Sway (Keeping Score Book 6)

by Tawdra Kandle

  Gideon had texted me now and then, but even then, I’d sensed his distraction. I didn’t blame him. Especially in light of what he’d shared with me about his ex-girlfriend, Lilly, and how their relationship had ended, I knew I never wanted to be someone who came between Gideon and his first love—the game.

  All of this—my mother, my youngest sister, the asshole Rick, Gideon and my complicated feelings about him—busied my mind so that it wasn’t until the first flurries began to fall, just south of Fredericksburg, that I realized I’d somehow driven right into winter.

  At first, it was pretty. I grinned, then laughed out loud. Snow flurries, coming just four days before Christmas . . . what could be more magical and perfect? I switched my satellite radio to the station that played only Christmas songs around the clock and sang along loudly as I drove.

  However, the closer I got to the exit that would lead me from the freeway to Peaceful Meadows, the heavier the snow fell. The flakes were no longer flurries, and they weren’t floating to the ground, where they melted; instead, it was a veritable blizzard outside the windshield, and the snow was beginning to stick to the road. I gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly and slowed down, keeping one eye on the car’s built-in GPS that was programmed for Gideon’s address.

  Even so, if Gideon hadn’t given me some extra directions, I might have missed the turn that led me down a curving road, through birch-filled woods that eventually gave way to gently rolling hills. When that road curved gently to the left, I glanced to my right, catching sight of the white farmhouse nestled in the valley, barely visible through the snowfall.

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Peaceful Meadows, indeed, QB,” I murmured. “This is utterly perfect.”

  Within a few moments, I was pulling up alongside that perfect house. The snow had lightened slightly as I opened the car door and stepped out, moving carefully so that I didn’t slip. I was just about to reach into the backseat for my bag when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Welcome to Peaceful Meadows, princess.”

  “Gideon!” My reaction to seeing him was wholly unexpected. I’d learned over the past year that this man had to be handled with care. Too much enthusiastic affection would send him running in the opposite direction. As comfortable as we’d been both in San Francisco and last month in New York, I was well aware that this—Gideon hosting me at his home, his ultra-private sanctuary for a week—would test his boundaries. I’d fully intended to tread carefully.

  But all of the caution I’d planned went out the window when I saw him. With a happy cry, I leaped into his arms, wrapping myself around him. To my happy surprise, I felt him laughing as he held me tight.

  “That’s quite a greeting.” Leaning back, he brushed my hair away from my face and used one finger to wipe snowflakes from my cheekbones. “I’d almost think you’re glad to see me.”

  “Or I’m just happy to have made it here through the blizzard.” I slipped away from him, but my heart was still pounding much too hard for my comfort. After my impulsive tackle, I needed some distance, a little breathing room, and what I didn’t want was to think about why I’d practically mauled him just now—or the fact that he didn’t seem to have cared that I had.

  Gideon blinked, studying me for a moment before he shook off the fine layer of snow already covering him. “Where are your bags?”

  “In the backseat—and there’s just one.” I opened the door, and Gideon reached in to retrieve the suitcase.

  “This is it?” He frowned at me. “You are planning to stay for a week, aren’t you?”

  “Yep.” I shrugged. “But I travel light.” I held up my hands to catch snowflakes, laughing a bit. “On the other hand, I didn’t expect the winter wonderland here.”

  Gideon slammed my car doors shut and jerked his head, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. “Yeah, this was a surprise to most of us, I think. They were predicting rain, then the temperature dropped further than expected—so we got the snow instead.”

  I climbed the steps to his wide porch, stamping my feet as I did so. “Well, it might have been unexpected, but it sure is pretty.”

  “Isn’t it?” Gideon set down my bag inside the door and turned with me to survey the white-covered land. “This is the first time we’ve had real snow since I moved in. Kind of feels right, you know?”

  “I appreciate you going to all the trouble of ordering for my visit,” I teased, rubbing my arms and grinning up at him. “But please tell me you got the complete package, and that there’s a roaring fire waiting for me inside.”

