Em grabs Gavin. “Let’s leave these two alone. You and I are going to head down the street to a bar that doesn’t make me feel like I’ve stepped back in time to a frat party.”
“No way, Em. They can go off on their own, but I’m not leaving. Suck it up and have a Mai Tai.” He takes her elbow and leads her off into the dark depths of the bar.
Max looks at me. “I usually choose places like this while I’m on the job. Dark, people tend to mind their own business. You ever go to Kon Tiki in Tucson? Did all my secret meetings there.” His voice is cold and distant. Professional.
I’m not sure what to expect from this meeting. A few drinks may do us both some good.
I nod my head “The place where the drinks come in a fish bowl? It’s a popular spot to start on twenty-first birthdays. Which is stupid because after one scorpion, most people are either passed out or ready to puke.”
“Come on,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder to lead me to a table.
Our server comes to the table to take our order. We both order a Thursten Howell. How can we not?
Max has avoided my gaze since I arrived. Knowing he isn’t going to make this any easier on me, I just start. I tell him every detail—probably more than he needs. He doesn’t say a word; he just twirls his straw in his drink.
When I finish, I say, “Max, say something. Please. Anything.”
“Slugger, what I really need to know, more than anything, is how I can get a hold of some photographic proof of this kiss with Em. Video? Anything? Can we have a repeat performance? Since she told me, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t do anything but think about it. I need something. Anything. You’re killing me.”
I’m dumbfounded. “That’s all you have to say? I just tell you my deepest, darkest secrets, and you want to know about me kissing Em?”
The server drops off our drinks. I’m not sure what’s in it, but it’s damn good.
“The other stuff is… whatever. It is what it is. I get why you kept it a secret. I’m pissed you didn’t trust me. I let you into my life, into my home, and you still couldn’t trust me but I’ll get over it. I think you’re getting that secrets are dumb and can get you and everyone you love killed. No need to dwell on it. I’ve got to figure out where to go next that will put the bad guys behind bars and keep you safe. Safe and hopefully kissing Em.” He claps his hands and then rubs them together with an evil grin on his face. “So how do we make that happen?”
I take a big sip of my drink. “Max, I’m going to break your heart, but Em and I have never kissed.”
He chokes as he gasps. “The lies you tell, woman! Say it ain’t so!”
“Em and I figured out that if there’s ever a tense situation with a group of men, we can start discussing two girls kissing, and it’ll usually be a big enough distraction to escape whatever’s going on. That line has gotten us out of more sticky situations than I can remember. It got you and Gavin to stop fighting.”
“I hate you. I hate both of you. That was cruel and unusual punishment,” he says. “I think you owe me that kiss as retribution for my pain and suffering.”
“We fake kissed once. We can show you that,” I suggest. “It’s easy; you tilt your head and make sure your lips are near the other person’s mouth. If everyone is pretty drunk or not looking too closely, you can get away with it.”
He covers his ears. “Stop. Just stop. You’re ruining it for me. I’ve been thinking and dreaming about this, and you’ve crushed me. I can’t think of kissing ever again.”
“Speaking of kissing, are we okay?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.
“Us? What?” The look on his face tells me he’s connecting the dots. “Oh yeah, we’re fine. It was not enough sleep, too much tequila, and way too much adrenaline. Hazard of the job. It doesn’t matter since I’m never speaking to you again unless you and Em kiss and make up.”
“Em and I don’t need to make up. We’re totally fine.”
He slams his hand on the table. “Damn it!” he shouts as he storms off to the bar.
I go find Gavin and Em and call them over to our table. Max returns with four Three Rum Scums, and I know I’ll sleep well on the plane. Whenever Bacardi 151 is involved, it’s “good night Lily.”
The four of us have one last drink (or maybe three or four) before Gavin and I leave. Em and Max are staying one more day as they both detest red-eyes. My guess is there’s more to their decisions than that, but I know better than to ask. Gavin and Max seem to have put their issues behind them. I think we can all be friends, but I don’t think Gavin will ever be okay with me living with Max again. Not that I see that happening anytime soon.
