Addicted to Love

by Addicted to Love (lit)

  She couldn’t help comparing him to Brody.

  Rugged, good-looking Brody with his dark, precision-cut hair, crooked nose, and lopsided smile. If he were to be on the cover of anything, it would be Outdoor magazine or Texas Highways, in his Stetson, cowboy boots, and faded blue jeans.

  She thought of how easy life had been for Trace, a banker’s son, and how hard Brody had had it. Losing both parents by the time he was fifteen, being in the Twin Towers when tragedy struck, leaving behind a piece of himself in Iraq. How had she ever preferred the softness of someone like Trace to the substance of a man like Brody?

  “You look so beautiful,” Trace said.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “What do you want?”

  “I came to tell you how sorry I am for the way I treated you.”

  Then before Rachael had time to react, Trace tossed the bouquet onto the porch swing, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her underneath the mistletoe.

  BRODY WAS CRUISING down the street in his Crown Vic, returning from picking up nutmeg at the grocery store. Deana was whipping up eggnog for Kelvin’s annual Christmas party that evening. He’d been wondering if Rachael would be attending when he saw her standing on her front porch kissing some guy. One look at the red Corvette with the Illinois plates in the driveway, the Chicago Bears parking pass sticker on the back windshield, and a huge bouquet of pink roses sitting on the porch swing, and he knew the guy in question was most likely her old flame Trace Hoolihan trying to weasel his way back into her good graces.

  The realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

  Rachael was getting back together with her ex.

  You blew it, buddy-boy. Holding back was not the way to go. As much as Rachael denies she wants romance, that’s exactly what she wants.

  His gut soured and sweat beaded at his collar. His caveman instincts had him wanting to slam the car in park right there in the middle of the street, get out, and challenge Hoolihan to a good old-fashioned fistfight, winner take Rachael.

  But he couldn’t give in to his natural inclinations for three reasons. One, he was an officer of the law and he didn’t take his duty lightly. Two, after Iraq, he’d sworn off violence. Three, Rachael wasn’t a possession men could fight over. She was a human being with a mind of her own. He couldn’t treat her like an object. If Trace was the man she wanted, it would do no good to get angry. Never mind that she was tearing him apart inside. That was his cross to bear. He loved her, even if she didn’t love him back.

  Wincing, he turned into his driveway and got out of the car, just in time to see Rachael let Trace Hoolihan into her house.

  And with that, the tender hope for the future Brody had been nurturing for weeks was snuffed right out.

  “THE BEARS ARE headed for the play-offs and I’m first-string running back,” Trace said. He peeled off his cashmere coat and hung it on the rack by the door while Rachael trailed into the kitchen scouting for a vase for the roses.

  She’d let him in only to get him off the porch, and she prayed none of the neighbors had seen him. She knew how quickly gossip spread through Valentine.

  Her lips were still damp from Trace’s wet, sloppy kiss. How had she ever convinced herself that she liked his kisses? She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand and finally just stuck the roses in a Mason jar.

  “Don’t you have a vase for those?” Trace asked, coming into the kitchen behind her.

  “This is as sophisticated as it gets,” she said, feeling irritated.

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  “Let’s see. You ran out on our wedding to join the Chicago Bears and then you disrespected me on national television. Why on earth would I be mad at you?”

  Trace hung his head, looking chagrined. “Not two of my finer moments. I’m truly sorry for that. But you got back at me,” he pointed out, “with the whole YouTube thing.”

  “You saw that?”

  “I was the laughingstock of the locker room for weeks.”

  “You deserved it.”

  “I did.”

  Rachael turned to face him. “Why are you here, Trace?”

  “I missed you, Rach.”

  She snorted indelicately. “Come on. You’ve been the star of the Chicago Bears since September. I know you’ve got more groupies than you can handle.”

  “I don’t want groupies, I want you. I’ve come to realize all the groupies in the world can’t offer me what you were so willing to give,” he said.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Your support, your loyalty, your love.”

  “You had your chance with me.”

  “I was a fool.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “you were.” She could forgive him because she’d grown beyond the petty need for revenge.

  “I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” he said. Then he sank down on one knee and reached for her hand.

  Her stomach pitched. Her pulse raced. Panic swept through her. No, no.

  He withdrew a small black-velvet box from his pocket. It sprang open with a sharp cracking sound to reveal a three-carat diamond sparkler. “Marry me, Rachael. I really mean it this time. I can’t make it without you in my life. I thought fame and fortune were what I wanted but I found out it doesn’t mean a damn thing if you don’t have anyone to share it with.”

  Once upon a time, after a speech like that, Rachael would have forgiven him anything. Back before she’d learned all that glitters isn’t gold. Once upon a time, she would have been impressed with the appearance of things, with the trappings of romance — the roses, the diamond, the going-down-on-one-knee thing. Once upon a time, she would have accepted his proposal, terrified that she might never get another one. But that was before she’d learned she was worth something in her own right. That she didn’t need a man or romance to define her.

  Rachael pulled her hand away from him and stepped back. “Get real. I’m not about to marry a man who treats me the way you treated me.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m pursuing you with my last dime. I’ll send flowers every day. I’ll buy you gifts and spoil you with vacations and spa treatments.”