  Gideon chuckled. “There is, along with some hot apple cider and chestnuts to roast on the open flames.” He held open the front door, allowing me to go inside ahead of him.

  “Good thing, because Jack Frost has definitely been nipping at my nose.” I wrinkled that part of my face. “I think it’s gone numb.”

  “As long as that’s the only thing Jack Frost nipped.” Gideon winked at me, tapping the tip of my nose.

  “Oh, don’t worry. All of the other crucial parts of me remained unnipped.” I unbuttoned my coat and turned in a circle, taking in the room as Gideon closed the door behind us. “Oh, my God, Gideon. This is . . . it’s beautiful.”

  And it was. I imagined that decades ago, when this house has been newly built by the family who’d farmed this land, the front room had probably been a fancy parlor, the type reserved for special guests and holidays. It was entirely possible that they only used the front door on rare occasions. But Gideon had taken that original footprint and design and made it even better. There was nothing stuffy or uncomfortable here; it was all warm welcome and invitation. The fireplace, with the promised crackling flames, took up one entire wall of the room. A simple loveseat, flanked by two of the most comfortable-looking chairs I’d ever seen, was drawn up before the hearth.

  On the wall perpendicular to the fireplace were high built-in shelves, filled with books, while along the other side, a long table stretched, covered with a variety of objects. I wandered over to check it out, trailing my fingertips across the seasoned wood.

  “That was the original kitchen table.” Gideon stood next to me, his fingers jammed into the pockets of his jeans. “I wanted something different in there, so I used this table out here. I needed a display for . . . these.”

  I had to laugh. Right here on this table was where Gideon Maynard, football hero, intersected with Gideon Maynard, self-proclaimed history nerd. He’d collected an impressive array of football memorabilia, and it was all displayed on the antique table. Old helmets, faded trading cards, a couple of signed footballs and well-preserved photographs and programs were artfully arranged.

  Vintage maps, matted and framed, hung on the wall above the table. I leaned closer to get a better look.

  “Are these battlefields?” I squinted at one map’s title.

  “Some of them.” Gideon touched the one nearest me. “This one is from Petersburg, which is just south of here, you know. And that one over there—” He pointed to a larger print. “That’s the battle of Lexington, from the Revolution. But most of the others are just local towns from this area or New York . . . places that were important to me growing up. Oh, and this one is a map of Whitby, England, the town where my ancestors were born and lived. My parents took Gabby and me there one summer when we were growing up.”

  “This is fascinating.” I sighed. “I’m impressed, Gideon.”

  He shrugged modestly, but I didn’t miss the pink that tinged his cheeks. “Want to see the rest of the place?”

  “Of course, I do.” I shrugged out of my coat. “That’s why I’m here, after all. To check out your inner sanctum.”

  He reached to take my coat, draping it over a nearby ladderback chair. “Is it?” His words were teasing, but his face was serious. “Here I was hoping you were here because we’re friends, and you wanted to spend some time with me.”

  “I’d think that goes without saying, QB.” I patted his arm. “But you’ve argued with me ov
er the friend term before, so I didn’t want to make you panic.”

  Gideon laughed. “True. But I don’t think I have any grounds to contest our friendship anymore. You did me a tremendous favor, you’ve met and survived my family, and I’m actually excited about having you stay with me for a week. Face it, princess, we’re friends. Maybe even, like, best friends.”

  I could’ve given him shit about that, but I sensed that it was too important to be a joke. “I think you might be right. You know more about me than anyone else outside my sister—possibly even more than she does.”

  He nodded gravely. “I’m not really sure how it happened, but I’m okay with that.”

  “Awesome.” I nudged him with my elbow. “Now show me around your place, bestie. I’m dying to check it all out.”

