A Festive Treat

by Serenity Woods

  “I wasn’t sure you owned one.”

  “Hey, I can brush up nice and smart when I need to.” Selecting a grey-and-pink striped tie, he hooked it around the hanger.

  “Pink?” she queried.

  He bent to choose his shoes. “Only real men wear pink.” Drawing out a smart pair of black lace-ups, he sent her a mischievous glance. “You’d rather me wear blue?”

  All the feelings of the evening before came back to her in a rush, and she inhaled, the nausea washing over her again in a wave.

  He held up a hand, his smile fading. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”

  She sat up. “No, it’s okay. I feel a bit queasy, that’s all.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Me too. I think I might be pregnant as well.”

  That made her chuckle. “I would imagine yours is more to with the amount of whisky you drank last night.”

  “You could be right.” Walking over to her, he nudged Mozart out of the way and sat on the bed. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A cold glass of water would be lovely.”

  “Sure.” He’d had a shower—again, without her—and his beach-bum hair curled around his neck. He’d also divested himself of his stubble, and when she raised a hand and ran it along his jaw, she found only smooth skin. Was he going to bend down and kiss her?

  Instead, though, he turned his head to look out of the window, revealing his strong profile, straight nose, and sensuous lips. “Lovely weather. A great day to get married.”

  “Yes.” For some reason, her stomach churned. She was going to have to face everyone today. They’d all want to know what had happened the night before, and what decision she’d made. Was that why Owen seemed distant and reserved? Maybe he regretted sleeping with her the night before?

  Her stomach clenched, and the nausea rose sharply inside her.

  Pushing him out of her way, she walked hastily to the bathroom, saying, “Sorry,” over her shoulder as she left.

  Unable to fight the sickness, she vomited several times until her stomach was empty. After flushing the toilet, she sat on the cool tiles and leaned her head back against the wall, exhausted.

  A soft knock came at the door.

  “Come in.”

  It opened, and Owen’s head appeared. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I feel better now.”

  He came in, passed her a glass of water, and then to her surprise, sat on the floor beside her. She sipped from the glass, swirled and spat into the toilet, then took a few swallows of the lovely cool water.

  She closed her eyes. “Jeez.”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “It’s not your fault. Well, it is your fault, but you know what I mean.”

  He didn’t smile, though. “Are you nervous about the wedding?”

  She sighed. “About seeing everyone. I just hope Maisey and Kole haven’t told my parents. The last thing I want is the third degree.”

  “Hopefully everyone will be caught up in the big day.”

  “Yeah. It’s one reason I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want to detract from their day, you know? Kole’s waited a long time for this, and I love Tasha like a sister. I want it to be perfect for them.”

  “It will be, I’m sure.” He fell quiet, and looked at where his hands were linked around his knees.

  She nibbled her bottom lip. The previous night, he’d told her I’d love to marry you, to live with you, and to be a father to your child. Did he remember saying that? Perhaps he did, and it had been the alcohol talking, and now he was worried he’d said too much.

  Last night, she’d felt as if everything was going to be okay, but this morning her uneasiness had returned. Of course he had feelings for her, and he’d been great taking the news about her pregnancy, but that didn’t guarantee a happy ever after for them. He’d made it clear that if she wanted to keep the baby, he’d be unhappy with her leaving the country, and that was fair enough. He’d also said he wanted to try and make a go of it with her, but maybe this morning the reality of having a baby was sinking in. The two of them were only having a fling, and although last night had been romantic and he’d declared he loved her, maybe this morning, sober, he was having second thoughts.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment he pushed himself to his feet and went over to the bath.

  “Let’s get you bathed and dressed,” he said, “and then we’ll see if we can get some breakfast down you.” He turned on the taps and put the plug in, squirted in some manly-smelling bath foam, and walked out.

  Skye got to her feet. He was right to cast off any romantic ideals about their situation. They had to think with their heads, not with their hearts, if they were to make any sense of this.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Owen left Skye to soak in the warm water and paced around for a while, unable to settle to anything. Eventually, wanting something to calm his agitated state, he put some music on his iPod and plugged it into the speakers beside the bed, them hummed along to Yo-Yo Ma’s transcendental cello playing.

  Mozart lay by the door, watching him. When Owen arose and started to get dressed, the dog’s eyebrows moved as his eyes followed him around the room.

  “You want something nice to wear?” he asked the Lab. Normally, he would have left the dog at home and asked his neighbor to check on him through the day, but the two of them were on call for Search and Rescue that weekend, so Mozart had to come with them. Owen had checked with Kole whether they minded him bringing the dog, and Kole had replied that the hotel was fine with it providing they stayed in the garden. Stuart was also bringing his boxer, Chaucer, which made him feel less awkward about it.

  He tried to fancy up Mozart’s collar with a red handkerchief, but the Lab wasn’t impressed. “Stop making such a fuss,” he scolded the dog when he tried to pull it off. “You’ll want to impress Chaucer, won’t you?”

  “I don’t think you can talk when you refuse to get your hair cut,” Skye called out through the half-open bedroom door.

