by Katy Regnery
Maybe they were falling in love with each other right there on the couch, watching a dumb holiday movie together. Certainly they were connecting. Anyone could see that. But as I think back on it now, I realize it was...more. It was that heady, all-consuming joy of someone “getting” you, loving what you love, laughing at what you think is funny, and being present to enjoy it.
I wasn’t present.
I didn’t love what she loved.
I didn’t laugh at what she thought was funny.
Marlena wasn’t serious enough for me, and I wasn’t enough fun for her.
But Cez? With his easygoing temperament and teasing blue eyes? He was perfect her—is perfect for her.
Maybe I can’t blame them for falling in love. Maybe they were meant for each other, and my role, in the grand scheme of things, was to be the bridge that brought them together.
Oh, but how I wish they’d figured out a way to tell me instead of cheating, instead of making me look like an idiot, instead of blindsiding me on the day before my wedding. Couldn’t they have sat me down and explained? Couldn’t they have tried?
But when I think of them, two young-at-heart, fun-loving, nonconfrontational personalities faced with telling me an unfortunate truth? Maybe they just couldn’t figure out how to speak up, how to tell me. Maybe they wanted to—even meant to—a million times but couldn’t find the right time, the right way, the right words to shatter my heart. I know I loom large as Cez’s older brother, and with a significant age different between me and Marlena, I was the dominant partner in our relationship too.
Is it possible that I was so unapproachable to them that they couldn’t figure out a way to tell me? Maybe. When I really think about the dynamics at play between us, it doesn’t seem impossible. And it may even be my path to forgiveness.
When I pull up at the Chalet Blanche, I find that a conversation with the potential to ruin my night...hasn’t. In fact, I think I am more at peace with Cez and Marlena than I’ve been in months, and it makes me breathe easier and feel more whole again.
I look up in time to see Faye Findley step out of the inn wearing high boots and her fur-trimmed parka.
Framed by the soft white light over the French doors, I’m positive I’ve never seen another woman more beautiful. All thoughts of Cez and Marlena and Elf and last Christmas fly swiftly away.
All I can see...all I want to see...is her.
***
Faye
The expression on his Trevor’s face as he rounds the car and opens my door is...intoxicating.
In the simplest possible terms:
He is hunting. I’m his prey.
And I hope to God he catches me.
His eyes are dark, with just a thin circle of green around onyx pupils, and he smells heavenly—like something homecooked and delicious mixed with freshly showered man.
“Hey,” he says.
I lean up on tiptoes and kiss each of his cheeks in turn.
“Hi. Thanks for picking me up.”
When my feet are flat on the ground again, he stares into my eyes with an intensity that might intimidate other women but doesn’t faze me. We bonded over spirits, T and I, which made the playing field level from the very beginning.
“My pleasure.”
He opens my door, and I step into the car, settling in comfortably as he shuts my door and tips the doorman for waiting with me.
I’ve had all day to think about him, and this is what I’ve decided: I like him. I like him more than I’ve liked another man, well, ever. And I’m not going to squander this chance to get to know him better. I think about Harry telling me that Austin was going to kiss her, and I feel certain that—sooner or later—Trevor will do the same. And I’ve already decided: I will let him, and I will kiss him back.
Last night, as I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, I went over and over our conversation at the tasting room bar, specifically two parts to which he took exception: being friends and having no future. And when I forced myself to be honest, I had to confess that he’s not alone. I don’t want to be friends either—I want far more than that. And though I have no gift for predicting the future, I hate the idea of shutting one down before we even have a chance to explore it.
I remember my initial feeling about Mr. Fairbanks’ assertion that there would be “zero chance of love” between himself and his applicant of choice—I felt sorry for him. At the time, I reminded myself that while finding love had proved a challenge for me as well, unlike him, I wasn’t ready to give up on it yet.
So why would I predict “no future” for us? Why would I give up on the possibility of something happening with Trevor Starling, the first man for whom I’ve ever had feelings this strong, this...good?
Well, I won’t. I regret what I said yesterday, and I won’t be renewing those sentiments any time soon.
In a turn of events I never, ever saw coming, I even conceded to myself that I’d be willing to lose North Star as a potential acquisition if it meant that our personal relationship had some time and space to develop. And yes, that realization felt awfully strange, because I’ve never prioritized my personal life over my business life—not when my parents passed away and not for my little sister, who has needed me over the years—but I think it’s my recent revelations about my relationship with Harry that have opened my mind.
I want to give Trevor Starling a chance.
I don’t know what that will look like or where it will go. Hell, we could discover tonight that we can’t stand each other and go our separate ways. But whatever happens, I don’t want to regret shutting something down before allowing it to evolve.
He sits down beside me, glancing at me before turning over the engine.
“I like your boots.”
I grin. “Thanks.”
“And your hair.”
Instead of pulling it back tightly, I blow-dried it upside down to give it some volume and wave, then twisted it into a looser, more romantic bun than usual. A few tendrils even got free and I left them to frame my face, which I made up with a little mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. Under my coat, I’m wearing a simple gray sweater dress with pearls. I’m no femme fatale, but I know how to put a little extra effort into my appearance. After all, I’ve been on the list for every major Boston gala for years.
