Averting my eyes, I made the mistake of looking down at Lizzie who gazed up at us with the same expression I’d seen Christian wearing the second before—like she’d just been al owed a smal piece of heaven.
What the hel was I doing?
Teasing my daughter?
Giving her false hope, stoking her imagination, painting a picture of things that could never be?
I forced myself to take a step back from Christian, gathered up the emotions that were slowly slipping away, and drew another line.
For Lizzie, I told myself. This was for Lizzie.
I glanced back up at Christian, reminding myself we could only ever be friends— partners. Purging the remnants of my desire from my face, I straightened myself and put back on my mask. I smiled and stood aside. “Go on in.
Dinner’s almost ready.”
Christian inhaled and threw a grin in my direction, lopsided and achingly cute. “You made spaghetti and meatbal s?” His voice teemed with appreciation, swam in awareness.
My mask fel , so easily penetrable, evidence of my weakness. I felt my face flush, and I ducked my head. I knew how obvious I was in preparing his favorite dinner just as I had prepared his favorite breakfast the morning after
Lizzie’s fal .
“Yeah, I figured you’d be starved after the long flight,” I mumbled toward my bare feet, shrugging to make less of it than we both knew it was.
I looked up in time to see his lopsided smile spread.
“You have no idea how good that sounds. I haven’t eaten al day.” Turning his attention to Lizzie, he wrapped one of her tiny hands in his and asked, “What about you, princess, are you hungry?”
Overwhelmed, I hung back and tried to convince myself that nothing had changed as he led her inside.
Christian glanced back at me with a lazy grin. “You coming?”
Sighing, I told myself another thousand lies and fol owed him inside.
“Do you want to talk?”
Pointing the remote at the television, I lowered the volume and let the cartoon Lizzie had wanted to watch play out. She’d fal en asleep about fifteen minutes before, curled up in Christian’s lap. Her sweet breaths came in soft pants against his chest, rhythmic and soothing in the dimness of the room. He played with the strands of her hair, appearing lost in thought and most likely minutes from sleep.
Glancing at me, he grimaced through a heavy sigh, ran his palm over his weary face, and blinked. “I . . . don’t . . .
know.” It didn’t seem an answer to my question but was more a statement of how he was feeling.
If I were in his place, I wouldn’t know what to feel either.
Those unanswered questions formed as lines across his forehead. “I’ve spent so much of my life resenting my father . . . blaming him for al of my problems . . . for every mistake I’ve made.” His brow furrowed as he left those mistakes unspoken, though many of them were glaringly obvious. He snorted through his nose and shook his head.
“Do you know he left me a quarter of his inheritance?” He focused on his fingers weaving through Lizzie’s hair while stil shaking his head. His words dropped in slow disbelief, maybe even hinting at a newfound respect.
“And the rest of it to my mom.”
“What?” I couldn’t keep my shocked reaction contained.
Christian cut his eyes to mine. In the muted light of the family room, they were dark and mournful.
His mouth twisted and twitched, and he seemed to be struggling to keep his emotions in check. Supporting Lizzie, he leaned forward, wrenched his wal et from his back pocket, and produced a folded up piece of paper from it.
With his head bowed, he passed it over to me.
“He’d kept this in his desk.”
Wary of what I’d find inside, I stared at the piece of worn and tattered paper in my palm. I was sure whatever it held had broken a part of Christian’s heart.
Gingerly, I unfolded it, smoothed it out on my lap, and gasped at the simple picture.
Christian must have understood my surprise, must have read in the message the same thing I saw now.
“I can’t remember drawing it . . . or feeling it. I just wish I could.” The words shook as they fel as grief from his trembling mouth. “Damn it,” he suddenly spat, raking his hand through his hair. “He wasted his whole life.” Again, his expression shifted and the fire behind his words dul ed and eased into pain as if he didn’t know whether to revile his father’s memory or mourn him. “He knew he was dying, Elizabeth. I know it, and he wanted me to know he cared about me.” The sadness poured through him, a mixture of anger and pity and so much regret. “I just wish he would have had the courage to say it to my face.” Tracing the lettering, I imagined a little black-haired boy drawing it, the concentration he would have had on his face as he worked on the choppy, misspel ed letters, the pride he’d have had as he’d given it to his father.
