“Hmm,” the man says, moving something around his mouth. He spits and an inky blot splatters the pathway. Chewing tobacco. “I see you’re into those special types of whores, those… Those shapely fucking cunts.”
I feel something jagged lance through my veins, like knives are sluicing through my body.
“Apologize,” I say flatly.
“What?” he laughs, and his four buddies laugh with him in a way that tells me they think I’m scared of them.
It’s dark.
They outnumber us.
I’m big, but they’re big too, and they clearly hit the gym and the drugs regularly.
They think all of this gives them an advantage.
Stupid pricks, yapping and thinking they’re tough.
“I told you to apologize,” I say. “I won’t tell you again.”
The man holds his free hand up, grinning in the dark.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “I’m sorry that your tastes are so fucked up that you had to choose the girl who ate all the pies—”
I move forward like vapor, my rage making my movements quick, but somehow I keep them controlled.
I step right up to him so that I can see the fear quivering in his eyes, but he’s a drugged-up asshole and he has his friends at his back.
He’s not going to back down.
I see the bottle-swing coming from a mile away, but I don’t let him know that.
I duck at the last second and then hammer him in the stomach.
His friends leap at me, all of them growling and yelling like that’s going to make any damn difference.
I slide silently away from their wild swings, ducking and spinning, coming up with savage strikes that leave them breathless.
Glass shatters loudly and one of the men screams when I elbow him across the jaw, a punishment for trying to throw the damn bottle at my head.
The only thing that stops me is the whimpering noises they all make when I have them laid out on the ground, all five of them holding their injuries, shivering on the glittering glass-laden earth.
I stand up, heaving in a breath, letting the red rush of rage fall away from my vision.
“Now, why the fuck did you have to do that?” I snarl, staring down at them. “Was it going to make you feel tough, eh? Bothering my woman? My fucking woman.”
I kneel down and place my forearm against their leader’s neck, and then grab his head in my palm and force him to look at Winter.
“I won’t tell you again,” I snap.
“I’m s-sorry,” he whimpers. “Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. Okay? Please. Please. Don’t hurt us anymore.”
I stand up, unclenching my fists with an effort.
“Asshole,” I grunt, walking over to Winter and wrapping my arm around her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, when we’re at the park’s exit. “I don’t usually lose my cool like that. But those men don’t have any right to talk down to you like that, especially about your size. It’s just … it’s just wrong, Winter.”
She looks up at me with teary eyes, and a shaky smile on her lips.
“That’s the first time anybody’s ever stood up for me to those jock types, Wayne,” she whispers. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Always,” I growl, hugging her to me, feeling her heart hammering against my chest. “I’ll always protect you, Winter.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Winter
During the ATV ride home – and calling it home somehow feels fitting after our blizzardy, stormy closeness – I wrap my arms tight around Wayne and let the affection flow through me.
As the world of white hissing snow whooshes past, I think about the park, the way Wayne sprang into action to defend me.
Perhaps it says something about me that my chest filled with approval when he flew into the physical defense, but I’ve had so many snide comments over the years, so many cruel pranks, so many jibes about being nerdy and not the precise shape or size a bunch of jock douches seem to think I should be.
When I saw how far he was willing to go to make it so I never had to feel like that again, yeah, it meant a lot, it meant the freaking world.
Wayne guides the ATV through the forest pathway and up the small hill that leads to the clearing. The house comes into view, after a time, looking like a magical castle as it exudes the light of the moon and the stars.
I tell myself that the tears pricking my eyes are from the wind blasting us as we surge toward it, and not the surging emotion hammering into me firmer and deeper each moment.
Wayne drives the vehicle into the garage and the doors close automatically behind us, and then we both step off, breathy and red-faced.
Deeper in the house, Rusty must hear the vehicle or catch our scent, because the terrier starts to yip, his barks filling the air surprisingly loud considering how ginormous this house is.
Wayne turns to me with his lips lifting upward, something like a real smile on his face, not a smirk or a wolfish grin.
I see genuine affection in his eyes – love, love, a voice hisses – and all of a sudden it’s so easy to imagine him as a father, a husband, an everything.
“What?” he asks.
“What?” I echo, pouting at him, surrounded by sports cars and motorbikes, but none of it seems as important as the look in my lover’s eyes.
He loops his arm around my waist, the most natural gesture in the world now.
I almost let out a laugh of disbelief as the thought slams into me.
It feels natural to have Wayne Wakefield’s hand squeezing onto my hip, his eyes looking into me, and accepting it all, all of my imperfections and my inadequacies.
“It’s just this,” I whisper. “It all feels so right. I never thought I’d get that or that I even deserved it.”
“Why wouldn’t you deserve it?” Wayne says, voice husky.
Just then, the half-open door squeaks open all the way and Rusty bounds in, his face receptive and happy, his tongue lolling and his tail wagging frantically.
I laugh and kneel down, letting him jump up on my winter jacket and lap greedily at my face. I giggle as his rough tongue licks the snow from my cheeks.