“Thank you.”
“You look...beautiful, Faye.”
“Do I detect a note of surprise?” I ask as I buckle my seat belt.
“Not surprised,” he says. “Just...appreciative.”
“Well, I could hardly come to your house for dinner in sweats.”
“You could’ve,” he says, pulling away from the hotel. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
“You deserve better than that,” I tell him. “It was nice of you to invite me over.”
“I hope you like Swedish meatballs,” he says, grinning at me.
“I love them,” I say. “I adore Scandinavia in general.”
“I haven’t been.”
“Put it on your list,” I suggest. “Right under New York.”
“Will do,” he says, offering me a full-bodied smile, full of promise, as he puts the car in gear and we leave the Chalet Blanche behind.
***
Three hours later, I’ve taken a leisurely tour of Trevor’s stunning house, eaten the most delicious meatballs I’ve ever tasted and enjoyed three glasses of a truly exquisite Montepulciano.
“What time do the northern lights start?” I ask him.
He chuckles. “It’s not like a concert or TV show. You can’t predict solar activity. But! The snow stopped, which is good. The sky’s clear. If we turn off all the lights and take a seat on the couch...” He gestures to a sofa set back a few feet from floor-to-ceiling picture windows that flank a massive fireplace. “We may be able to catch them sometime after ten o’clock.”
“Sounds good,” I tell him. “What do we do until then?”
His eyes flick to my lips, as they have many times tonight, before they
skim back up to my eyes. “Ready for dessert?”
“Sure.”
I get the feeling he’s using even more self-control than he did yesterday, and I still wish I knew the reason. Why is the timing bad? And when he said it could be overcome, did he mean immediately? Or eventually? Because I’m all for the immediate option, especially since I’m expected back in Boston on the second.
“I had an idea,” he says, hopping up to take our dirty plates to the kitchen and returning with a lavender silk tie in his hands.
I eye it, then slide my uncertain gaze to him. “What...exactly?”
“How do you feel about being blindfolded?”
“Should I have decided feelings about it?”
He chuckles. “Are you up for it?”
“Yes...” I say slowly, “though I’d like to know why.”
“I’ve been playing with different vodka infusions,” he explains, gently tying the Trevor-scented silk around my head, before leaning forward to whisper in my ear, “and I’d like your opinion.”
I swear his lips brush the shell of my ear, and a shiver darts down my spine, stealing my breath away. “I, uh...sure. I can...give it. M-my opinion.”
“Faye.” His voice is a low rumble, and I imagine I can feel his breath kiss my cheek.
With everything dark, my other senses are heightened. “Yes?”
“I didn’t know how hot this would be.”
“Having me blindfolded?”
“Having you blindfolded.”
Muscles deep inside of my body—muscles that I am only aware of when I am touching myself under the covers—flex and contract, and I gasp softly.
I know he hears me because he laughs before stepping away, his footsteps retreating back into the kitchen. There’s the sound of the refrigerator opening—no, the freezer, I think—and then closing again. A plate or platter is placed on the marble counter. A moment later, he’s coming closer to me. A chair scrapes the hardwood floor.
“Faye, I’m going to move your chair a little, okay?”
He’s right. This is hot. “Mm-hm.”
As I sit tight, my chair is tilted back, angled a different way, and then tilted forward again. A moment later, his knees touch mine.
“I’m sitting across from you,” he says.
“I know.”
“Are you ready?”
“I’m...breathless.” I don’t know what to do with my hands. I fold them, then flatten them on my lap, my nails curling into the exposed skin between the hem of my dress and the tops of my boots.
“I can see,” he says, his voice soft and low as his hands reach out for mine. He clutches them gently, and I savor the rough warmth of them. “Just breathe.”
I would’ve guessed that Trevor touching me would make me more nervous, but it doesn’t. My fingers move gingerly to thread themselves through his, and I breathe in and out, deep, soothing breaths that calm me.
“You need your hands and I need mine.” His fingers retract, leaving mine alone, for which I am momentarily sorry. “Ready?”
“Mmm,” I hum. “Yes.”
“Okay. I’m going to give you a shot glass with an infused vodka. Take a sip. Then I’ll offer you a piece of fudge. Taste them together. And you can decide when to sip again, okay?”
How delightful. “Yes.”
The glass he places in my hands, which has been chilled in the freezer, is icy cold, with a sheen of frost on the sides. I take a sip, letting the cold alcohol swirl in my mouth as his hand nudges mine with a small piece of fudge. I wait a moment to eat it, identifying the vodka as infused with a kind of berry. It’s subtle, just a little sweet and utterly divine.
“Oh, my God. Yes. What is this?”
He chuckles softly. “Eat the fudge.”
I pop the sweet in my mouth, and I swear, it’s a taste explosion like I’ve never tried before.
“Ahhhh. Ohhhh,” I sigh. “Oh, my God. Mmmm.”
“Jesus, Faye,” he half-grunts, half-whispers.
“It’s so good,” I murmur, taking another sip of the berry vodka. “Oh, my God, that’s...that’s delicious.”