  Giving up on Mozart and picking up a pair of cufflinks, he walked into the bathroom and stood at the bottom of the bath, looking down at her as he slotted one of the silver pins through the hole in the shirt cuff. Skye lay in the bath, her hair piled on the top of her head. She’d lifted up a hand and had been watching the bubbles on it glitter in the sunlight streaming through the window, but she lowered it and looked up as he walked in.

  “I like my hair long. It makes me feel artistic.” He grinned, because they both knew he didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. She’d tried to teach him to sketch the other night, and they’d ended up in gales of laughter at his pathetic attempts to capture her face.

  Instead of laughing now, however, Skye just stared at him.

  His eyebrows rose. “What?”

  “Oh my God. You look…so…” She blew out a long breath.

  He glanced down at himself. “It’s only a suit.”

  “Only…” She continued to stare. “I didn’t realize it was a three piece.”

  He hadn’t donned the jacket yet, and at that moment he wore the dark gray trousers and the waistcoat over a white shirt. “Yes… It’s a wedding. I wanted to look smart.”

  “But it fits you and everything.”

  It was his turn to stare. “Fits me? What do you mean?”

  “I thought you’d own one suit and it would be, like, ten years old, and all faded and worn. I thought you’d look all out of place and uncomfortable.”

  Now he was confused. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely a compliment.”

  His lips gradually curved up. The suit turned her on. “I see.”

  “Now I’m all hot and bothered,” she complained.

  His eyes widened as, very slowly, she slid her right hand down her chest, into the water, and between her legs, smiling wickedly.

  Up until the day before, that would have made his head explode, and he
would have stripped off the suit in double quick time and jumped into the bath with her.

  Today, though, things were different—so different, he actually found himself tongue-tied. “Honey…”

  The mischievous twinkle in her eyes died, and she lifted her hand. A light blush stained her cheeks. “Sorry. I was only joking. I’d better get out—I’m turning into a prune here.”

  He hesitated, wanted to console her and relieve her embarrassment, but he couldn’t think what to say, and instead he turned on his heel and left the room.

  He sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, and picked up a book, but it was pointless because there was no way he’d be able to concentrate. He looked up at the ceiling while he listened to the sounds of her getting out of the water, then drying herself.

  Idiot, he berated himself. Why hadn’t he just followed his instincts and made love to her again?

  But he knew why. The night before, he’d been more drunk than he’d thought. He could vaguely remember telling her he loved her, that he wanted to make a go of it, hell, even that he wanted to marry her.

  It was the truth, but he shouldn’t have said it. Opening up like that had made him feel vulnerable and foolish. She’d wanted physical comfort, but she’d made it quite clear that she hadn’t yet decided what she was going to do, about either the pregnancy or staying in New Zealand. He’d said that if she wanted to keep the baby, he’d rather she didn’t leave, but he couldn’t force her to stay. He felt confused, his emotions mixed up, and he didn’t know what to say to her. His powerlessness was frustrating, and he hated that he had no say in whether she would have the baby or not. It was his baby too, dammit! Surely that meant something? But of course in this modern society, he had no real role until the baby was born, and even then, if she decided to leave, his only purpose would be to provide money for a kid he’d probably never lay eyes on again.

  In the bathroom, he heard her using the various body sprays and creams she’d brought with her, and then she wandered into the bedroom.

  He put down the book as if he’d been reading. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

  “Better.” She stood before him, turning around a ring she wore on her right hand. Her pale skin was flushed from the warm water, and it glistened slightly in patches where the towel had missed a bit. Tendrils of damp hair curled around her neck. Her full, high breasts glowed in the sunlight, the nipples swollen, begging for his mouth, and he had to fight not to let his gaze drop to them.

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded. “I’m good.”

  “Do you want to talk?”

  To the side, Mozart got up, shook himself, and walked off into the kitchen, as if saying No way I’m staying in here for this one.

  Owen hesitated, then moved to the side of the bed and stood. “Now’s probably not the best time. It’s going to be a busy day, and we have to focus on Kole and Tasha.”

  She bit her lip. “Are you sure?”

  He met her gaze, his heart thudding. “Have you come to a decision?”

  For a brief moment, she didn’t move, and he thought she had. Then she gave a little shake of her head.

  “Then there’s nothing for us to talk about, is there?” He turned to walk out of the room.

  “Wait. Owen… Don’t be angry with me.”

  He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not angry, but I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Last night—”

  “Was a mistake. It was fantastic, but it was the last thing we should have done. It was the fucking whisky.”

  She looked away, swallowing, and he cursed himself.

  “I remember everything I said to you, Skye, and I meant it all. I still mean it all. But right at this moment, I feel powerless and frustrated. I want to beg you to stay, but that would just be humiliating. I want to drag you to the church, force you to marry me, and insist you keep the baby, but I can’t do that either. I’m not a part of the decision, and that’s killing me.”

  “Of course you’re a part of it,” she said, looking horrified.