Gavin calls the Four Seasons, and they send someone to drive us to the airport and return the rental. The poor kid who has to chauffeur us has the patience of a saint. Happy Drunk Gavin, as opposed to Moody Drunk Gavin, is hilarious but a lot to handle.
Thankfully the Vegas airport is used to inebriated passengers. Gavin always stands out no matter where we are, but I don’t think we’re making asses of ourselves.
Our flight is delayed due to high winds. We’ve drunk quite a bit and then stopped. We aren’t sobering up as much as getting tired and cranky. We can either ride it out and hope neither of us loses it before we get on the plane, or we can keep drinking. The McCarren airport commemorative cup is hard to resist, so we go with option B.
There’s no place in the world more interesting to people-watch than Vegas, especially at the airport. Gavin keeps me entertained with his non-stop commentary. His favorite game is to pick out someone and come up with their Vegas story. Like the guy in the rumpled suit. Gavin says he came to Vegas to surprise his wife who was here on a conference only to find she’s cheating on him with a stripper named Pat—gender ambiguous. He really should be a writer because his imagination, especially his drunken imagination, is creative and hilarious. Knowing Gavin, if he tried, he would have a best seller on his hands.
I look around while he finds his next story victim. “Lots of brides and grooms. Have you noticed that?”
“It’s Vegas,” he says. “Lots of people come here to get married. Not us, though.”
I laugh at his drunken observation. “No. Last time I checked, we didn’t get married.”
“We won’t get married in Vegas,” he says, slurring his words a bit.
“I can’t imagine we will.” I chuckle.
“Nope. Our wedding is going to be amazeballs.”
“Amazeballs? I didn’t know you even knew that word. Have you been reading my romance novels?” Oh, he’s in rare form tonight! We’ve never talked about it, but I don’t think marriage is in the forecast for us. Been there, done that. I’m sure Drunk Gavin is just creating another story.
“We spent some time with Brittany’s showgirls before you arrived.” He holds his finger to his lips. “Shhh, don’t tell Lily.”
I almost spit out my drink. I manage to swallow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Don’t worry, Oxford. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Amazeballs, I tell you. Not sure where yet, still plotting that out. But I know it will be…”
I’m not sure if he lost his train of thought or if he’s about to pass out.
“Amazeballs?”
He smiles and points at me. “Yes! Exactly. It’ll be the best wedding ever. Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be marrying you.” He kisses my forehead, then leans back into the chair and closes his eyes.
“Twenty bucks says you won’t remember this conversation by the time we land.”
“Maybe not, but that won’t make it any less true.”
His response is a bit more serious than I expected. A voice in my head screams, “Abort. Abort! Move directly to an emergency exit!” I don’t want to talk about marriage. I can’t even say out loud that I’ll move in with him. Talking about marriage, even in this drunken state, is stupid and a recipe for disaster. He’ll get hurt, I
’ll get hurt. I’d be an idiot to continue this conversation.
“You’ve actually thought about us getting married?” I’m such a glutton for punishment.
“Of course. Just because you’re afraid to talk about it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it. You’re not there yet, though.”
“No. No, we’re not.” Phew. Landmine averted.
“Not yet. Soon, I think. Maybe after New Years’,” He says.
KABOOM!
My jaw drops. I know I should say something, anything, but as a landmine just exploded in my brain, I can’t seem to find the words.
“Oh, they’re calling our plane. Let’s go,” he says nonchalantly, as though he hasn’t just dropped an atomic bomb in my brain. He kisses my cheek, grabs my hand, and pulls me toward the gate as if everything is hunky dory.
When will I learn to just keep my mouth shut? Why do I open cans of worms? I hate worms! Worms are gross and stupid and icky. When we reach our seats, I down my champagne as well as Gavin’s, and ask for two refills before take-off. At this point, I don’t care if he remembers this conversation as long as I can forget it.