“Winter,” Wayne says, watching me as he reaches down to ruffle Rusty hello.
I sigh, stand, and fold my arms across my middle.
“My parents were coming to pick me up the day they got into that car crash. I was at a friend’s house and—Jesus, I’m sorry.”
I turn away, tears coursing down my cheeks, no idea why this memory has so jaggedly reared its head now.
Wayne wraps his arms around me, his body a reassuring presence against my back as he leans down to talk quietly in my ear.
“You were a child,” he says. “It was an accident. It’s not your fault. But I know that Anna must’ve told you all of this before. So all I can say, Winter, is that I’ll be there for you every goddamned time that memory tries to make you it's prisoner. Every time that guilt touches you, I’ll be there, okay?”
“Thank you,” I whisper, coughing back a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining our night.”
“No,” he growls, taking me by the shoulders and turning me so I’m facing him. “This isn’t pretend. This isn’t a staged performance where you have to put on a show for me. I’ve had enough people try that with me over the years, trying to be who they thought I needed them to be, for my money, for my name. But not you. You’re the realest, best person I’ve ever met, and I’ll always be here for you.”
I smile and laugh and sob at the same time, a strange combination.
“You know, Wayne,” I whisper, laying my cheek against his chest. “For a seven-foot giant billionaire, you’re actually pretty freaking romantic.”
His hand smooths through my hair as Rusty yips at our feet, grinning.
“Don’t let word get out,” he says, and when he bends down to kiss the top of my head I can feel that he’s smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wayne
Anna is a t
all woman with high cheekbones and a friendly smile, but as the four of us sit around her welcoming dining room table to eat dinner, I can see the note of suspicion behind her hipster-framed glasses.
She can’t be that suspicious, of course, otherwise she wouldn’t have said yes to the most important question I could’ve asked her.
But it’s there and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’m glad that Winter has an older sister like Anna, a woman who will look out for her no matter what happens, a woman who regards her with the same iron loyalty as I do.
Her fiancé has long brown hair worn in a man bun and wears a baggy T-shirt with a cartoon of a superhero on it, and as he and Anna exchange glances over dinner, I can tell how much they care about each other.
I see the same certainty in Mark’s eyes as he looks at Anna that I feel blazing in my chest, always, a fire without end, a fire that could melt the miles and miles of snow stretching from this two-bedroom New England house all the way to New York City.
“This is delicious,” Winter says, taking a bite of the home-cooked chicken. “Really, Anna. I mean, you’ve always been a good cook, but this is something else.”
“Thanks, sis,” Anna smiles. “It helps having a proper oven, and not that freaking monstrosity we had to put up with in our first apartment.”
Winter giggles, the sweetest sound in the world.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Those were the days, holding the thing shut when the door broke. Oh, sweet memories.”
“Yeah,” Anna says sarcastically. “Sweet freaking memories. How’s your story coming along, by the way?”
“Can’t you tell?” Mark says, grinning at me. “They’ve written their own story, Anna.”
I smile across the table at Winter, looking like a resplendent empress in her off-white shirt, the top button undone to show a glimmer of her smooth skin. Her hair falls like melting snow around her shoulders and her pine-green eyes blaze with nerves and excitement, clearly hoping that this unlikely meeting goes well.
“Mark,” Anna chides. “Don’t embarrass my little sister.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Winter says, meeting my eye. “I’m proud. He’s right. We did write our own story, and even if it’s the craziest thing that could’ve happened, it’s—Hey, what the heck is that?”
Outside, the blades of the helicopter cut at the air, making loud whooshing noises.
Anna smiles knowingly and nods at her little sister.
“I have a feeling that might be for you.”
“What? What’re you talking about?” Winter says.
“They’re early,” I mutter. “But that’s fine. Let’s finish our dinner. Then, Winter, if you’ll come with me, I want to take you for a ride.”
She bites her lip and I can see the nerves dancing across her face. I spoke with Anna earlier about taking care of Rusty for a few hours, anyway, which she was glad to do, since the little happy-faced terrier took an instant liking to her.
And asked her something else too.
Permission.
“Of course I’ll come with you,” Winter says after a moment. “You don’t even have to ask. You know that.”
“You didn’t mention you had a pilot’s license,” Winter giggles in my headset as I guide us across the skyline, heading toward the Comet headquarters in New York, the chopper gliding smoothly toward the helipad under my steady control.
“Nobody likes a boaster,” I chuckle. “What do you think of the view?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s lovely,” she says. “Yes, I’m sure if I were to look at it, you know, if it was a picture or a screensaver or something, I’m sure it’d be freaking perfect.”
I laugh again, feeling lighter and more carefree than I can remember ever feeling.
I land us softly and then wait for the blades to stop chopping at the air.
Then I leap from the pilot’s seat and walk around to the back, offering Winter my hand as she grins from ear-to-ear. I can tell she loved it even if she whooped and hollered more than once.
“You do know how mysterious you’re being right now, don’t you?”