  “I don’t want those things anymore, Trace. You were the one who helped me realize that I was living a false life. I was happier with fantasies and illusions than I was in the real world. That’s no way to live.”

  “I don’t get it.” He looked truly puzzled. “You prefer to live alone in a crappy little house in this dried-up town rather than marry me, move to Chicago, and live in the lap of luxury.”

  “Yep,” she said. “I do.”

  “You’re breaking my heart here. What am I going to do without you, Rachael?”

  “If you’re lucky, you’ll do the same thing I did when you broke my heart. You’ll find the real Trace hiding inside.” Using her knuckles, she tapped his chest at his heart.

  Bewildered, he stared at her. “You’ve changed.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through the Super Bowl without you.”

  “Face it. That’s the real reason you’re here,” she said.

  “Huh?” His look was blank. Trace had no idea what his true motives were, but she understood him better than he understood himself. Somewhere along the way she’d learned to look past outer appearance to the truth that lay beyond.

  “You’re stressed out about the Super Bowl and you need a woman around that you can trust to prop you up. Groupies can’t do that for you, but you knew I could.”

  He blinked. “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t really love me, Trace. You loved what I did for you. I was there to hold your hand when things got tough. Remember, you proposed to me on the day the Houston Texans cut you from the team. And the minute things got better you ditched me. I’m nothing more than a security blanket.”

  “That’s not true,” he denied, but she saw it in his e
yes. It was totally true.

  “Trace,” she said. “You don’t need me. Honestly, you’re a big boy. It’s time to toss out the security blanket. You can handle this all on your own. You won’t choke during the Super Bowl. You’re going to be fabulous. Now go back to Chicago where you belong.”

  KELVIN WENTWORTH’S PARTY was in full swing by the time Rachael arrived. Elvis Presley was on the stereo, dreaming of a “White Christmas.” Festive twinkle lights were strung around the room. The Christmas tree was oversized and spinning gently on a rotating stand. Giada was at the refreshment table, ladling up cups of spiced eggnog and gazing adoringly at Kelvin, who was playing Santa to a group of children.

  The outgoing mayor’s bullmastiff, Marianne, wearing antlers and a crocheted red-and-green doggie sweater, weaved her way through the crowd, picking up dropped tidbits of food like a high-suction Hoover. The incoming mayor’s cat, Hercules, curled up on the window ledge, watching the proceedings with yellow-eyed disdain.

  Rachael hung up her coat, deposited the presents she’d brought with her on the long table laden with gifts, and slipped away from the main room. She was still a bit off-balance after Trace’s visit that morning and his ensuing marriage proposal, but she was feeling liberated in a way that she’d never felt before.

  She had closure. She could let go of the remaining vestiges of her past and move on.

  That’s when she saw Brody, looking dashing in a pair of black Dockers and a red-and-green-striped, button-down Western shirt — a cowboy’s version of Christmas attire.

  Standing under the mistletoe.

  It was all she could do to keep from going over there and kissing him. Just when she’d decided, Aw, to hell with it, I’m going to kiss him anyway, April Tritt, dressed as one of Santa’s elves in a skirt so short you could practically see Australia, beat her to it.

  The kiss April planted on him was not a light peck on the cheek. As the oversexed woman pulled Brody’s head down to hers, jealousy chewed off a big chunk of Rachael’s heart.

  April finally let go of him and stepped back.

  Brody raised his head, saw Rachael.

  Their eyes met.

  Brody stepped past April and came toward her.

  Suddenly feeling self-conscious, she ducked her head and turned toward the refreshment table, her green jingle bell earrings jangling merrily. She heard the scrape of Brody’s boots on the polished hardwood floor, but she didn’t look up.

  “Merry Christmas, Peaches,” he murmured.

  Rachael looked up.

  His eyes were dark, enigmatic.

  “Brody.” His name came out of her like a sigh.

  “Rachael.”

  “You’ve got lipstick . . . ” She made a motion toward the corner of his mouth.

  He swiped it away with the back of his hand. “That business with April —”

  “No need to explain.” She held up a palm.

  He reached for two cups, raised his eyebrow at her. “Eggnog?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  He dipped them both a cup and passed one to her. She curled the cup in her hand.

  “How you been?” He was staring straight at her. No, that wasn’t right. He was staring into her.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Good.”

  She blew out her breath.

  He shifted his weight. Brought the glass of eggnog to his lips, but she saw that he didn’t swallow.

  “That bad?”

  “What?” He looked startled.

  She nodded at his glass. “The eggnog. Is it so bad you’re just pretending to drink it?”

  “It’s spiked with rum and I’m driving.”

  “So why even take it?”

  “Something to do with my hands, I guess.”

  “Oh.” She looked away again, unable to bear the heat of his scrutiny. Unable to say all the things she desperately wanted to tell him.

  “I saw you,” he said.

  “You saw me?”

  “This morning. On your front porch. With Trace Hoolihan.”