Chapter Twenty-One
The flight is long and restless. I fall asleep, but am plagued by dreams of weddings and hit men. At one point, I’m walking down the aisle toward Gavin, and Ash jumps up from behind the altar with a machine gun to take out all the guests Scarface style. But when he shoots someone, they don’t die—they turn into a pile of cocaine.
Instead of addressing the fact that he’s shooting people at my wedding, I scream at him, “Ash, preppy boys from Potomac shouldn’t ever try to pull off a Cuban accent. You’re too WASP-y to pull that off. You sound like a tool!”
I’m sure that dream is riddled with complex psychobabble, but I’m too jet lagged to figure it out right now.
Between the long flight and the time difference, I’m so turned around I’m not sure which way is up. I’m puffy, cranky, and the altitude made my period come early. Gavin slept the whole flight, is chipper, and looks perfect. I really hate him sometimes.
The cab ride perks me up. I’ve only been gone a few days, but I didn’t realize how much I missed London. Returning to Gavin’s flat feels like coming home. Looking around as we get settled, I’m hit with a dozen memories of Gavin and me. Nothing earthmoving, but lovely all the same. Gavin and I cooking dinner, the way he steals the crust of my pizza, him scolding me not to leave my shoes by the door. Being here with him is spectacular not because of the opulence or the mind-blowingly romantic dates, but because of the million sweet nothings that take place every day. The intimate moments which fortify my deep connection to him. I know I love him, but it isn’t until this moment that I realize the place he has taken in my heart, my soul, and my life.
After unpacking, I gaze over the bed that has become home to me. I soak it in until he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me.
“Where are you, luv?”
“Oh, I’m right here, I promise.” I lean back into his embrace.
“Good,” he says, squeezing me tighter. “I went a little mad while you were gone. Don’t do that to me again. Ever.”
“I won’t.” The moment is calming and serene. For once, I feel Zen.
“I was thinking…”
“Oh, dear. That’s when all the trouble starts,” I tease.
“Shut it,” he mocks me.
“Get your own lines.”
“Anyroad. My visit to the US reminded me how nutty you Yanks are about holiday decorations. I was going to have Mason decorate the country house, but I thought, with this being your first official Christmas in over a decade, you might want to pick out your own decorations. I don’t know how much is left in the shops, and I’m sure it won’t be as gaudy as what you would have found in the US, but why don’t we go and see what’s there?”
I spin around in his arms and beam at him. “Can we get a tree?”
“I figured we would cut one down when we get to the country house tomorrow.”
“What about a twelve-foot inflatable Frosty the Snowman that waves and sings Christmas carols?”
“Luv,” he groans. “I want this to be special for you. I want you to have everything you could possibly desire. Except that.”
“But I need one.” I pout. A look of pain washes over his face before I decide to put him out of his misery. “Just kidding, Oxford. Have you ever known me to be so ostentatious? Let’s start simple. I just want a tree and some ornaments and maybe some garland.”
“Mistletoe. We need lots and lots of mistletoe,” he says with a smile.
“Like I need more motivation to kiss you! It takes all my self-restraint to not attack you every time I’m near you.” To prove it, I kiss him. It starts soft and sweet and becomes a tango of lips and tongues and lust. Hot damn, this man can kiss me breathless.
He pulls away first. “I would love to see where this could go, but we may want to run to the shops before they close. It’s four days before Christmas; there may not be anything left.”
“Fine.” I pout and stomp my foot like a disgruntled teenager.
“I want this to be perfect for you. You deserve to have a happy Christmas. There will always be time for kissing.”
“It’s a merry Christmas.”
“You’re in England, and it’s a Happy Christmas.” He hands me my coat. “No time for arguing, let’s go,” he insists.
Thank goodness he has a Range Rover. We hit Harrods, Selfridges, and the Christmas Shoppe for ornaments, “bits and bobs,” and other decorations. We find more than I expected, and everything we buy is sweet and tasteful. My only over-the-top purchase is a life-sized polar bear from Selfridges that I name Harvey. I couldn’t help myself. Who doesn’t need a life-sized polar bear? Gavin put forth a good fight against Harvey, but after some passionate snogging in the fitting room, I was able to get him to see it my way.
