He rubbed a hand over his face. “I won’t peek. I’ll even turn around. Just . . . go.”
“And we’ll talk?”
“Later,” he said.
She would give him time. Harry was always a little slow to catch up on things.
HE LIED.
He peeked at her butt. And he had thought about being with Felicity. A lot.
But he also knew better. Sex ruined things. Or so he had heard.
At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he was still a virgin. He’d seen movies and read books—male virgins never performed well on their first try. Or second. Or third. Or even the fourth. What if he got naked with Felicity and then only lasted two seconds? What if it wasn’t good for her? What if Felicity didn’t like how he looked?
He was no Calvin Klein model, nor was he ripped like his two older brothers. He’d always been a skinny kid, and as he had matured, the skinniness had turned into a well-honed leanness. He was nothing to fawn over. He would never elicit secret fantasies by either gender. He was never going to be considered “hot” or “sexy.” He was a geek. A dork. A total nerd. And he had embraced that truth about himself long ago, but the thought about getting naked with the woman he’d fallen in love with at thirteen and then having her reject him, well . . . yeah. He didn’t want that.
Although . . . it did seem like Felicity wasn’t going to reject him. She had whipped creamed herself and then asked him point blank for sex. And what had he done?
Acted like a stereotypical virgin and shied away.
Pathetic.
But he didn’t have to be.
This could be the chance for him. The only chance to be with Felicity like he wanted to. He would shove all his insecurities aside. He wanted to be with her. In her. He wasn’t expecting to fuck her into love. His penis didn’t have magical properties, sadly.
But . . . but . . . but . . . he could have sex with her. For three whole days. Maybe it wouldn’t be good the first time. Or second. Or third. Or even the fourth. But he was a fast learner, and he sure as hell had thought about all the things he would do with Felicity if given the shot.
Never had he imagined she would want to be with him.
And he might be slow on some things, but he wasn’t totally stupid. He didn’t want to lose her, his best friend, and now his potential first.
There needed to be some ground rules so things didn’t get messy.
He looked around the cabin, at the smeared whipped cream all over the place, and sighed. It might be a little too late for things to not become messy. There were only two things to do.
Clean up this disaster.
And make sure things didn’t become any messier.
TWO
FELICITY COULD SPEND all day in the kitchen, and she usually did. Back where she lived in Lake George, her candy shop, Fat Lady Sweets, had a physical storefront in one of the shopping plazas. Her shopping plaza was the best, though—at least to her. Not only did it have a supermarket and bank, but Fat Lady Sweets was nestled between a discount shoe store and a bridal dress boutique. And there were a lot of women who, after searching for a wedding gown or bridesmaid dresses, would come into her candy store, obviously suffering from PTSD—post traumatic shopping disaster.
And there she would be in one of her fabulous dresses, purchased online from Modcloth, that hugged her curves for everyone to see. She didn’t hide her body behind oversized clothing, although there were days she loved to snuggle in her sweats. Customers would look at her creations, carefully selecting sugary confections, and they would always come back for more, time and time again. Because as she always said in her TV commercials, “It isn’t over until the you’ve had the Fat Lady Sweets.”
Making candy had always come easily to her, but she’d never thought when she was younger that it could actually be a career. Candy seemed like a childhood thing, not something a sensible adult would do. But in college, Felicity started thinking and dreaming and planning. She had taken cooking classes on the side, and she’d worked in candy stores, big ones and small, to study them. Making candy for a living and having others enjoy it was something she wanted—no, needed—to do. She started saving and hoped by the time she was thirty, she would have enough to open up her own place. And then her other dearly departed grandmother, the one who actually liked her, died and left her a note in the will, along with the money to open up a storefront much sooner than expected.
Ever since Felicity had cut the ribbon on Fat Lady Sweets, her business steadily increased. She had started in the last year to sell candy on Etsy and offer an online storefront on the Fat Lady Sweets’ website. Customers liked the retro design of the shop, with its pink and white striped walls, and, well, they loved her and her staff. And everyone absolutely loved Sven, but c’mon, that Swedish accent was impossible to resist.
She was used to being in the kitchen. This was home to her. She could make anything—and that was the problem.
With so much to choose from, she was left adrift with what to make for dinner. Her first choice—her naked on the table with a fig leaf over her vagina and slices of apples covering her nipples—was out of the question. So she had to think of another one. Something that said, After you eat this, you really should eat me, but without seeming too obvious.
And she also felt like dinner should be a thank you to Harry for cleaning up the whipped cream apocalypse. She’d brought groceries when she first arrived and packed them away earlier today, as the cabin wouldn’t have been stocked with anything but cooking supplies and cutlery.
She stood there, hands on hips, and went over recipes in her head as she walked over to the main window. It was still snowing, the flakes falling heavier and heavier. The cabin was an hour and a half northwest of Burlington and another hour and a half from the Canadian border. The nearest small town was twenty minutes away, but in this sort of weather, it would take twice as long to get there. Thank god she had decided to get groceries beforehand as opposed to later. Outside looked windy and cold, the type of weather that made you want a steaming bowl of stew and warm, buttery rolls.