  Gideon took me at my word, leading me on a detailed tour around his home. I exclaimed over his warm and comfortable kitchen—which also featured another fireplace—the huge dining room, the views from the various windows, and the guest bedrooms. He pointed out which room he’d planned to give me for the week, and I agreed that it was perfect. The huge windows looked out over the farmyard, now covered with snow, and the four-poster bed was spread with an antique quilt. I noticed a sculpture in the corner, a figure of a football player, hands on his hips, helmet on his head.

  “Is that one of Gabby’s pieces?” I inquired, kneeling down next to the figure.

  Gideon nodded. “She gave it to me as a housewarming gift. She brought it down back in October, when she and my parents came to see the farm.”

  I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Did they stay with you?”

  “No.” Gideon leaned against the edge of the bed. “They stayed in town, at their usual hotel.” He gave a little cough. “You’re the first person to stay here with me.”

  Warmth spread over me. “Really? I’m very honored.” I straightened up. “And I love this room. You couldn’t have chosen a better one for me.”

  “Good.” I heard satisfaction in his tone. “That’s pretty much the whole house . . . except for my bedroom.” His stance was casual, but I saw his throat work as he swallowed. “I mean, if you’d like to see it.”

  “I would, if you feel comfortable showing me.” I ventured a little closer to him. “But if that violates your privacy, it’s okay. I understand.”

  He snorted. “Why would I stop now? C’mon. I’ll show you something cool.”

  “Oooooh,” I said, trailing him out into the hallway. “Is that what you say to lure your conquests into your lair?”

  “Yeah, that’s absolutely what works.” He rolled his eyes. “You know, when I invite hoards of chicks over every weekend.”

  I giggled. “Hey, you do you.”

  He opened a door at the end of the hall. I expected to see a bed, but instead, we stepped into what seemed to be a sort of sitting room.

  “I turned this into a master’s suite,” Gideon explained. “I use the whole house, of course, but this is where I spend most of my time.” He pointed to a huge flat-screen television hanging on the wall. “For football. I didn’t put a TV downstairs in the living room, because I wanted that space to be . . . you know, free from that part of my life.”

  “I get it.” I moved across the room, over a thick throw rug that lay on the gleaming hardwood floor. “And is this . . . oh, my God, Gideon, this is a turntable. And . . .” I peered into the wide wicker basket next to the stereo. “Vinyl. You have a huge collection.”

  He smirked. “That’s what all the girls say, baby. My collection is just huuuuuge.”

  I shook my head. “We don’t joke about music, QB. I’ve been lusting for years after a really high-tech system that includes a record player and vinyl. This is amazing.”

  “Glad you like it. Feel free to touch anything.” Gideon was still making with the double entendres, but I was too busy perusing his records to care. “The Platters . . . Nat King Cole . . . Johnny Mathis . . . The Kingsman Trio—”

  “They started out in San Francisco, you know.” He’d approached to look over my shoulder. “I love their sound.”

  “Not to be confused with The Kingsmen, though.” I pulled out an album and scanned the song list. “So cool. You have an incredible selection here. But one thing . . .”

  “Yeah?” He cocked one eyebrow, as though daring me to point out the obvious.

  “There’s nothing here any later than . . . well, I’d say the mid to late 1960s. Most of this music is from the late fifties and early sixties.”

  “Mmmmm. That sounds about right.” He shrugged.

  “Why is that? Part of your history nerd persona?” I replaced The Kingsmen record and turned around to face Gideon, crossing my arms and leaning my butt against the credenza that held his sound system.

  He shook his head. “Not really. It’s more . . . nostalgia, I guess.” He gazed down at me, and I sensed that he wanted to say more. I’d learned that sometimes, if I just stayed quiet, Gideon actually opened up on his own, so I waited expectantly.

  “Okay.” He sighed. “You met my grandparents, Gammy and Gramps, right?”

  “The ones celebrating their sixtieth anniversary with the big party honoring them? Yes, I vaguely recall those two,” I snarked.

