by Dylann Crush
“No,” she said quickly. “No. It wasn’t you. You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to do—”
“You hate my kissing,” he said. It was a little wry and a little wary and a lot uncertain.
She was breathing hard, trying to find the thread of her breath, and then, all at once, she found it. And the thread of the truth, too. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No. I don’t hate your kissing at all. I like it so much. Too much.”
He was very still. Only his eyes moved, like he was trying to read her face, like he was trying to understand.
“That’s what happened that night. I told myself I ran away because rebounding made me feel awful, but the truth was you were the only rebound that didn’t make me feel awful. You made me feel so good, and I liked you way too much, and I wanted more, and that’s what scared the shit out of me, because the last time I felt that way it ended with the worst possible heartache. I don’t ever want to feel the way Chris made me feel. Because in the end he made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like none of it had meant anything.”
“But he was an asshole.”
“No,” Phaedra said, feeling all the weight of all the sadness. “He was just a guy who stopped loving me.” She sighed. “I think that’s what sucks the most. You can’t stop someone from not loving you. All you can do is—”
“Not let them love you to start out with?”
She nodded, and met his eyes. They were warm, a beautiful rich brown, and patient. Affectionate.
“What if—” He stopped, then started again. “What if we take things a little—slower? Like maybe just dating. It was a lot at once.”
She sighed. A good sigh. “I think—I think that would be excellent. And maybe kissing. I don’t think I want to give up the kissing.”
“Want to try it again?” he asked.
She nodded.
He bent his head and kissed her. Sweetly. All soft lips and skilled tongue, his fingers trickling through her hair, teasing her scalp, giving her shivers all over. The shivers shimmied down her body and lodged, liquid and molten, between her legs, urgent.
“Oh. God.”
“How’s the panic level?”
“Nonexistent,” she said, grabbing for him.
He stayed out of her reach, catching her hands in his and holding them still. A tease. She tried to kiss him again, but he said, “That might be enough for you for now. I maybe need to portion it out. I didn’t realize how easy it was to OD on me.”
She smiled at his teasing. “It’s not the kissing. It’s the liking. It’s liking you. I like you, Mack, and—I wasn’t going to do it again. I really wasn’t.”
“Okay,” he said, laughing. “Okay. You know—it really is okay. You can freak out. You can be terrified. Just—do you think you could not run away? Or if you run away, could you maybe not—you know, totally give up on the possibility? Not refuse to let your friends give me your number?”
“I could—not do that.”
Her heart felt very big. Very full. She waited for the panic, but if it was lurking, it wasn’t going to show its face right now.
“And if you’re not ready yet, you don’t have to go there. The liking, I mean. Don’t do the liking yet. Just the kissing for now. How’s that?”
“It might be too late,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
That made him smile. “Well, I know the feeling.”
And then there was more kissing.
They went back into the lobby just in time for the cake cutting. Just in time to watch Vivian cram a slice of cake in Michael’s face and for Michael to burst out laughing and then kiss Vivian all over her face with his own cake-smeared one.
“They make each other so happy,” Phaedra said.
Mack was smiling his terrific smile. “They do.”
Phaedra reached for his hand and held it all through the cake eating. It was a challenge to eat cake with her left hand, but she was up to the task. And she held his hand as he led her back out on the dance floor and drew her into his arms.
“I don’t like this song, either,” she said with a sigh, as Wonderful Tonight began to play.
“No,” he said. “Me neither. But I really like holding you. You feel so, so good.”
“You, too,” she whispered, breathing in the wool of his suit and the lemongrass of his hair and the sharp clean scent of his deodorant. Feeling the way his muscles played under his clothes against her. Anticipating—remembering—how his skin would feel against hers when she was ready for it. Because she was pretty sure that even though they were supposed to go slow, she wouldn’t be able to hold back when he touched her in private later. In her hotel room. She wouldn’t be able to stop touching him until he was inside her. Until his eyes were on hers, holding hers, until she gave herself up completely to him, until she shattered under his gaze and took him with her.
She might panic again…
But she wouldn’t run.
She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise in a particular way, and she lifted her head, trying to figure out who was watching. It wasn’t Vivian, who was chatting happily with college friends, and it wasn’t Michael, who was talking to an unfamiliar man without ever once taking his eyes off Vivian.
Then she found it, the person who was watching her.
It was Grandma Lillian, seated and eating a piece of cake. It might have been her second piece or maybe her third; cake plates were scattered all around her. And when Phaedra caught her grandmother’s eye, her grandmother winked, raised her eyebrows, and nodded.
I told you so, her smile said.
Also By Serena Bell
Thank you so much for reading I TOLD YOU SO! Phae and Mack’s story takes place in the beach town of Tierney Bay, and if you enjoyed your glimpse of Cape House and Levi and Grace, you’ll love meeting Levi’s big warm family in my Tierney Bay series. Fall in love with the Campbell siblings by one-clicking SO CLOSE now!
The Tierney Bay series
SO CLOSE
SO TRUE
Love military heroes? Meet four wounded soldiers and the big-hearted women who love them in my Returning Home series. Start reading with HOLD ON TIGHT now!
