the couch with another cup of coffee, intermittently staring b
etween the fire and the Christmas tree he’d helped decorate last night. The star is leaning a bit to the left, but I think it makes it appear charming, so I’ll leave it that way.

  It’s the distinct lack of clattering dishes and silverware going into the dishwasher and no longer hearing the sound of water he’d used to wash the pans that has my attention.

  Slowly, I turn my head his way to see him leaning against the counter, another cup of coffee in hand as he gazes at me.

  “You want to talk this out, right?” he surmises.

  I sweep my hand toward the living room. In an overly dramatic voice, I say, “Come into my office.”

  Clay snorts as he heads my way. He chooses a green-and-red plaid chair adjacent to the end of the couch I’m on. Leaning against the armrest, I balance my cup there as he settles in. He props an ankle onto his knee, both elbows on the armrests, and places his cup in the hollow his bent leg makes.

  We stare at each other for a silent moment. It’s clear he’s not just going to spill his tortured guts without prompting.

  “Clay,” I say softly, setting the tone for this conversation. “You and I felt something for each other all those years ago. It was more than just friendship. There was an attraction there. I don’t think I imagined it.”

  “You didn’t,” he admits. “But it was wrong on my part.”

  “Forget about that,” I say dismissively. “That’s in the past. You have no professional lines keeping us apart. We both know it goes deeper.”

  “Way deeper.” Another admission but without explanation.

  “I need you to explain it to me, Clay. It’s not fair for you to have negative feelings attached to our relationship without explaining them so I can understand.”

  He winces as he drops his gaze to his coffee. I can tell it drives home the fact that by staying silent, he’s hurting me.