  “Not in the way I want to be. I know you’ll give this careful thought, and I hope you’ll take my wishes into account, but ultimately you don’t want to stay here, and I don’t know if what we’ve got is strong enough to combat that.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know either. I wish there was some way we could be sure. I don’t want to make another mistake.”

  “Love has never come with a guarantee.” His voice was harsher than he’d meant it, and she winced. He cleared his throat and tried again, a little more softly. “It would be nice if there was some kind of assurance that things would work out, but we just have to take a chance. Can’t you bring yourself to give it a go?”

  She folded her arms across her breasts. “I…I’m not ready to decide yet.”

  Irritation flooded him. “Well, when you are, let me know.”

  She turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth. Hands on hips, he studied his feet for a moment, cursing the world.

  He couldn’t remain cross with her for long, though. Blowing out a sigh, he walked up to her and slid his arms around her waist. “Hey, come here.”

  She stood stiffly, but when he turned her and cradled her against his chest, she softened in his embrace. “Sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t usually resort to tears. I’m not normally like this.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hormones suck.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not being mean on purpose.”

  He gave a short laugh. “I know.” He touched his lips to her hair. “You seem lost, Skye. I thought I was good at finding lost things, but I’m not sure even I can follow where you’ve gone.”

  She rested her forehead on his chest. “I’m still here.”

  “Yeah. And for today, I think we should concentrate on that.” He moved back a little. “Why don’t you get dressed, and then we can have a cup of coffee and maybe some toast or something on the deck. I think Tasha wants you at the house around eleven, doesn’t she? So we have a bit of time before we have to leave.”

  She nodded and wiped her face. “Okay. Not coffee though.”

  “Tea, then. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He slid a finger beneath her chin and lifted it so he could kiss her lips. “I’m still here for you. That hasn’t changed.”

  She looked up at him, her large hazel eyes wide and trusting, like a child’s. Would his daughter’s eyes look like this? His son’s?

  Owen let his hand drop. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” He walked away. This was so much harder than he’d thought it was going to be.

  *

  By the time Skye came into the kitchen, he’d made the toast and tea and taken it out onto the deck ready for her. He turned as she walked across the living room floor to the sliding doors, and his breath caught in his throat.

  She wore a calf-length sleeveless dress, dark blue with large, subtle flowers printed on it, pretty sandals, and her hair was down, although she’d plaited a couple of strands at either side and linked them at the back like a medieval princess. She looked young, fresh, and so, so beautiful.

  “Wow.” He held out his hands, and she placed hers in them, smiling bashfully as he admired her.

  “We make a smart couple,” she said, then bit her lip, obviously realizing the deeper connotations behind that simple statement.

  But he just said, “We do,” and pulled her toward him so their bodies bumped. She’d applied makeup, outlining her eyes with kohl and smudging gray and blue eyeshadow across her lids, but she’d yet to apply lipstick. Taking advantage of her bare lips, he bent his head and kissed her, a simple, brief kiss, but it was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

  Fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss the living daylights out of her, he pulled back and gestured for her to take a seat, then sat the other side of the small, rou
nd table, Mozart lying by his feet. “How’s the stomach?”

  “Better.” She picked up a piece of toast and nibbled it. “I wonder what it is that makes a woman so nauseous during early pregnancy?”

  “Some sort of hormone, I guess.” He knew so little about the whole process. Why hadn’t he paid more attention in the Life Education classes at school? He vaguely remembered talking to the wife of a friend some years ago—she’d just found out she was pregnant, and she’d talked about having to take some kind of vitamins to help the baby to develop properly. “Is there, er, anything you should be taking?”

  “Joss gave me some vitamins that include folic acid—apparently it helps brain and spinal cord development.”

  A spinal cord? The realization jolted within him. The bundle of cells inside her held the promise of a child, a real person. Had she thought of that? Could she picture a baby in her arms, or was she refusing to think of it as anything but a fetus?

  She cleared her throat and picked up her tea. “I was thinking while I was in the bath and getting dressed. Owen, maybe I should return to the sleep-out tonight. I need some time on my own, away from you, to decide what to do. I know it’s very early in the pregnancy, but I want to make this decision soon, before it becomes…real, you know?”

  He nodded, his insides twisting.

  Looking away, across the inlet, she rested her head tiredly on the back of the chair. “I can’t think clearly when I’m near you. You were right—I shouldn’t have come back here last night. But I wanted to tell you. I’m sorry you didn’t hear about it from me.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She crunched her toast absently, still looking at the view.

  Owen picked up his own toast and bit into it. He wasn’t hungry, but his stomach felt delicate from a combination of the swirling emotions and a slight hangover, and hopefully the toast would help to settle it.

  They sat quietly in the summer morning, watching the boats sailing up the river, heading out into the Pacific Ocean to fish and tour the Bay of Islands. It could be like this every day, Owen wanted to say to her, just me and you, and Mozart, and the baby. I love you, Skye, and I want to be with you forever. Please don’t leave me, and please, please, please have this baby, because I think it’s something that would satisfy a longing we’ve both had but never realized.