The afternoon is white-clouded and yet glowing with a steady brightness as I lead her across the roof, right to the edge so that we can look over the city.
A fine mist has settled over the city, making it look ghostly and surreal and beautiful.
Not as beautiful as Winter, of course, but that’s a hard feat to aim at.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing up here?”
“Take these,” I say, reaching down to the nook where Jarvis promised he’d hid them.
As usual, my butler hasn’t disappointed me.
I stand back up with the binoculars in my hand and then direct her to a building a few blocks down from where we’re standing.
“The one with those gorgeous white flowers out front?” she says.
“Do you like it?” I ask, heart hammering crazily in my chest now.
“Well, yeah … duh.” She laughs. “It’s beautiful. Look at that door. It’s so Victorian. And those hanging baskets are just adorable. It looks out of place, but sort of magical, too, if that makes sense.”
“It’s your office,” I say, taking a step back, and then another, reaching into my suit jacket pocket and closing my hand around the most important item I’ve ever held.
My heart thumps and pommels and beats at my ribcage like it’s trying to break free.
“It’s where you’ll write your bestsellers. Because I love you, Winter, and I want to support you. Now and for the rest of our lives.”
“My office,” she whispers, her voice quiet with the backdrop of the whispering winter wind. “Wait a second … you love me?”
She turns and her mouth falls open, crystalline tears springing to her eyes as her hands fly up to try to catch her gasp. But it’s too late and her breath makes dragon plumes in the air.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she says, staring at the glittering diamond ring as I open the ring box.
I purposefully had it designed so that it mimicked the effect of ice, the way it catches the light, the white teardrop jewels like small encrusted snowflakes.
She lets her hands drop and stumbles forward as though she’s in a dream.
“I love you,” I say, in a firm voice now, the look on her face making me feel like a fool for ever doubting myself. “I loved you the first night we spent together. I loved you the first time I saw you scratch Rusty behind the ears. I loved you the moment I held you as the wind howled outside on that frozen lake, Winter. You mean everything to me and I can’t wait to have our children together. I want – no, I need – to be with you for the rest of my life.
“Winter Reed, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”
“I … I love you,” she whispers, as she closes the distance between us. She stares down at me with her wide tear-filled eyes. “I love you so much, Wayne. I was scared to say it. It seems silly now, but I thought it might freak you out.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say. “All that matters is us. Our future.”
“Y-yes,” she stammers, as though struggling to get the words out. “Yes, yes, a thousand, a million, a gazillion times yes, Wayne. Of course I’ll marry you, you giant, handsome lug.”
“Hey,” I laugh, sliding the ring onto her finger where it settles perfectly, a slice of winter for my Winter. “Is that really how you want to address your fiancé?”
She throws her head back and giggles, and then squeals in delight when I jump up and sweep her clean off her feet. I cradle her to my chest, holding her the same way I did that first afternoon we met, when I would’ve dreamt up any reason to have her pressed close to me.
“I’ve spent my whole life working, striving,” I say, staring down at the city that has given me so much, the mist settling like a diaphanous sheet. “And yet right now, Winter, standing here with you, I feel more accomplished than I ever have. I can’t wait to spend the rest of our li
ves together, to grow, to fucking—to conquer, Winter.”
“Me neither,” she whispers. She kisses my cheek, then grazes my lips. “I feel like I can finally let go with you, Wayne. I feel like I don’t have to be so freaking self-conscious anymore.”
“I love you.”
“I love you. I love you. I love you.” She laughs. “How long before you get bored of me saying that, huh?”
I laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe in a thousand, a million, a gazillion winters.”
She laughs with me, but then I cut it off with a kiss, and we sink into our lust and love, keeping the cold at bay with our irrepressible warmth.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
Winter
I sit back in my quite frankly heavenly office chair and stare at the computer screen, my completed manuscript gazing back at me.
I can’t help but let a smile lift my lips as my eyes roam over the windows that look out onto my enclosed office garden. A light snow is falling over the city, which seems pretty freaking fitting to me.
“What do you think, boy? Will my readers like this one?”
I look down at Rusty, curled up at my feet with his head resting on his paws. He blinks and his tail waggles a little in a dreamy affirmation. I grin and stand up, walking to my kitchen corner and brewing myself a hot cocoa.
This winter is set to be dark and cold, which is fine by me. There’s nothing better than hugging up close to the fire with Wayne, my husband, my freaking husband.
The weeks after our marriage I had to keep pinching myself to remind myself that it was real, but then life did another amazing somersault and Andrew came, our perfect Andrew, named after Anna.
Anna-Andrew.
“It does make sense, right?” I asked Wayne the evening we learned his gender.
“What do you mean?” he smiled, grunting a little as he completed another set of sit-ups.
We were in our Manhattan penthouse apartment. Wayne had been working late and I was working on my first book, so it made sense for us both to stay in the city and not our suburban mansion. It still feels slightly unreal sometimes, when I think about being able to flit between the city and the countryside so seamlessly.
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