by Julia Goda
“Am I allowed to call you Daxton if I say yes?”
His chuckle was quiet, but his eyes sparkled when he answered, “You can call me anything but Mr. Jerkface or every other curse name you came up with.” I giggled, still a little embarrassed he’d heard me.
Then I turned serious. “Can we take it slow?” I wanted to believe him, wanted to believe this was something worth exploring even after our antagonistic start, but I had to be careful. I tended to jump into things headfirst, which had led me to heartbreak more than once. I needed to protect myself from more.
His answering grin was so magnificent it was almost blinding. He knew he had me. “Does taking it slow include kissing?” Teasing again. This version of him was something I could get used to.
I returned his grin with one of my own. “Absolutely.”
“Then yes, we can take it slow.”
Then his hands pulled me slightly up until I was on my tiptoes, my hands fisting his shirt to keep my balance, and in the next moment, his mouth was on mine, kissing me in a way I couldn’t mistake his desire for me. It started gentle as he brushed my parted lips with his. Then his tongue was there, touching mine, gently stroking, exploring. When it went deeper, claiming my mouth, I groaned low in my throat and pressed against him, needing more. The next thing I knew, my back was against the wall and his hands were in my hair as we went at each other, bodies pressed close. We were making out hot and heavy like teenagers in my entryway. It was delicious. Exquisite. The best.
Then it got even better when one of his hands traveled down my back to stop at my butt, where he caressed first then squeezed. With no hesitation, I jumped up and wrapped my legs around him, delighting in the sexy growl he released when my heat met his hardness and I urged him closer, tipping my hips for some friction. The kiss deepened, turned frantic. I couldn’t get enough, needed more, and it seemed like he was right there with me when his hand went under my sweater in the back and he touched my heated skin, stroking, running his hand up and down my spine, then stopping between my shoulder blades and pulling me as close as he possibly could, as if he tried to merge our frenzied bodies.
I was in the middle of loosening his tie when the timer on the oven beeped and he wrenched his mouth from mine and stared at me with passion-filled eyes. Goodness gracious, he was something. Nobody had ever looked at me like he was right now. It made me feel powerful, cherished, sexy.
“So much for going slow,” I murmured, stunned by what we had just shared and dizzy at its abrupt ending. He didn’t comment as he roamed my face in what seemed like wonder and admiration. And passion. And lust. I couldn’t help but shiver at the magnitude that look carried. Then he leaned in and pressed a light kiss against my forehead. I closed my eyes and savored the beauty of his touch as his lips lingered. Then he leaned back, pulled his hand out from under my sweater, and brushed a loose strand of hair out of my face. That was beautiful, too. I was still in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, the intimate parts of our bodies pressed together. I wanted to stay like this, in this moment which seemed almost too perfect to be true.
The beeping sounded again.
“I didn’t ask, but it looked like you cooked enough food for me to join you for dinner.”
I grinned at him. “Of course. Anything else would be considered rude.”
He rewarded me with another low chuckle and a soft, closed-mouthed kiss. “Okay, then. Let’s eat.”
“Okay.”
I unclasped my legs from around his wait, and he held me until I was steady enough to stand on my own. Then he took my hand in his and led me to the kitchen.
Daxton
They were curled up on the couch.
Daxton pulled her into his side until she was snug under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, her feet in the couch. She was holding her wine glass, while his sat on the table beside him. The end credits on the second Christmas movie she had insisted they watch, saying this was her favorite part of Christmas, were rolling across the screen. He couldn’t deny her when she had smiled at him, playfully begging him with her eyes to get her way. He would have preferred some fooling around instead of watching some ridiculous holiday movie, but he couldn’t help himself but give her what she wanted. Which didn’t bode well and was a new experience for him. He usually took the things that pleased him without much regard for anyone else.
But Emersyn was different.
He was different with her.
Dinner had been everything he’d hoped and dreaded it would be.