  Gideon ignored that. “When Gabby and I were younger, we spent most of our time in the city, with my parents, of course, and with my dad’s parents. But in the summers, we went to stay in the Hudson River Valley with Gammy and Gramps, at their house. They called it the cottage, but looking back, it was bigger than most people’s year-round homes.”

  “Not surprised,” I muttered. “Go on.”

  “My grandparents are sticklers for tradition, and they love the idea of doing the same things every summer, year after year. Their favorite part of life at the summer cottage was the weekly dinner party. Every Saturday night, they’d dress up and invite their friends over for dinner and dancing—they’d have the staff roll up the rug in the living room, and they’d play records on what they called the hi-fi.” He smiled, and I knew in his mind’s eye, he was seeing the old days. “From the time Gabby and I were about eight or nine, we were allowed to be part of the party. I loved it—listening to the music, watching them all dance—you know, in those days, everyone could really do the dances. They’d been taught growing up how to foxtrot or jitterbug or even tango. And they always played music from the old days.” He gestured to the records. “Like this.”

  “And that’s why you love these so much.” I smiled. “All the happy memories.”

  “It was like the last gasp of a time that’s long gone by.” Gideon gazed beyond me, out the window. “Gammy used to say that there would never be music like that again, and they were the last ones to really remember it, to appreciate it.”

  “Do they know about your collection?” I inquired. “I bet they love that.”

  “Oh, yeah. Who do you think helps me add to it? Every Christmas and birthday, I get at least one vintage album, usually along with a story about the band or how that particular music relates to my grandparents’ life.”

  “You were right. That’s very cool, and definitely worth luring a girl to your room.”

  “Hey, that’s not even the half of it.” Gideon grinned. “Pick out an album. You’ve got to hear the acoustics in this room. I had it specially designed for playing music.”

  “Okay.” I flipped through until I found the record I wanted. “Here you go. Last track on the B side.”

  “Ah, a woman who knows what she likes.” Gideon wagged his eyebrows at me as he carefully set the album on the turntable, clicked it on and set the needle down carefully.

  The music that filled the room was all vintage and violins, surrounding us both with a sound that was pure, unadulterated romance.

  Heavenly shades of night are falling . . .

  Gideon held out his hand to me. “Will you dance with me?”

  I barely managed to nod my assent before he’d tugged me close to him. We moved slowly over the floor. One o
f Gideon’s hands pressed against my lower back, while the other one held mine in an approximation of the style of dancing our grandparents would have recognized. Our cheeks were so close that I could feel the soft brush of his breath against my ear.

  Closing my eyes, I gave myself over to the timeless music and to the intoxicating temptation of Gideon’s body as we swayed together.

  In the month between Gideon’s invitation for me to spend a week with him and my arrival at Peaceful Meadows, I’d worried about a myriad of things, among them the idea that maybe it would be awkward between the two of us, if we ran out of conversation or found each other annoying. To my relief, that hadn’t happened. Apparently, Gideon and I both seemed to have a bottomless well of topics that often kept us up until after midnight. At the same time, we also knew when quiet was better, whether that was an afternoon in the living room downstairs, reading by the fire, or mornings when Gideon worked out in his basement gym while I kept up with my own work upstairs at the kitchen table.

  It had also crossed my mind that one or both of us might find that much togetherness too much to resist, and we’d end up back in bed again.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that Gideon and I had chemistry out the wahoo. Every time he touched me, even if it was a completely casual, innocent brush of his fingers, I felt a tingle that set all of my sensitive spots buzzing. We already knew we were great together when it came to sex. Memories of that night back in January were burned into my memory.

  There wasn’t any good reason, then, that we shouldn’t enjoy a physical relationship. Except . . . except that there was. The more time Gideon and I spent together, the more I liked him. I didn’t want to ruin that. When he’d said we were probably best friends, even as much as we were both joking, on another level, it was true. Since September, I realized, every time something happened in my life, Gideon was the person I texted. He was the one with whom I wanted to share all my news, good and bad.