I didn’t flinch when Christian reached out to do the same.
I closed my eyes as he pried my fingers from the page and wrapped them in his hand. “I don’t want to become like him, Elizabeth.” His throat bobbed in unspent emotion. “I don’t want to waste my life. I don’t want to waste this,” he stressed as he squeezed my hand.
I laced my fingers through his and blinked back tears.
He fol owed my gaze to Lizzie, and I brought our joined hands to touch the porcelain rosiness of our daughter’s cheek before I turned back to face the intent in his eyes.
“You’re not.”
A sad smile whispered at the corner of his mouth, and he laid his cheek against her head as a heavy breath fel from his tired lips.
In the stil ness, I held his hand, brushed my thumb over his soft skin. I watched as his eyes gradual y faded and closed in exhaustion, listened to his deep breaths even out, felt his muscles twitch as he drifted to sleep.
As quietly as I could, I uncurled myself from the couch, lifted Lizzie into my arms, and carried her upstairs to her bed. I tucked her under her covers and spent a moment adoring the amazing child Christian and I had created before I kissed her on the forehead.
Then I went into my room and dragged a blanket and pil ow from my bed.
I tiptoed back downstairs to find Christian had slouched and sank deeper into the crevices of the couch.
His arms were sprawled out, his body relaxed.
My stomach clenched in both pain and desire.
Why did it have to hurt to love him so much?
Putting the linens aside, I crouched to untie his shoes, pul ed them from his feet, and lifted is legs to lay them across the couch.
He stretched and groaned incoherently as he shifted, pul ing at the twines twisted around my heart.
As gently as I could, I maneuvered the pil ow beneath his head, shook out the blanket, and spread it over his body. I hesitated as I leaned down to pul it to his chin.
So beautiful.
His mouth had dropped open, just enough that he expel ed soft breaths of air against my face, sweet and distinctly man, his long black lashes casting slight shadows across his face.
I leaned in further and let my fingertips wander along the day old stubble along his jaw, ran them tenderly over his lips—wanted what I couldn’t have.
So, like a fool, I stole it and pressed my lips to his, knowing he’d only be mine for a few moments.
They were hot, damp, and perfect; they scorched my skin and brought tears to my eyes.
A tremor rol ed through my chest, stuck in my throat, and shook my body.
I took a little more, held his face in my hands and in my desperation, kissed him deeper—tasted my tears and the sweetness of Christian’s mouth—flirted with disaster.
Why? I begged him with my thoughts, with my touch as I kissed him again. Why did you have to ruin us? My mouth traveled to his jaw, kissed him there against the rough skin, fire against my lips and torment to my soul, where I mouthed out my deepest secret, “I love you, Christian.” Sickened and ashamed, I ripped myself
away,
escaped upstairs, and wept for a man I’d never al ow myself to have.
Grabbing my things, I sighed in satisfaction, thankful it was Friday and another long workweek had drawn to an end. I shrugged on my jacket, smiling at Selina. “Goodnight.” She grinned, and looked at me awry as she dug through her locker. “Night . . . see you tomorrow.” She shook her hips, suggestive and slow.
I giggled and waved over my shoulder as I left her in the break room.
Natalie and her parties.
She’d never let a year go by without planning something outrageous. They were always too much and always too fun. She’d invited next to everyone I knew, and I was certain we’d al be paying for it Sunday morning.
Anxious to start my weekend, I rushed across the bank floor as I cal ed goodnight to everyone in the lobby. I came to an abrupt halt two feet from the door when I saw my daughter’s face pressed against the glass door, peering inside.
Her huge smile assured me I had no need to worry.