Ohhh. Beef stew. She had just enough time to make it from scratch, and she would put a few pre-baked pretzel rolls in the oven to help save time. As for dessert . . . Well, she already knew what she was going to serve for that.
HE COULD SMELL the food from the bathroom. He’d decided to take a shower after the unusually long drive from Lake George to the Walsh family cabin in the outskirts of Vermont. And now, towel wrapped around waist, all Harry could think about was the paltry breakfast of a granola bar and apple from hours ago.
His stomach rumbled, and his mouth actually watered at the aromas. Was that . . . was that beef? And potatoes? And pretzels? And . . . and . . . what was that other heavenly scent? It was distinctive, that smell. Did he dare to hope? Because it smelled a lot like apple pie.
Apple pie was his weakness. He could never say no to apple pie. And, god, if Felicity drizzled the top of the apple pie in her famous sea-salt caramel sauce, he . . .
Wait.
Harry straightened, eyes narrowing.
Wait, wait, wait.
Felicity was smart. And she was dangerous when she had a plan, which was 99.9% of the time. She was totally making some of his favorite foods to seduce him.
And he was complaining?
Well, not really. But they couldn’t just fall into sex. There had to be rules. Guidelines. An agreement between the two.
There needed to be a contract.
FELICITY FINISHED SETTING the table and lit two slim candles. Stew simmered in the bowls, and the pretzel rolls were in a basket, covered in linen cloths. The apple pie remained on the countertop, still bubbling, and a fire crackled in the fireplace. It was a perfect romance setting. And, yes, she had totally planned it just like this.
All in all, everything looked awesome. And if Harry didn’t want to jump her bones after eating her pie and the candy she had made yesterday, then he was a total idiot. She really hoped he would
see reason—and that he wanted to be with her.
She stepped back, surveying the table and room. Something was missing.
Music.
She hurried into the kitchen, turned on the radio, and found a station playing a classical music piece that sounded romantic. From her spot in the kitchen, she surveyed the table and ground floor of the cabin as a whole. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Felicity walked to the bathroom in the back of the cabin and double-checked her appearance. She washed her hands again and ran a brush through her shoulder-length, straight brown hair. She still had to take off her apron, but she would do that a little bit later. She hadn’t wanted to get anything on her candy apple red dress. She reglossed her lips, the sheer red giving her a just kissed look. Her hazel eyes looked greener tonight due to the gold-dusted eye shadow, and her cheeks glowed, thanks to Nars Super Orgasm blush. She’d left her perfume upstairs, so when she returned to the kitchen, she dabbed her wrists, neck, and cleavage with some vanilla. She was just putting the vanilla away when she heard footsteps.
Harry was coming downstairs.
She sent a quick prayer to the sex gods and goddesses and turned around. For a moment, she couldn’t speak, much less find her breath. That had been happening a lot lately when Harry walked into a room. That, and she’d get all shivery and then all warm, as if she’d stepped inside from the cold to drink pear cider. She wanted to snuggle into him, to hear his breath catch when she kissed him, to know him as only a lover can. It took every bit of strength in her to hold herself back . . . to not launch herself at him and sneak kiss attack him. She’d get him drunk on her kisses.
Patience, she reminded herself.
But it was just . . . he looked so hot. Those glasses! That light blue button-down shirt! The yellow bowtie! It was an overload of swoonworthiness. Even him carrying a yellow legal pad with pen just added onto the hot quota. God, if he even ruffled his hair right now and disheveled it, she was so going to pounce him.
“Hello,” he said after reaching the bottom of the stairs, one hand still holding onto the newel post. Oh, was that his anchor? Was that holding him steady? Was he afraid of crossing into unknown waters? She wanted to assure him it would be okay . . . that everything would be okay . . . but their relationship would change when they did this. And hopefully it would be an awesome change—and not something to fear.
Felicity started to hold out her hand to him, even though she was still in the kitchen. She beckoned him to abandon his ship and depart to this new island with her.
He still held steady, his grip tightening around the post. How cute that he was trying to resist her.
So instead she presented her back, looking over her shoulder at him, and gestured to the knotted ties. “Could you . . .”
“Yes, of course,” he said, finally letting go and heading toward her. He set his pad and pen down on the counter. Untying aprons wasn’t anything new for them. She would tie herself in knots, unable to loosen them, and Harry would always help her out. He’d take the strings, deftly freeing her each and every single time. No matter how tricky she’d tied herself up—and it would amaze her how these intricate knots would appear and tighten as she cooked—Harry would fix it.
Her apron tonight was a fun, pretty thing—a black and white polka dotted number with glittery silver strings. She loved her aprons, much like how Harry loved his bowties. She hadn’t gotten a good look at his bowtie—other than to know it was a lemony yellow—but she wondered what print decorated the fabric.
She stopped wondering when Harry stepped behind her, his fingers grasping the little bit of string remaining of her apron.
“You really did a number on yourself tonight,” he said. “How exactly?”
She laughed ruefully. “I don’t even know. I swear I just start with a loosely tied bow . . . but I think as I cook I keep tying myself up.”
“I’ll try to be quick.”