Emersyn had been able to save the potatoes, or most of them. He couldn’t be of any help cooking wise—even though he had offered earlier, he had no idea how—so he set the table for the two of them after he refreshed her wine and poured himself some as well. Then he watched, just as captivated as he’d been earlier, as she put the finishing touches to their meal, then plated it. Her movements seemed a little stiffer, a little less fluid, not quite the dance he had witnessed. Still, she was a sight to see, now even more so because he’d kissed her, tasted her, felt her body heat and melt under his touch. He knew she was unsure about him; he didn’t blame her. He was unsure himself. Not about his intentions or about the pull he couldn’t and didn’t want to fight. He was uncertain about his ability to be in a relationship. Though, it seemed easy when it came to her. The way she had responded to his words, how she had reacted to his touch. He didn’t have to think about his moves or what to say, didn’t have to devise a plan of action, so to speak. The way he was with her came effortlessly. If he were a romantic, he would say they were meant to be.
He also had the chance to look around Emersyn’s home some more. He loved the way she decorated. She clearly loved Christmas, but she didn’t go overboard. The lights she used all over the place lit the room up with a comfortable, classy glow; it was inviting and warm. It brought up a lot of memories of his childhood home being decorated in a similar way, though his mother had definitely used more knick-knacks.
Those thoughts were the reason why, throughout dinner, he battled the conflicting emotions inside of him: wanting more and going for it, versus being absolutely terrified it would stir up emotions he wouldn’t be able to handle. The pain the earlier memories had brought on was still lingering while he was sharing his first real Christmas dinner in fifteen years with Emersyn, though it was also morphing into something else. Not as sharp, ripping him wide open, but rather melancholic and wistful. Longing even. A bittersweet nostalgia.
They were chatting easily, sharing the basics about themselves; their profession, where they went to school, their hobbies, likes and dislikes, tastes in food. Simple. Easy. Going slow. What he’d promised her they would, which, thinking yet again about the hot and heavy makeout session they’d shared in the entryway as he held her close, would be harder than he’d thought. He usually had more control of himself. But as soon as his lips had touched hers and he had his first taste of her, he’d known there was no turning back for him.
“Why do you hate Christmas?” Emersyn’s soft and cautious voice snapped him out of his musings.
He locked his body. It would take a lot to answer her question honestly. He knew he wasn’t ready for it. But he also knew he owed it to himself, and to her, to try. If he clamped up on her now, she would retreat thinking he hadn’t been serious when he told her he wanted them to get to know each other. Still, it wasn’t easy to come up with the right words. He hadn’t talked to anyone about his parents, about what had caused their death, since it had happened fifteen years to the day.
When he realized Emersyn’s body had locked right along with his, he forced his muscles to relax and ran his hand soothingly along her upper arm. “It’s a long and sad story,” he murmured before he reached for his glass and took a healthy sip, his eyes on the fire, his mind struggling to sort his thoughts, the visions flashing. The warmth of her fingers brushing against his cheek made him close his eyes.
Fuck, that feels good.
He leaned into her touch as she
whispered, “Tell me.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat to get rid of the lump forming in the back. He opened his eyes but didn’t look at her, couldn’t. Instead, he kept them to the fire as he told her about the one thing he would regret every minute, every second, for the rest of his life.
