by Noelle Adams
Love for the Holidays
Noelle Adams
Samantha Chase
Rachel Curtis
Zoe York
These books are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover Design: Noelle Adams
Holiday Heat, Copyright © 2013 Noelle Adams. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Cover Design: Noelle Adams.
Mistletoe Between Friends, Copyright © 2013 Samantha Chase. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Cover Design: Noelle Adams.
The Christmas Cottage Copyright © 2012 Samantha Chase. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Cover Design: Noelle Adams.
Eight Christmas Eves. Copyright © 2013 Rachel Curtis. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Cover Design: Noelle Adams.
What Once Was Perfect, Copyright © 2013 Zoe York. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Cover Design: Zoe York.
Holiday Heat
Noelle Adams
One
It was too hot in the room, the air conditioner waging a futile battle against the September humidity. Carrie pushed her sleeves up past her elbows, wishing she’d worn a cooler top.
She hated evenings where new people were integrated into her therapy group. It was an open group, though, so members came and went.
Tonight there were two new ones. One was a middle-aged woman named Donna, and the other was Matt, a tall guy with broad shoulders and threadbare jeans who kept his hood drawn up over his head. He had a notebook in his lap and appeared to be doodling.
It was way too hot to wear a sweatshirt tonight. He must be trying to hide.
Carrie could sympathize. She’d been trying to hide for the last nine months.
“Carrie, would you mind starting tonight?” Rachel Davis, the therapist who led the group, smiled hopefully at her.
Carrie nodded and cleared her throat. She didn’t really want to start, but she’d been part of this group since January, longer than most of the others, and all her life she’d been conscientious, never wanting to let other people down. “I’m already worried about Christmas,” she began, her voice echoing oddly in the quiet room. “I know it’s still three months away, but I can’t help but feel it lurking in the shadows, waiting to…”
“Waiting to what?” Rachel prompted, when Carrie didn’t continue.
“Waiting to hurt me.”
Eight of the people sitting in the chairs around the circle were familiar. Carrie knew them fairly well now, after months of group sessions. They nodded sympathetically or murmured sounds of understanding. Their reactions should have made her feel better, feel comforted in being heard, but she just felt lonely and exposed.
“Donna and Matt don’t know your story,” Rachel said. “Are you comfortable giving them some background?”
Carrie had told the story enough that it didn’t even hurt anymore. Matt was still doodling, so she didn’t look at him. She looked at Donna instead, since the other woman seemed to be trying to connect. “Last year at this time, my life looked like hundreds of other girls’. I was in college—an art history major. I made good grades. Didn’t get in trouble much. I’d dated the same guy all through high school and into college. Henry. He was the only guy I ever really went out with. From the outside, he didn’t look like anything special—kind of nerdy and a little shy. But he was always so sweet, and he really loved me. So, last year, I got chosen for this exclusive study abroad program in Paris. It was like a dream come true. I was so excited.”
She paused and glanced down at her hands, which were twisting her in lap. It was an unconscious habit, so she made herself hold them still.
Then she kept holding them still as she went on. “So I was in Paris last December. Henry was coming to Paris for a week to visit just before Christmas, and then we were going to fly back together to spend Christmas with our families. We’re from the same hometown.” She swallowed hard, although she wasn’t close to tears. She’d lived too long with this to cry so easily anymore. “It was Flight 450 from New York to Paris. You might have heard of it. It crashed twenty-two minutes into the flight. Everyone died. Henry died.”
The words said, she was able to look back at the faces of the people around her. Some held deep sympathy. Some looked controlled, stony-faced, the way she felt a lot of the time. All of them were listening.
Even Matt had looked up from his doodling and was focused on her face, his features still shadowed by his hood.
They were all here for the same reason. They’d all lost husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, lovers. They were all survivors—like her.
“I didn’t do what I was supposed to do,” she continued. “It felt like an entire chapter of my life had ended when he died, and I couldn’t start it up again. I dropped out of college. I pulled away from all my friends. My sister, Jenn, and my parents always tell me I need to start normal life again. They nag me all the time. They say that the way to heal from grief is to keep living. But I can’t. I just can’t live the life I had before.”
For some reason, the thought of her family and how much they worried made a tear slip out of her eye. It surprised her, and she swiped it away impatiently. She looked down at her hands again. Her fingernails were neat, short, and unpolished. She hadn’t had a manicure in nine months.
“I got a job in a coffee shop, so I just work and go home. Every day. I know it isn’t the way I’m supposed to get better, but I just can’t do anything else. Everything I used to do, everything I used to be, seems tainted now. I can’t force myself to go through the motions, just because I know I should. I’ve always been a good girl. I did everything I was supposed to. All my life. Sometimes I feel like a failure because I can’t seem to get through this in the right away. But I can’t. I still can’t even imagine dating anyone else. I can’t stand the thought of it. And now I’m so scared about Christmas.”