When I was a child, my mother and I searched each year for the perfect ornament that represented that year in our lives. A ballerina for when I got my first set of pointe shoes, a Jeep when my father surprised my mom with a Jeep Cherokee to replace our old beat-up station wagon. Gavin and I only have today, but I search and search for the perfect ornament. The stores are fairly picked clean. It was silly for me to expect to find the perfect ornament. What could I possibly get that would symbolize the year I’ve had? I don’t think Hallmark makes a drug cartel ornament series.
The crowds are over the top and the lines are lengthy, but it all disappears for me. All I can see is Gavin. Making these choices together, blending our images of the holiday, creating memories which are uniquely us is so simple, but heavenly.
After we’ve hit every store with a Christmas tree in the window and the Range Rover is filled to the brim with bags (and a bear strapped to the roof), we go back to Gavin’s flat.
******
The drive to the country house is a little over two hours long. I’m still failing English geography, so I’m not really sure where we are in relation to London. All of the shires, woods, and hams confuse me. It sure is beautiful, though.
I’m not sure what I expected, but the country house is more than I can wrap my head around. This isn’t a house; it’s freaking Downton Abbey. People don’t live in places like this! They pay money to tour them to see how people lived during the Golden Ages.
“You grew up here?” Blown away doesn’t begin to cover how I feel.
“Pick up your jaw. It’s just a house. It’s been in my family for six generations, and it’s drafty and costs a fortune to maintain. I grew up at boarding schools. This was just where I came to visit on holiday.”
“At least we won’t have trouble making room for Harvey,” I tease.
I can see that Gavin’s uncomfortable. Gavin detests having his wealth highlighted, so I try my best to pretend that Cinderella’s castle is just any other boring house.
Before we even have the opportunity to get out of the car, a large man and rotund woman come running out
the door.
Gavin runs toward the woman. “Hazel! It’s so good to see you.”
“Gavin, it’s been too long!” she says before slapping him on the backside. “How have you had Lily here all this time without bringing her here? You were raised better than that, young man.”
“Ouch, Hazel. That hurt. Okay, come meet Lily.” He grabs my hand and brings me over. “Hazel, it is my honor to introduce you to Lily Clark. Lily, this is Hazel. Hazel was my nanny, and she’s married to Mason here. Mason keeps this place running.”
Hazel is so sweet looking. She’s five feet tall if she’s lucky, and soft all around. Mason must be six foot six, and he looks extremely fit for his age. I’m guessing they’re both over fifty. I know these two people mean the world to Gavin, and for all intents and purposes, they’re the only family he has left.
Hazel and Mason give me the introductory tour, telling me everything I never needed to know about its architecture and design. After an hour, we’ve barely covered half the house. Mixed in are plenty of embarrassing Gavin-growing-up stories, like when he was four and would only pee in the potted plants or when he broke his left arm trying to surf down the stairs on a serving tray. I hear Gavin groan with each story, but the dirty looks Hazel shoots him tells me he knows better than to interrupt.
“We’re short on time, so let’s get decorating,” Hazel cheers. “First we need a tree. Gavin, hop to it.”
He kisses her cheek and grabs my hand. “Let’s go pick a tree.”
When we’re out of earshot, I say, “Gavin the lumberjack. It’s kinda hot. Can you wear flannel?”
“I don’t own flannel, but I’ll buy some if you promise to keep looking at me like that,” he says with a wink.
Gavin directs me to the ATV in the garage. He drives like a mad man, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to throw me off. The sparkle in his eye and mischievous grin tell me he’s probably just regressing to his twelve- year-old self.
It takes us over an hour to decide on a tree as it seems we both used to chop down trees for Christmas and we have different opinions about what the tree should look like. I eventually give in, not because he is right but because my hands are frozen and I think my toes may fall off. I’m thankful we have the ATV and don’t have to drag the tree back.
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