“Fifteen years ago, I killed my parents.” It came out brisk and harsh, and he felt Emersyn’s body jump in his arms and her hand drop. He tightened his grip, which was all he had in him to reassure her. “I was home from college in California for Christmas. We went to their best friends’ house for dinner. Frank and Joy. Mom had too much wine, and Dad had too many beers. I was twenty and a good driver. Never been in an accident. Responsible.” He swallowed again before he continued. “We had a great night. Ate a lot. Laughed a lot. Enjoyed each other’s company. Like we always did. Christmas had always been my mom and Joy’s favorite holiday, so they went all out and took turns cooking a huge meal. It was a feast. Every year. I never missed it.” He could feel Emersyn’s eyes on him but was afraid to meet them. He didn’t want to see her reaction. Though he hoped to see compassion, he was certain he couldn’t endure the pity, or worse, the accusation he was convinced he would find. So, he kept his eyes straight ahead without seeing what was in front of him, needing to get this next part over with as quickly as possible. “They only lived a ten-minute drive from our house. The radio was on. The Chipmunk Song. Mom was in the back seat, in the middle, singing along, being silly. Dad was laughing. I was laughing with him. Shaking my head at her shenanigans. Took my eyes off the road at her favorite part of the song. Met hers in the rearview mirror. I didn’t realize…” He paused and gritted his teeth. “There was a stop sign. I reacted too late. Braked too hard. Wasn’t used to slippery roads. I hit an icy section and the car went out of control. I tried to regain it but couldn’t. All I could see were headlights coming toward us, from both sides. God, they were so bright. Blinding me. The first car hit us on Dad’s side, spinning us around. The next car clipped us on the other side in the back. Mom wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Was DOA. Dad made it to the hospital. Died in the OR an hour later. I woke up the next day banged up and bruised. Left arm and three ribs broken. A huge bump and cut on my forehead.”
He hung his head as shame and guilt overwhelmed him. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of that night for so long they threatened to swallow him whole as his mother’s grinning face flashed before his eyes and his father’s laugh echoed in his ears.
God, he missed them.
“Daxton,” Emersyn whispered.
He didn’t move or reply.
“Dax. Look at me, please.”
He lifted his head as she moved into his lap and cupped his face. His hands went to her hips. Not wanting to be a coward, he met her gaze… and sucked in his breath. Silent tears were running down her cheeks, and the deep sadness in her eyes knocked the wind right out of him.
“Honey…” Her voice broke as she took him in, the pain and remorse clearly visible on his face, nothing but tenderness written on hers. He couldn’t take it.
He gripped her hips, ready to push her off, and clipped. “Don’t pretend you understand, Emersyn. You don’t. There is no possible way for you to comprehend. So don’t lie to me.”
“I do understand, Daxton,” she argued.
He started to push her off, but she clamped her knees on his hips and tightened her hold on his face, leaning in close until all he could see were her eyes. “I do,” she snapped, then continued, “my mother died ten years ago in a car accident. My dad was driving. I wasn’t in the car, but believe me when I say this, Daxton, I do understand.”
He froze solid at her words. Her mother is dead? Killed in a car accident?
“I was twenty-two, had just finished college, was about to take on the long drive home the next morning when I got the news. My dad lost control of his car, too. It was the beginning of summer; it was raining hard and it was dark. He lost control in a tight turn on their way back from a night out. They were just outside of town. Hydroplaning. There was no chance for him to regain control. Nothing he could do. They hit a tree. He wasn’t hurt much, but she was unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. He called nine-one-one but didn’t dare pull her out of the car. EMTs arrived within ten minutes, stabilized her neck, got her out, worked on her. Got her to the hospital and into surgery. They operated for five hours but couldn’t save her.” Her voice was low, almost soothing, even though her words were rushed. He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t get any words out.
“He blamed himself, too,” she whispered as new tears formed and ran down her cheeks. He lifted his hand and brushed them away. “For years, he blamed himself. So, yes, Daxton, I do understand. I might not have been in the accident, but I know survivor’s guilt when I see it.”
He dropped his head to her shoulder and wound his arms around her, pulling her close. Her arms went around his neck and she did the same. They held each other for a long time, long enough for Daxton to sort his thoughts.
“You never blamed him?” he asked her shoulder.
“Never.” That one word was resolute. Unbreakable.
“How?” He needed to know how it was possible.
She released his neck and leaned back to find his eyes. “How could I? Do I think he caused the accident on purpose? Or that he could have done anything to save her? No. He did the best he could. He didn’t drive too fast. He wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t drunk. In no way was the accident his fault. So how could I blame him?”