Donna, the new woman, had tears streaming down her face—tears of empathy, evidently. But some women were like that. They cried at the drop of a hat.
Carrie had never been one of them.
She looked away from Donna and over at Matt. The hood on his sweatshirt had slid back slightly, and she saw his face clearly for the first time.
She recognized him immediately—the closely cropped brown hair, the vivid blue eyes, the skin that appeared almost too tight over the strongly chiseled features.
Matthew Lynch. Rising star of the art world.
Carrie had been an art history major, and her favorites were Renaissance artists. But she’d kept up with contemporary art, and every female art major knew about Matthew Lynch. He’d made a name for himself as an artist at nineteen, six years ago. Gorgeous and charismatic and wild and brilliant—he’d been the poster boy for contemporary art until he disappeared from the scene completely two years ago.
There was gossip about his disappearance. Stories of a heart-wrenching tragedy that had turned him into a recluse. Never any details, though.
Carrie realized she’d held his gaze for too long, so she dropped her eyes again. “So that’s it. That’s me. Still not able to really connect to people and terrified of Christmas.”
Her voice was edged with irony, since she’d always been se
lf-aware and knew she should be farther along in healing by now—nine months after Henry’s death. She’d done her duty for the evening, however. She could be quiet now and just listen for the rest of the session.
She wouldn’t still be attending this group if her parents hadn’t nagged her incessantly about it. She hated that they were so concerned about her. If her going to this group helped them worry less, then she would do it.
“Does anyone want to respond to what Carrie has said?” Rachel asked.
“For me, summer is the hardest, since it’s so hard to be around pools.” That was Micaela, who’d been in the group since March. She glanced over to Donna and Matt. “My husband had a heart attack in our pool.”
The discussion continued, with most of the members sharing and Rachel leading it as deftly as always—steering them toward honesty and clear thinking.
The session was almost over before Matt said anything. Carrie wasn’t sure he would have spoken at all had Rachel not prompted him in the last few minutes by asking if he wanted to share anything.
To her surprise, he shifted in his seat and said, “Yeah. Sure.” He pushed his hood back to expose his entire head, and Carrie had to hide her shocked reaction.
A few years back, Matthew Lynch had been listed in a popular magazine as one of the most beautiful people in the world, and his features were still incredibly attractive, his presence still deeply compelling.
But a long ragged scar slashed the side of his head now, and another ran from his jaw down the side of his neck.
“I know what you mean about not dealing with the aftermath the way we’re supposed to.” He was talking to her, his deep eyes resting on her face. “I paint. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.”
Carrie felt too exposed by his intense gaze, so she glanced around at the others. She could tell from their expressions that no one but her had recognized him. The magazine article notwithstanding, he wouldn’t be a household name or face to anyone who didn’t follow contemporary art.
“It’s what I did,” Matt went on. “I haven’t lifted a brush in two years. Everyone tells me I’m wrong—that it’s exactly the wrong way to react. But, after some things, there’s no going back.”
“Do you want to share with us what happened?” Rachel asked gently.
His eyes still hadn’t left Carrie’s face, and she had no way of understanding the expression in them. “My girlfriend and I were at a party. We were both high. That was normal for me back then. She was driving when we left. We crashed into a construction barricade. I was injured. She died.” He spoke without any emotion at all, but it was obvious that he’d been broken by that crash—his heart as much as his body.
“I’m like you. I don’t want to be close to anyone—a real relationship would be impossible for me right now—and I don’t want to do what I used to do. My manager and my publicist and my parents and everyone tell me I won’t be happy or fulfilled until I start to paint again. But being happy isn’t even on the radar.”
Carrie nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. “It’s still about trying to get through the day without hurting.”
“Yeah. You fill your mind with distractions. A cup of coffee, a great song, an interesting conversation—and you never let it go deeper than that.”
***
Matt didn’t come back to her group the following Thursday. It happened. Group therapy wasn’t the right fit for everyone, and some people just didn’t like this particular group.
Carrie was vaguely disappointed, though. She’d wanted to know more about him, which was an unusual feeling for her anymore.
She had the last shift at the coffee shop afterwards, and she sighed in frustration when someone walked in a few minutes before closing. She hated when people arrived at the last minute, just when she was getting ready to leave.
When she saw it was a guy in a hooded sweatshirt, she immediately thought of Matt.
She did a double-take when she realized it was actually him.
“Hi,” she said, blinking as he walked up to the counter.
“Hi. I’ll have a large cup of whatever is freshest.”
