by Lindsey Hart
I guess we learned something new today.
Has anti-venom, plays dead, no rabies, eats ticks, hisses, and also a little bit about wildlife relocation. Surprises never cease. This one, at least, turned out okay. Unlike my parents springing on me a surprise engagement to a stranger, I can handle this surprise. I did handle it. I freaking did it. Feeney: one. The rest of the world that tries to corrupt and ruin my life in every way possible: zero.
CHAPTER 12
Luke
Ah, Christmas. Good old Christmas. One of my least favorite days of the year. Then again, most days are my least favorite days.
Today went off just fine. Shade woke up at an ungodly hour, and we unwrapped gifts. Feeney had thought ahead, got some, and wrapped them up before getting me to write my name on the tag. She’d done the Santa ones too. I’m capable of buying my own son gifts, so he got extra spoiled this year, but it’s alright. I couldn’t take dealing with my dad or with Britt’s parents, so I left that for tomorrow—Dad in the morning, Britt’s parents in the evening. No one liked it, but then no one was ever happy with any day I chose. Even when Britt was still alive, before Shade came along, the parentals were impossible to please.
After a day spent entertaining Shade and trying to shut off any lingering emotions trying to unbuckle the hatch of the dark, dank place where I’ve locked them, Feeney must sense I’m worn-out and puts Shade to bed for me. She looked worn-out too. Shade was so excited, and it was a long day. We managed to make a chicken for dinner without burning the house down. I cooked it on the barbeque with a beer can up its bottom, and because she probably couldn’t make potatoes and I didn’t give a shit, we had instant rice. Although, she did manage to make a can of corn that turned out yellow and not charred black. Progress, that’s what I call it.
As Feeney is upstairs putting Shade to bed, or in her own room or whatever, I stop to think she is probably missing her family, that today might be lonely for her too. I haven’t asked her about her situation or her parents, but she probably thinks it’s normal because I’m an insensitive ass. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be any such thing. That I should be making an effort.
Progress. I need to be making progress.
Not just with dinner, but with her.
I shove myself off the couch, leaving the TV on to the sports reruns I was just staring at anyway. I take a coffee cup out of the cupboard and a bottle of expensive whisky from under the sink. I stashed it in the back with all the cleaning products, and there’s a child safety lock on the cupboard from ages ago. I bet Shade could easily get it off now, but then again, maybe not, because I can barely figure the damn thing out myself.
Once I have the whisky, I pour a generous amount into the mug before tucking the bottle back in the cupboard and securing the plastic lock thing.
I’m not a drinker. I don’t believe in liquid courage or drowning one’s sorrows. That never really worked for me. I don’t drink to remember, and I don’t drink to forget. I don’t drink to feel better, and I don’t drink to stew in self-pity. I just drink if I feel like having a drink, and because it’s Christmas, so why the hell not?
The whisky flows down my throat. It’s expensive, good whisky. The bottle hasn’t been touched in months, but it doesn’t taste stale or off from being open so long. I guess alcohol, the hard stuff, doesn’t expire. I can feel the burn all the way down my chest into my stomach. Because I didn’t eat much at dinner, or much at all before that, and because it’s been a while since I’ve had a drink of anything, let alone whisky, it goes to my head almost immediately.
I’m a big guy. But I do feel it. I take another sip, and I feel that too. Then another.
“Hey.”
“Holy sh—” I jump and spin, ready to face off against the sudden intruder who decided to burgle my house silently but also weirdly introduces herself.
It’s just Feeney.
She looks at the cup, looks at me. One eyebrow tilts up just a fraction like she knows I don’t have coffee, tea, or warm fucking milk in here.
“Uh, I just…” She crosses her arms over her chest.
She’s wearing a white t-shirt with the black outline of an opossum giving both thumbs up on it, which she must have bought after the backyard incident. Yes, I heard all about it. Her hair is pulled into a sloppy bun on top of her head, and most of it has escaped over the course of the day. She’s wearing jeans—tight jeans—with bare feet, no socks, and no makeup. Anyone else might classify her as a hot mess after a long day, but right now, I can appreciate the hot in the mess. And maybe the mess too.
I can feel my body reacting, heating up—things tightening and hardening. And no, not my abs or my resolve. Things are aching, but no, not my heart. Well, scratch that. Yes, my heart, but that’s normal. It’s other things besides my heart. Fuck, it’s the whisky. Why did I decide it was a good idea?
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” she says in a rush like all those words are a single word. Iwantedtomakesureyoureokay.
“Yup.” I lift my mug and toss the rest of the whisky back in a single gulp. It burns. It was a massive gulp. I nearly choke myself, but I force myself to swallow as my eyes water like crazy. My vision is blurry, but I quickly turn and rinse the mug out in the sink before tucking it into the dishwasher to hide the evidence like I’m guilty of doing something I shouldn’t be doing.