  Rachael remembered the kiss Trace had given her. “That’s the trouble with mistletoe.” She glanced over his shoulder at April, who was glaring at her from across the room. “It can cause a kiss to look like something it’s not.”

  “Hey.” He shrugged. “More power to you.”

  “You don’t care that I was kissing Trace?” She could hear the dismay in her voice and she knew he heard it, too.

  “We agreed, no strings attached, just sex. Exactly how you wanted it.”

  “You said you wanted it that way, too, remember? You said great love destroys.”

  “Maybe I was wrong.”

  She hissed in a breath through clenched teeth. “Yesss?”

  He nodded at Giada and Kelvin, who were gazing into each other’s eyes. “What about those two?”

  “First blush of romantic love. It’ll wear off.”

  “And then look at your parents. They were able to find their way back to each other.”

  “After my dad almost died.”

  “Sometimes it takes the threat of losing the thing you love most to give you a wake-up call.” And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Rachael shaken to her very core.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Christmas morning, Rachael awoke alone to a throbbing headache from the three glasses of spiked eggnog she’d downed at Kelvin’s party after Brody had run off. She glanced at the clock and shot out of bed. She was due at her parents’ house for brunch.

  Fifteen minutes later her mother greeted her with a hug. Her father looked fantastic for someone who’d had a heart attack six weeks earlier. Hannah chattered while her daughters played chase around the kitchen table, and her husband carved prime rib for the brunch buffet as the rest of the guests arrived. It seemed almost half the town was at the celebration, including Deana and Maisy and Rex Brownleigh. Deana and Rex kept exchanging moony-eyed glances.

  Rachael cornered her mother in the kitchen as she flipped crepes onto a warming plate. “Did you invite Brody?”

  “Of course I did. He said he was working so Zeke could have Christmas Day off with his family.”

  “Oh.” Then to show she wasn’t asking about him specifically, she added, “Did you invite Kelvin and Giada?”

  “They had private plans.”

  “Sounds like things are heating up between those two.”

  Selina lowered her voice. “Giada told me they’re moving in together.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’m happy for her.”

  She touched her mother’s arm. “How are things with you and Daddy?”

  Selina’s face dissolved into a beatific smile. “I haven’t been this happy in years. Oh, Rachael, I love him so much. I’ve always loved him, but nothing like this. We finally opened up to each other and talked about things we should have discussed years ago. He’s stopped cloaking his true feelings with romantic gestures and we have real intimacy at last.”

  “I’m so glad.” She gave her mother a squeeze.

  Selina smiled as tears misted her eyes. “Here.” She handed her daughter a jar of peach preserves. “Put these on the table to go with the crepes.”

  As everyone gathered around the buffet table filling their plates, Rachael opened the peach preserves and spooned a dollop onto her crepes. She found a seat in the corner of the kitchen, out of the general fray, settled in, and took a bite of crepe draped in peach preserves.

  It tasted as if summer exploded in her mouth — rich and ripe and full and as juicy as the fresh peaches plucked from Brody’s tree. Each bite brought back memories of the day he’d brought that bushel of peaches across the street.

  She thought about peaches and romance. She thought about her parents and what they’d been through. She remembered her mother, upset and hurting, smashing the peaches, decrying love and marriage. She thought of Kelvin and Giada, middle-aged and never married and yet still finding each other, willing to risk, to take a chance
on love. She thought about Deana and her new romance with Rex.

  But most of all she thought about Brody. How steady he was. How honest and straight and true. He hadn’t given her flowers. Hadn’t wined and dined. No grand romantic gestures from him. But he’d given her something much better. He had given her his summer peaches on the day she’d faced her greatest humiliation. He’d been there for her when her father had had his heart attack. He’d made love to her. And just last night, he’d told her he loved her more than anyone else on earth could ever love her.

  Tears tracked down her face as she ate. Her epiphany grew brighter, stronger with each bite of peaches. Yes, the first flush of romantic love was like a beautiful, perfectly ripe peach. And like her mother had said, life could knock you around. Smash the romance right out of you.

  But this was what she realized: In order to have these delicious peach preserves in the winter, the peaches had to be smashed up, boiled down, condensed, distilled. That sweet little romance of summer had to disappear in order for the rich, sustaining preserves to exist.

  One spoonful of preserves was ten times sweeter than the freshest peach.

  Her chest pinched and her breath went shallow. This, then, was the difference between romance and love.

  Romance was fun and light and frivolous. You could enjoy it, have a good time with it, but it did not sustain you for long. Only the preserves could do that. Only true love.

  With that understanding, Rachael knew what she had to do.

  THE LAST THING Brody Carlton expected to find when he wheeled his Crown Vic past the Valentine library was Rachael’s pink VW Bug parked in the middle of the street and the lights on inside the building.

  But there weren’t any cars in the parking lot.

  Was she hosting a Romanceaholics meeting tonight and the members had yet to show up? Had she forgotten to set her VW’s parking brake and the car had rolled back into the street?

  Brody pulled his cruiser into the parking lot and got out. He heard the sound of music in the air but it wasn’t Christmas music. Instead, it was Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero.” Every time he heard that song he thought of Maisy’s favorite movie, Shrek.