“Thanks.” She waited as he untangled the knots one by one by one.
“Dinner smells delicious, by the way.” Harry finished with the last tricky knot, and as the strings fluttered to her sides, he stepped away. “Thank you for going to the trouble.”
She turned around, taking off the apron as she did so and setting it to the side. “It wasn’t any trouble. I love cooking. Why don’t we sit down and enjoy the meal before it gets cold? There’s dessert, too.”
His eyes flicked to the apple pie as he rested his notepad on the counter and headed to the table. She placed two chairs so she and Harry would face each other over dinner. “You made my favorite.”
“Yes, and later on I want you to also try this new candy I made. It’s in the fridge.” She carried over two bowls of stew, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. But then when she started thinking about what she hoped would happen, her satisfaction was soon replaced with nervousness.
She tried to calm her nerves as she rounded the table, placing the bowls in front of both chairs.
Harry put a hand at his chair, then frowned as she started to push hers back to sit down. “Wait.”
“Wait?”
Harry rushed to her side of the table, placing his hand on the other side of her chair. “Allow me.”
And then he held out the chair for her.
She melted, standing there, just staring at him. Her heart had freed itself from her body and was dancing its way right into Harry’s arms. Allow me, her heart said as it settled right there, in the safety of his embrace. Allow me to stay here forever. I won’t take up too much room, but if you keep me and give me your heart, I’d keep it always.
“Felicity?”
Oh screw it. All her plans were flying out the window. There was no plan but this.
She ignored the chair. She ignored the food. She ignored every good intention she had.
She was twenty-nine. Life was short. So many people had regrets on their deathbeds about what they wished they had done . . . what they had said . . . what they’d taken a chance on. She wasn’t going to beat about the bush. She wasn’t going to die and wonder: What if I had just kissed him? What if I just loved him? What if I just told him?
She wasn’t going to wonder.
Not about this.
“Harry,” she said, her eyes first landing on his bowtie. Red hearts stitched in the yellow fabric. It seemed like a sign—not that she needed one. Then she lifted her gaze to his, not hiding anymore. Not tying herself up in knots. Finally being free. “Can I kiss you?”
THREE
CAN I KISS you?
Can I kiss you? Can I kiss you?
That question kept ringing through his head. He couldn’t think. Felicity was standing so close to him. And he didn’t fail to notice that if she took one more step, her body would touch his. He would love that. It had taken everything in him to pull himself away from a naked Felicity. And her red dress was doing a number on him. Her curves . . . oh god, her curves. How would it feel to actually touch her like he wanted to? Of course they had hugged many times in the past—but those were friendly hugs, not the sort of touch that intends to become something more.
If he took one step toward her, there would be no going back. If he bent his head to her and kissed her, he would know—he would finally know—if her lips tasted as sweet as the candy she made. He wasn’t sure he could stop at one kiss. Or if he even wanted to.
But . . .
“You want to kiss me?” The tone of his voice sounded foreign to his ears, like he was speaking a new language, the meaning of which he was still trying to decipher. Felicity really wanted to kiss him? Him? “Really?”
Her gaze softened, like she was melting toward him. “Yeah. I really, really do. But . . . do . . . you?”
He did. He really did. Too many times he’d fantasized about kissing her. He had even dreamt about it. “I do.”
She smiled at him, her happiness spilling out from her. “Okay, then.”
They still didn’t move toward each other.
“There’s one thing, thou
gh,” he said, wondering how exactly he should break this to her. There was no simple way to say what he needed to say. It was best to just say it quickly. Get it over with, and hopefully . . . it wouldn’t be a big deal. “I haven’t done this before.”
She blinked at him, her forehead furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . you’re my first.” He paused. “I’m a virgin.”
“You are? Really?” She rubbed her lips together, then shrugged. “So, you’re a virgin.”
“You don’t think that’s odd?”
She frowned at him. “No. Why would I?”
“Because I’m a virgin. I’m twenty-nine. I have never been in a relationship. I’ve never even kissed anyone.”
“I don’t care about any of that stuff.” She paused, as if his words had finally sunk in. “Wait, you’ve never kissed anyone?”
He looked away, feeling his cheeks heat. “No. It’s not like I’ve ever been desired like that.”
“How could anyone not be attracted to you?” Felicity gaped at him. “You’re so hot!”
He looked at her, laughing. “I’m not hot.”
“Oh, yes, you are, Harrison Benedict Walsh. You are so hot. I want to run my hands all over you. I want to kiss you. I want to rip off your clothes and take you right here, right now.”
Her words floored him, and his whole focus zeroed in on her. She found him hot? Him? She wanted to rip off his clothes? God, that was . . . He never dared to dream Felicity would want to do such things to him.
“I find it hot that you waited. Why, though? Why did you wait?”
“I never wanted anyone—not like that. And then the longer I remained a virgin, the more I thought, well, why would I just have sex just to have sex? I wanted it to matter. I wanted to wait for that special someone. I know that’s silly—”
“It’s not. Nothing is silly.” Felicity took a tiny step closer to him. “I’m the one who feels silly.”
Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) Page 10