The Returning Home series
HOLD ON TIGHT
CAN’T HOLD BACK
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
HOLDING OUT
About Serena Bell
USA Today bestselling author Serena Bell writes contemporary romance with heat, heart, and humor. A former journalist, Serena has always believed that everyone has an amazing story to tell if you listen carefully, and you can often find her scribbling in her tiny garret office, mainlining chocolate and bringing to life the tales in her head.
Serena’s books have earned many honors, including a RITA finalist spot, an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, Apple Books Best Book of the Month, and Amazon Best Book of the Year for Romance.
When not writing, Serena loves to spend time with her college-sweetheart husband and two hilarious kiddos—all of whom are incredibly tolerant not just of Serena’s imaginary friends but also of how often she changes her hobbies and how passionately she embraces the new ones. These days, it’s stand-up paddle boarding, board-gaming, meditation, and long walks with good friends.
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Part III
Sleigh My Name
By Kilby Blades
About… Sleigh My Name
Michael never forgave himself for the time he broke Darby’s heart, no matter how fast he’d fixed his stupid decision to move away. Five years later, he has a shot at orchestrating a do-over of that fateful night. At the Jingle Ball, he’ll pull off his grandest gesture yet.
1
Darby
“Tiff said we had to see the dress.”
Cheyenne came to a skidding stop in the hallway outside of Darby’s door—the master bedroom suite of a house that was usually quiet. On a normal winter’s day, the most Darby might hear from
her reading chair were the sounds of her dog’s tags and snow falling from branches in the forest.
But it wasn’t a normal winter’s day. Darby had barely enjoyed a quiet moment in a week—the time that had passed since her adopted children had descended. They were all home from college for the holidays for the next three weeks. The fact that there were seven of them meant days were never dull.
“We?”
Darby raised an eyebrow and put down the book everyone was talking about—one she’d tried no fewer than three times that week to read. That she hadn’t gotten far enough to need a bookmark was a testament to the chaos of her house. She was still on chapter one. The swift arrival of Leslie—helped along by her own socked feet—gave Cheyenne a good bump, eliminating Darby’s need for a direct answer.
With both bright-eyed and eager in the way only teenagers could be, Darby couldn’t help but to laugh. She’d come to relish all the ways they’d endeared themselves to her. Marriage and children were the one thing she and Michael had said they wouldn’t have.
“Wanna see it?” Darby raised a conspiratorial eyebrow and set down her book. Both women wasted no time tumbling through the door and into her room.
“What is this thing you’re going to again?” Leslie wanted to know.
Darby rose from the cream-colored chaise long that aligned center to the floor-to-ceiling windows on her side of the bed. Its twin belonged to Michael. Most Sundays, they drank coffee there, passing sections of The Tribune back and forth across the table that separated their chairs.
“The Jingle Ball,” Darby explained. “It benefits testicular cancer. Michael’s on the Board of the nonprofit that puts on the ball.”
She waved them toward the gargantuan closet on the other side of the room. It was one of Darby’s favorite features of their house. Spaces that did exactly what you needed them to and that surpassed your wildest dreams were among the many hidden perks of not-marrying an architect.
“That’s where he went this morning,” Leslie informed Cheyenne. “He said he had to help set up.”
Cheyenne crossed her arms. “Don’t they have event planners for that?”
She asked it just as they reached the closet. Darby pulled apart its sleek, gray sliding double doors.
“You know Michael. He likes things to be perfect.”
Whatever interest there had been about the ball itself drained from the younger women’s faces as they took in the sight of the dress on display. It hung from a high mirror, the middlemost pane of the trifold that half-surrounded her dressing block. The dress wasn’t new, but it was recently out of storage—at least, that’s how Darby thought of the closet in her Gold Coast brownstone. She had lived in that house—and worn that dress—the first time Michael had taken her out.
“That is stunning!” Leslie gasped at the very same moment Cheyenne crossed her arms and informed Darby, “You are getting some tonight.”
“Chey…” Leslie frowned. “Don’t be crass.”
Darby smirked. Not five minutes earlier, their middle sibling, Tiffany, had sustained her own reaction, bouncing on her toes and letting out the excited sort of squeal that only a nineteen-year-old-girl could pull off. At seventeen, Cheyenne was the youngest. Leslie was the big sister of the group. At twenty-one, she was only fifteen years younger than Darby herself.
A second after Cheyenne’s eyeroll, she fixed her gaze back on the dress, which prompted Darby to do the same. Five years after Darby had bought it, the Lhuillier was still stunning. It still made her feel as if it had been made for her body. Resplendent under the light, its details shining in accent of its lines, it was impossible not to admire.
The dress was sheer gray chiffon underneath yet covered so elaborately in silver beads that the entire dress seemed to shimmer. The pattern of the embroidery was all lines and angles that burst forth in Art Deco style. Darby’s breasts were just small enough to pull off the plunging V-neckline without seeming as if the look she was going for was sexy. The dress was cut across the bias, with a small train that mimicked the even steeper plunge in the back.