I laughed, returning her excited wave when she noticed me.
Pushing the door open, I poked my head out. She wore a maroon dress with a satin bodice, a skirt of tul e, wrapped at the waist in black ribbon. The outfit had been finished off with white tights, black patent shoes, and a matching maroon bow tied in her hair.
“What are you doing here and al dressed up?” I asked, grinning.
Lizzie grinned back, twirling away from the door as if she were a bal erina, and I stepped the rest of the way out.
Christian’s voice hit me from somewhere behind, smooth and warm—intoxicating. “We’re celebrating.” Jerking around, I found him leaning with a shoulder against the bank wal . He wore an almost cocky look on his face, his mouth twisted in casual confidence. He was dressed in a deep-blue col ared shirt rol ed up to his elbows, the first two buttons undone, and black slacks that looked better than they should.
“I figured since the rest of your family and friends get you tomorrow night on your actual birthday, Lizzie and I get you tonight.” A smile pul ed at one side of his mouth, and he pushed from the wal and took a step forward.
Lizzie took my hand and danced beside me as she sang, “Surprise!”
My spirit soared.
This was the birthday I wanted.
Kneeling beside my daughter, I hugged her while I looked up at Christian. “Thank-you.”
He smiled so wide it touched his eyes and playful y crinkled at the corners. “Did you real y think we’d let them keep you al to themselves?” He came forward and extended his hand to help me up, once again igniting the flames I futilely fought to squelch. He froze just for a second as a palpable quiver traveled up his arm, and I knew he felt it too.
After I’d kissed him last Friday, I’d felt so ashamed. I was sure he could somehow see the guilt on my face—find in it in my eyes. The next morning he’d seemed to watch me careful y, attentive to my every move. It was if he were counting each breath I took and reading every word I spoke. It had begun then, the timid fingertips across my upper arms as he’d leave the room, gentle brushes of skin, testing, tempting. In spite of my promise to myself, my promise to Lizzie, I’d done the same: furtive fingers, roaming eyes, playing with fire.
Christian tugged on my hand. “Come on. We’l fol ow you home and you can hop in my car.”
Forty minutes later, we walked through the parking lot to the restaurant, swinging Lizzie between us. She squealed and begged us to do it again and again.
Christian smiled at me over her head, and I fel in love a little bit more.
Al three of us were laughing when we entered the loud, crowded restaurant. Fil ed with young families with smal children, parties and celebrations, it was one of those places people flocked to on a Friday night to unwind, to forget about the week, and to share a meal and drinks.
Christian led us through the throng of people waiting for tables and to the podium, announcing our arrival and name for the reservation. The hostess weaved through the tables to the far corner of the restaurant, seating us at a booth.
I laughed and dropped my mouth in mock offense when Lizzie once again crawled up next to her father. “How come you never want to sit by Mommy anymore?” I teased.
Lizzie clung to his upper arm, laid her head on his shoulder, squeezed as she giggled, and said, “Cuz Daddy doesn’t always get to sleep at my house.”
Christian smirked, threw me a mischievous look that said that would be easy to fix.
Instead of cringing and cursing my heart, I rol ed my eyes and laughed to let him know I knew exactly what he was thinking. I surprised myself with the action, but I was feeling free, swept away by the atmosphere and the roaring energy of the room.
He grinned as he opened his menu and muttered something under his breath. His smile was evident even as he buried his face in the menu. My smile matched his, wide and unrestrained.
It was my birthday, and just tonight, I was going to al ow myself to enjoy this, to enjoy my family, as unconventional as it was. Christian ordered me a birthday drink, a huge concoction of rum and chocolate and whipped cream, and didn’t hesitate to dip his finger in it to steal a taste. We ordered burgers and fries, drank, and ate as we talked and teased. We laughed until we cried when a clown stopped by to make us bal oon hats. Al of the tension was gone, for a few precious moments our past forgotten.
Sated and appeased, Christian leaned easily against the booth with his arm slung around our daughter’s shoulders, his burger polished off.