She poured him a cup of Columbian and took the cash he handed her. She wasn’t going to say anything or ask any questions. What he did was his own business, and she didn’t have the emotional energy to worry about him.
Despite these clear resolutions, as she handed him change, she heard herself asking, “So the group wasn’t for you?”
He wasn’t smiling, but he was gazing at her with that same intensity, as if he could read something in her expression she wasn’t aware of. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s really not bad. It just takes some getting used to. I like it a lot better than private sessions.”
“Yeah. I can see why that might be.”
“Even if you don’t go to our group, you should do something. I’m hardly the model of emotional health, but I don’t want to think about what would have happened to me without any help at all.”
“I’ve done therapy and treatment and different support groups for two years. You name it, I’ve done it.”
“Okay. That’s good.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ve got to close up here. Sorry to kick you out.”
“No problem.”
She wondered about his showing up in her coffee shop the week after she’d met him in group therapy, but it was just down the block from the counseling center so the coincidence wasn’t completely impossible. He didn’t make any move to leave. Just stood sipping his coffee and watching her.
It made her nervous. Not that he was creepy but that he seemed to really see her, really know her. It didn’t make any sense.
As she was wiping the counter, she said, “I like your paintings.”
“I wondered if you were familiar with my stuff. Most people aren’t.”
She gave a little shrug, feeling a tug of interest in her gut. “So you really haven’t painted anything in two years?”
“No.” He didn’t look annoyed or offended or upset or anything much. He just gazed at her with that intense look she couldn’t really understand.
“Do you think you ever will?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe if you just started painting something for fun, without any thought about displaying it publicly, you could get going again.”
“I’ve tried. Painting isn’t fun anymore.”
She frowned as she looked up at him, thinking hard. He was incredibly attractive, even scarred and puzzling as he was, but there was something unbearable about the idea of Matthew Lynch never painting again. It felt like an offense against nature.
“You’re not going to figure me out.”
“I wasn’t trying to figure you out. I was just thinking.”
“You were trying to come up with a plan that would get me to paint again, and I’m telling you I might be a lost cause.”
She let out a breath. “Yeah. I know all about that.” She wasn’t sure what to say, so she focused on her final tasks before closing. When she’d finished, he walked outside with her.
She glanced over at him as he fell in step with her. “What are you doing?”
“Walking you home. I don’t like you leaving by yourself so late.”
“I go everywhere by myself all the time.” She wasn’t sure if she found his insistence on being a chaperone obnoxious or gratifying.
“It’s late. I’ll walk with you.”
“What if I don’t want you to walk with me?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you mind if I walk in the same general direction as you for the next few minutes?”
She couldn’t help but smother a laugh at his dry tone. “I guess I can bear it. Did you just happen to stop in here?”
“No. I knew you worked here.” At her expression, he clarified, “I haven’t stalked you or anything. I just saw you come here after the session last week and made note of it.”
“Why did you make note of it?”
“You’r
e gorgeous. Why wouldn’t I notice?”
To her annoyance, she blushed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d blushed that way. Looking at the sidewalk beneath her feet, she said, “I’m hardly gorgeous.” She thought she was pretty enough—tall and slim with dark hair and eyes—but never in her life had she been the girl the cool guys fell for.
Henry hadn’t been extraordinary in any way—except his heart.
“Maybe I disagree.”
She felt confused, shy, and vaguely pleased. She had no idea what to say. “Okay. So what’s your point?”
“My point was just to explain why I noticed where you worked and why I showed up there tonight.”
“Why did you show up?” They’d reached the door to her building, so she stopped outside.
He gave a half-shrug. “Other than the fact that you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, I have no idea.”
He seemed to mean what he said, and it made her flush hotly. “I thought you said a real relationship would be impossible for you.”
“It is,” he admitted
“It is for me too. Right now, anyway.”
They looked at each other for a minute, and Carrie felt another tug of interest, this one lower than her belly.
He was unbelievably attractive—masculine and lean and strong and intense and scarred and deep. So deep she might drown in him.
Her body tightened at the idea of sinking into his depths in the most visceral way.
“I’m not inviting you upstairs,” she said, although she was sorely tempted.
“Okay.” His gaze had heated up, and she knew he was thinking about sex.
It made her think about sex too.
The only man she’d ever had sex with was Henry, and their lovemaking had always been sweet, tender, and safe.
Matt wasn’t sweet, tender, or safe—in any way.
Even considering the possibility was rash. And thoughtless. And stupid. And potentially dangerous.
She’d only met this man twice. She never would have done such a crazy thing last year.
But she wasn’t that girl anymore.
She heard herself saying, “There’s a motel down the block.”
His eyes got even hotter. “Are you sure?”