Daxton furrowed his brows as he tried to understand her view of things.
“Let me ask you something. Were you driving too fast?”
He shook his head. He had been a good driver, never took any risks.
“Did you have a drink?”
“No.”
“Did you drive recklessly?”
Another shake of the head. “No, but I took my eyes off the road. If I hadn’t—”
“No,” she stopped him. “Don’t do that. Ifs are not going to get you anywhere. For how long did you take your eyes off the road?”
He shrugged his shoulders but thought back to that moment and answered, “I’m not sure. A few seconds.”
“A few seconds. And do you think, under normal circumstances, taking your eyes off the road for a few seconds to check the rearview mirror would lead to a fatal accident?”
He studied her face as he followed her logic. “No,” he breathed.
“Then why would you blame yourself for what happened? You didn’t plan it. You didn’t know you would hit an icy patch at exactly that moment. You didn’t mean for the car to swerve, and you definitely didn’t mean for it to get hit twice and your parents to die.”
“No, I didn’t.” His voice was scratchy and raw as his mind whirled.
She cupped his face again and leaned in. “You were young. You lost your whole family within moments. So, it’s understandable why you would do it. But think about it. The way you talked about your parents, I don’t think they would want you to blame yourself either. Do you?”
His mother’s face took over his mind. Her smiling eyes. Her beautiful laugh. Her love for him and his father. Then he remembered his father, how proud he’d been of his family, how happy he’d been all the time. How content. Emersyn was right. They would never blame him for what had happened.
“They wouldn’t,” she answered for him when he didn’t.
“They wouldn’t,” he agreed softly.
“You loved your parents.” He held her eyes and nodded. “You still do.” He nodded again. “I’m guessing you never let yourself grieve. You locked it all away and pretended it never happened, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer this time. Didn’t need to. She knew. Instead, he asked, “How did your dad do it?”
Her eyes turned a little darker, a little sadder. Then she said on a shake of her head, “I’m not sure. He closed himself off for some time, didn’t go to work, didn’t take care of himself. I moved back in with him, worked a lit
tle here and there but mostly took on jobs I could do from home. Which is how I started my business, actually. It went on like that for a couple of months. It was hard to see him that way, you know, my strong father suffering. But I did my best while dealing with my own grief. Until one day I couldn’t take it anymore and yelled at him when he wouldn’t eat and refused to talk to me. It wasn’t pretty, but I think it’s what snapped him out of it and he realized how much I needed him. How much we needed each other. His recovery didn’t happen overnight, but he started going back to work. He’s a photographer, so his work usually involves travel. I was worried about him when he was gone, but he pulled through and started living again.”
“So, it was you who pulled him out of it.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t see it that way. He just needed some time and maybe a kick in the behind to get things started. But he’s the one who did it.”
“I’m starting to realize you’re good at that.”
She frowned. “Good at what?”
“Kicking people’s asses. You did it with Mark, too, and I know you most certainly wanted to kick mine this afternoon. I could see the fire behind your eyes. It was amusing.”
“It was not,” she scoffed. “It was frustrating as hell.”
He gave a small chuckle before he turned serious again. “How is your dad now?”
She smiled, though it was mixed with sadness. “He’s all right. He’ll always love her and won’t ever quite get over her death. I don’t think he wants to. He doesn’t date, but he has found some form of happiness and fulfillment in his work. And he’s always been a great dad and dotes on me, so I guess he’s doing as okay as he lets himself.”
Daxton nodded. It wasn’t quite the same, losing the wife you loved compared to losing your parents. He knew if either of his parents had survived the other in the accident, either one of them would have been just as devastated as Emersyn’s dad.
“And how are you?” he asked as he ran his fingers along her cheek, then brushed a strand of hair out of her face. He had never done this to a woman before, but he found he loved doing it to her.