Happy.
Blue eyes danced with merriment as he announced,
“Present time.”
Lizzie bounced and clapped her hands. “Ooo, Momma, open mine first!”
Christian produced a smal box he’d kept hidden from somewhere beneath the table. It was square and shal ow, covered in shiny red paper bunched and uneven with a crooked silver bow— perfect—wrapped with great care by little hands. I released a smal , surprised giggle of appreciation and wondered when the last time I’d felt so loved. “When did you have time for al of this?” I held the smal gift near my ear and gently shook the tiny box.
Christian shrugged, smiled wide. “I took the afternoon off to take Lizzie shopping and to get ready.” He nudged her, and they shared a knowing smile, thick as thieves. “I cal ed Natalie last night to let her know I was picking Lizzie up from school today.”
I hoped my expression was enough to portray how much this meant to me, that he would take the time to help our daughter do something that was so obviously important to her, that he took time for me.
“Mommy, open it!” Lizzie prodded.
I smiled, shook it again, and drew the words out as I said, “I wonder what this could be?” I figured she must have picked out a piece of jewelry.
Slowly, I pul ed away the bow and ribbon and ran my finger under the paper to loosen the tape. I felt my chest flutter when I realized the box was black velvet, its contents real, and I worried that it had probably cost too much.
Then I lifted the lid to the sweetest gift I’d ever received.
The white-gold charm bracelet was a rod and bal type, simple and beautiful, and made me feel incredibly special.
“Do you like it, Momma?”
I glanced up at Lizzie who was on her knees, bouncing in her seat, eager for my reaction, and answered in complete honesty. “I love it.”
I traced a finger over it, unhooked its snap from the box, and held it up in the air over the table. Three silver bead charms slid to the bottom, one with an emerald for Lizzie’s birthday, one with a yel ow topaz for mine, and another simply engraved with Mother.
Christian leaned over the table and reached out. “May I?”
Smiling, I nodded and passed it to him. I stretched my arm across the table and couldn’t ignore the tingles that spread out over my skin as Christian’s fingers worked the bracelet around my wrist and screwed the locking clasp in place. He twisted it, wet his lips in concentration as he did, and then glanced up at me through his
long lashes and then back down to finish his work.
He murmured, “You know you can add to this, right?” He ran the tip of his forefinger down the sensitive skin of my wrist.
It sounded nothing like a question but an invitation.
My face reddened, but I refused to look away.
Lizzie gushed as she nearly climbed on top of the table to admire the bracelet now dangling from my wrist. “Oh, it’s so pretty!” My sweet child looked up for my approval, hoping to find I liked it as much as she wanted me to.
Fingering the charms, I smiled back her, told her again how beautiful I thought it was and that I would wear it with pride.
“My turn.” Christian produced an envelope, larger than a normal card. It was thick and rectangular and it spiked my nerves with the way it shook in his trembling hand.
“Happy birthday, Elizabeth,” he said with the softest of smiles.
I returned an uncertain smile, hesitated as I held the card between us, and realized I didn’t want to be scared.
Just for one night, I didn’t want to be scared.
So I ripped it open. At first I was confused as I looked at the brochure and reservation slip in my hand until my mind final y came to recognition.
When I snapped my head up in surprise, I found Christian’s eyes burning into mine. His words more hopeful than any I’d ever known, impassioned as they passed through his lips. “Come to New York for Christmas with me, just you and Lizzie. I . . . I want her to see the tree . . . to show her where she was born . . . where we met.” In his expectation, I lost al reason and threw al sanity aside because I actual y wanted to go. I pretended I didn’t know what Christian meant when he asked me to go to New York with him, lied to myself again, and assured myself anew that nothing had changed.
Because by the look on Christian’s face when I released the breath I’d been holding and nodded that I would go, I knew everything had changed.
For a few moments, a new heaviness hung in the air, a new fear vying for my attention, imploring with me to pay it heed.