“Is it vintage?” Leslie stepped forward until she was upon it, reaching a careful hand out to inspect the details.
Darby stepped in next to her. “Not vintage. Just not new to me.”
“I’d wait on my wicked stepsisters for a year just to be able to pull off this dress for a night…” Leslie said it wistfully as she fingered the garment.
“What do you mean, wicked?” Cheyenne fell in on the other side and elbowed Leslie in the ribs.
“Trust me…” Darby began. “There is plenty you can pull off that I can’t. Remember I tried on that tube top jumpsuit you bought last summer? It made me look like a ten-year-old boy.”
Darby gave Leslie a playful hip check and caught her eye in the mirror.
“Seriously, Darbs,” Cheyenne cut in again. “Michael’s not gonna be able to keep his hands off of you.”
Darby didn’t admit as much out loud, but that was the plan. Michael had been inordinately busy these past weeks working on details for the gala. The past seven days had been doubly busy as they’d carved out time with the kids. Spending the evening together at the gala would be among their first moments alone in days.
Only we won’t be alone, Darby reminded herself. They never were when one of them was on the Board. Nowadays, each of them was on several. They would settle into meeting and greeting and thanking and doing all that came with fundraising once the party was in full swing. But, alone time? Darby had already thought ahead. Alone time was for the limo.
“Michael is a perfect gentleman,” Leslie retorted. “I’m sure he’ll ask politely before he takes it off.”
Darby smiled as Leslie caught her eye in the mirror. If they were older, Darby might have said more—like how Michael not being polite about it was exactly what she was banking on. She remembered how wolfish he had been the first night she’d worn this dress. He’d had it off of her in a single motion. It had been surprisingly unwrinkled the next morning after lying, abandoned, in a pool on his apartment floor. A non-wrinkling dress would do just fine on the long ride from Glencoe to Chicago proper. Darby was setting him up grandly. Hers was a conspiracy of one.
2
Michael
“You really outdid yourself this time.”
Andrew stood back with his arms crossed, taking in the double-decker suite on a leisurely spin. A marble rotunda beyond the entrance was the gateway to five posh spaces. Two bedrooms off to the left sported lake views. The sprawling living room and dining room to the right had floor-to-ceiling windows and overlooked the city. Front-and-center was a grand staircase that led to the conservatory-style winter garden on the second floor, the pièce de résistance.
It was high praise coming from Andrew, a man who organized complex things. He’d been Michael’s assistant for ten years—first at Dewey & Rowe, then for Michael personally when he’d gone into independent practice. Andrew was an expert when it came to organizing Michael’s life.
Only, Andrew hadn’t organized what Michael had planned for Darby. He’d had nothing to do with the thousands of blooms of Black Star Calla Lilies that adorned the space, nor the twenty-foot Douglas fir trimmed expertly in baubles of dark silvers and dusty reds and muted golds. Even with simpler logistics, like ordering food and spinning up alibis over his whereabouts all those months, Michael had been an army of one.
“Just keeping it interesting,” Michael murmured. His own arms were crossed and his chin tipped upward as he admired the symmetry of the vaulted glass dome on the second floor. “You know I can’t have Darby getting bored.”
Andrew smirked. “I think we earned you the lifetime distinction of not being boring when we pulled off Prague.”
The corner of Michael’s lip lifted in a half-smile. He had needed Andrew’s help on that one. Getting security clearance for a private stay at a World Heritage Landmark was no small thing, especially if one of the visitors knew nothing of the surprise.
&
nbsp; Still, it had been worth it—right down to the fake story Michael had told Darby about the last-minute wedding they needed to attend and why they needed to take Marsh’s plane. A weekend in the royal apartments of Ceský Krumlov Castle was something Darby wouldn’t soon forget.
“Seriously…” Andrew continued. “Is there anything you need?”
“I won’t make it back down to Glencoe to change. Darby was expecting me in the car.”
“Which means you’ll want to be downstairs to greet her.” Andrew finished the thought.
“Stay in contact with her driver. No matter who I’m talking to, make an excuse and pull me away when she’s ten minutes out. I want to be there when she arrives.”
Andrew nodded and made to leave—not before casting a final, appreciative glance around the suite. He would return downstairs to finish setting up. No doubt, some detail or other required his attention.
Michael chaired the events committee for the Board of Directors of the testicular cancer awareness nonprofit. He didn’t personally oversee every event on the calendar, but this one was his baby. It was the most anticipated event of the year and Michael was its visionary.
But this vision…
Hands in the pockets of his slacks, Michael took a slow stroll up the stairs, admiring his own design. He’d achieved exactly what he’d intended to with this space. He had transformed it and opened it up. He’d fitted it with feature after feature that Darby would love. The opportunity had been un-pass-uppable: a multimillion-dollar redesign of the Presidential Suite at The Drake.
Whereas the old suite had been spacious, taking up half of the penthouse floor, the new suite was two stories high. Management’s appetite for two floors was half the reason why they’d eschewed an interior designer for an architect. The bottom floor remained living spaces, albeit reconfigured ones. Michael had re-mapped the plan and torn down walls, creating a flow that was more versatile and modern.