He adjusts himself on the seat across from me. I can tell by the way his knees lose contact with mine for a second.
“You, um, liked it,” he finally says.
“Mm-hmmmm. I can still taste it. Amazing.”
I’m expecting him to tell me that another tasting pair is coming, but instead, I feel his finger touch down lightly on my head, and a moment later, the blindfold is gone. I blink my eyes against the light, looking around the room to find Trevor already in the kitchen standing behind the counter.
“What happened?” I ask, glancing at the table where two more shot glasses and two more pieces of fudge are waiting. “No more?”
He clears his throat, flattening his hands on the counter between us and staring down at them.
“What?” I ask, standing up from my chair and stepping around the counter to stand across from him. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” He looks up. “I’m just...hiding.”
“From me?”
“I didn’t expect for your reaction to...” He bites his lower lip, then winces. “It turned me on. A lot. In an obvious way.”
Is he talking about getting an erection? Holy crap, I think he is.
“It did?”
“Do you hear yourself when you drink something you like? It’s...orgasmic, Faye. I mean, game over. It’s crazy sexy.”
A flush starts in my breasts, trailing up my chest to my neck and finally to my cheeks, trailing down over the flat plane of my belly to my core, to my sex. I’m hot. I’m wet. I’m turned on too.
“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “And now you look like it too.”
“Look like what?”
“Like we just had sex.” He leans forward to tuck a tendril of hair behind my ear and grins at my expression. “But your eyes are so wide. How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Look so innocent. When you were made to be...” His voice trails off and he swallows.
“To be?” My voice is so soft, it’s just shy of a squeak.
“Fucked,” he whispers.
My breath catches, but instead of recoiling, as I might if I felt insulted, I lean forward just a touch. I can’t look away from him. I don’t want to.
“Probably because I’ve never been,” I hear myself saying.
Faye! Faye, what the hell are you doing?
But it’s too late. The words are already out there...as evidenced by his reaction: his mouth drops open his brows knit together, and his eyes narrow. He stares at me. Hard. “Excuse me?”
I have no idea what to say. My mind is a blank. I stare back at him and say nothing.
“You’ve never been...” he murmurs.
I lick my lips, gathering my senses together, and leaning away from him as my cheeks redden from a different emotion all together.
“Faye, you’ve never been...”
“Fucked.”
He blinks at me. “Are you saying you’re a...virgin?”
I’ve been here before. Not many times, but once or twice, and it has never gone well from here. In my previous experience, men are either turned off or intimidated by this information, and their first response is almost always to verify my age, then ask how it’s possible that I’m still a virgin. It’s an exercise in humiliation that yes, I have brought on myself tonight, but that no, I cannot bear.
“You said you hadn’t had a relationship in a while, but I never thought...”
I take a deep breath and muster a polite smile. “Tonight has been just lovely. Thank you for having me to your home. I can call an Uber if you’ve had too much to drink—”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to my hotel.”
“Why?”
“Because your next question is to ask me my age, followed by an inquisition about how I am still a virgin at thirty years old, and frankly, I can’t stomach it. I enjoyed myself so much
tonight and I’d just prefer to—”
“Faye,” he says.
“What?”
“Shut up,” he tells me, rounding the counter, drawing me into his arms and dropping his lips to mine.
I arch my back and lean my head back, giving him better access to my mouth, which he covers with his, his lips moving softly but insistently over mine. With a soft whimper, I open mine, meeting his tongue as it slips between my lips. His arms tighten around me and my hands, which are flattened against his chest, slide up to his jaw. I hold his face in my hands as he kisses me, as he explores my mouth with the velvet heat of his tongue.
He makes a sound—half groan, half growl—as he backs me up against the kitchen counter, still ravishing my mouth with his. My arms loop around his neck. My nipples harden into stiff points under my sweater dress. And heats pools in my belly, telling me how much I want him, that my body—heretofore unknown to a man—is ready for an introduction.
When he leans away from me, I wait a second before slowly opening my eyes. His are wide and dark, staring fiercely down at mine, as the evidence of his aforementioned arousal prods my stomach in a way that only makes me want to keep going.
I press my body against his.
He grins at me. “No more for now.”
“Why not?”
“I need a day.”
“Just a day?” I ask.
“Just a day,” he promises, brushing his lips against my forehead. “But I want to pick you up on Friday morning. I want you to check out of your hotel and spend New Year’s weekend here with me.”
“I want that too,” I whisper, resting my cheek against his chest.
“So that’s a yes?” he confirms.
“Mm-hm. Definitely a yes.” I breathe in his scent before leaning back to look into his eyes. “I didn’t expect that. A kiss.” Such a good kiss.
“I didn’t want you to go yet,” he says.
“I won’t. I’ll stay a while longer,” I promise, leaning back to look up at him.
“Didn’t you want to see the northern lights?” he asks, still holding me tightly, his lips tilted up in a whisper of a sexy smile. “I’ve still got some vodka and fudge for you to try.”
“I’d like that,” I say, smiling up at him, my heart still racing from the best kiss I’ve ever had.