Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(116)

“That’s great! I mean, not about your EA, but—”

“I know.”

She looked away, and he caught her regret. “I’m still sorry I didn’t have perfect faith. I wish … I wish I could have shown you a hundred percent certainty. I think you needed that.”

He shook his head. “No.” And then more vehemently, “No, I didn’t. I needed you to be who you were. Exactly who you were. You. You are so fully in the world, and I wanted to be in the world with you. It gave me the courage to dive back in.”

She made another sound, a half hum, almost a whimper, and lifted her face to him, an echo of that moment last year when the numbers had fallen off the clock too slowly.

This kiss was different. Tender, contemplative. It made him ache, not only in the sex-starved rock-hard parts, but all through. He wanted to get her out of here so he could make love to her, slow and sweet. Or hard and fast against a wall. That would work, too, and he was sure she’d be amenable to either. Or both. Both would be good.

When he released her, she smiled at him, her big, buoyant, nothing-held-back smile.

“I’ve never liked New Year’s,” he said. “I’ve always thought of it as a liar’s holiday.”

“Really?”

“Everyone makes resolutions they won’t keep, also known as lies. But New Year’s is growing on me as a holiday, I gotta say.”

She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “I’m wearing the red lace boy shorts.”

“Did I mention how much I adore New Year’s?” He slid a hand up her thigh until his fingers met the lace hem of her shorts. “Nora. Let’s get out of here.”

“I think that’s an excellent plan.”

He followed her into a single compartment of the revolving door and crowded against her, making her giggle. They tumbled out into the night. She slipped her hand into his, and he twirled her, drawing her close for another kiss, the heat of her mouth a contrast to the cold air that slid under their clothes. It was hard to think about anything other than the satiny feel of Nora’s thigh where the red lace lay. Or the heat he’d been able to feel even from that distance. Or what a long, leisurely time he would spend tonight reacquainting himself with her.

“Let’s get you someplace warm,” he said.

They hurried along the street toward the T station.

“You’re wrong about New Year’s, you know,” she said.

He tilted his head quizzically.

“Of course we’re going to screw up and fail to keep our resolutions. We know that. But we bother to make them, anyway. Because we have faith we can be better people. And we can. Not perfect people. But better people.”

She knocked the wind out of him sometimes. By being in a room. By saying what was on her mind. She left him breathless and winded and twice as alive.

He tugged her hand to stop her and kissed her again, because it was the best way to show her.

And he left her breathless.

Good. That was only fair.

He stroked her hair. “If I hang around a few months, do you think you could try to explain to me why I shouldn’t hate Valentine’s Day so much?”

She shuddered. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the mention of the holiday. “No one can redeem Valentine’s Day.”

“Give it a shot, will you?”

She put her arms around him and rested her face in the crook of his shoulder. She felt right there, as if she belonged perfectly. “Hell, yes.”

Above them, noise exploded from a few open windows, a cacophony of shouts and horns.

“Happy New Year,” he said.

“Happy New Year.”

Across the Boston sky, fireworks scattered like the craziest constellation of stars he’d ever seen. And he kissed her to welcome midnight and the New Year, all the New Years.





Epilogue


Miles stood on the curb outside Nora’s U-Haul, shaking his head. “Nora?”

“Yes?” She struggled up the front walk of his house, clutching two twenty-gallon totes, one stacked on top of the other. Possibly it had been an ill-advised, overachieving idea, but she’d gotten tired of watching Miles carry all the heavy stuff.

“What’s this?”

She set down the totes. He had unloaded Rory from the truck, his yarn mane looking more scraggly than usual. “He’s an old-fashioned rocking horse. Rory was mine when I was little. He was in my mom’s house, but she said I had to take him or she would throw him out, so I picked him up on my way.”

He crossed his arms and gave her a mock frown. “You understand this is a deal breaker. There is no room in my house for an old-fashioned rocking horse.”

She almost enjoyed that grim, serious face of his, even in jest. She saw it so infrequently these days, and it reminded her delightfully of their first New Year’s Eve. “I stood by you in your time of need. I think you can cut me the slack for my rocking horse.”

“I think it might be easier to live with an embezzler than with this guy.” But he gave Rory’s real leather saddle a fond pat, and she knew he was sold. He hoisted Rory overhead and strode past her with an ain’t-no-thang ease, flexing an assortment of muscles in his back and shoulders and nearly causing her to drop her own excessive armful.