“Are you sure?”
My back is to her. That’s strategic. “Yup.”
“Luke… I…I mean, Christmas is hard for a lot of people, even in the good times. I saw your face today. You didn’t look right.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. You looked…you looked really sad, and I want to make sure you’re okay. Just for…just for Shade. Because this is hard for him too, and I’m trying to do what I can to make it not so hard, but I’m lost here because you know very well I don’t have any experience with this. Being a nanny or otherwise.”
“Yet, I hired you.”
“Yet, you did, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that…that I just want to make sure you’re going to get through the next couple of days, and if not, you need to let me know so I can figure out how to cover for you the best I can. For Shade.”
She’s right. God, she’s right. She’s thoughtful, and she’s actually pretty damn nice. She even called a damn wildlife rescue and got that opossum relocated. Shade said she was about to try and bring it back to life by giving it CPR—she must have explained it to him—when they thought it had died. She wasn’t about to let it die in front of Shade. I’m not sure how far she would have gone, but imagining prim and proper Little Miss Rich and Spoiled out there, giving mouth to mouth to a wild animal made me want to burst out laughing when I heard about it. Thinking about it now makes me smile despite everything. The point is, she was willing to take a hard one for the team, and she’s willing to now. That means something—it means something to me, which hits me like a good old ball bagging. Never mind. There’s nothing good about a ball bagging. When you get tea bagged, it always feels quite fresh. Believe me.
“Luke?”
I’m still not facing her. Maybe I’m a coward, or maybe I just can’t. But I do get something out. Words I haven’t been able to speak out loud, words I can barely process, even just for myself.
“Do you know that when someone is taken from you, it’s not the big things you miss? It’s all the small bits and pieces that are stolen. They’re what matters. All the texts here and there, the goodbye kisses on the forehead or cheek, the brush of fingers, the how was your day that everyone takes for granted, and the token text to ask what I want for dinner. I even miss getting nagged to do the garbage or whatever else. It’s all those tiny bits. They add up, and those are what gets taken from you. It’s not just a person, your whole world, your whole life, or your whole future—not just all of that. It’s all the things in the present too. The things you don’t even realize you miss until they’re gone, and then you realize that all those things, they made up
your entire world. If someone had told me that before I lose Britt, I would have laughed it off as being corny. Beyond corny. But it’s true. It’s so fucking true.”
“I—I’m…”
“Please don’t say sorry. You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do anything. Why should you be sorry?”
“Because I brought it up. Because you won’t look at me, so I know I’ve hurt you, and that’s exactly what I came in here to try and help avoid. Because you’re hurting, and maybe it has nothing to do with me, but I do feel bad because I care about Shade, and I know when you’re hurting, he can see it, and it makes him hurt too. Because I don’t like feeling useless, and there’s nothing I can really do, and it sucks, so I’m sorry about that too. I’m sorry you have to go through this, and Shade does too. I’m sorry the world is super shitty, and you both have to experience it every single day. I’m sorry Christmas is a piece-of-shit day when you have memories of it not being a piece-of-shit day. I’m sorry you have to endure your family tomorrow because that must suck too. It must be really awkward and horrible, and I wouldn’t want to do it. So, I’m sorry. I am. I don’t know what else to s…”
Maybe it’s the whisky, maybe I’m just really fucking lonely, maybe it’s because it’s Christmas, and you’re supposed to be charitable on Christmas, or maybe it’s because I just figured out this is what I actually need. No, it’s definitely the whisky. I just consumed three-quarters of a coffee mug, so my judgment is severely impaired. I’ve already said things I’d never normally say, so my inhibitions are gone. It’s guaranteed the whisky.
And just the whisky.
Blame it on the whisky then, like the classic rock or country song, but I turn away from staring at the dishwasher. I step towards Feeney and gently take her by the waist. I don’t grab her; I’m not an ogre. As soon as my hands move to her hips, which are both shapely and tiny—so feminine and delicate—it makes all the achy bits of me ache that much worse, and whatever she was going to say stops mid-sentence. Her breath catches in a ragged gasp, and her hands land on my chest, but she doesn’t push me away. Her fists ball in my t-shirt.
Her face tilts up, shocked, inquisitive, and confused, but her eyes—eyes so green they’re like a field of swaying green grass, grass as tall as a person’s waist and as thick and lush as velvet—are huge and dark, the pupils liquid with sudden desire.
I do blame the whisky because it only intensifies the loneliness I feel—the needs I’ve denied for so long that I forgot all about them. The whisky makes me feel human again. It makes me feel like a man with men’s needs. It makes me feel more like an actual human and less like an empty shell of a thing. It makes me hurt, it makes me want, and it even makes me hope.
Feeney says nothing, but her lush pink lips part in invitation.
I know this isn’t the solution she had in mind, this wasn’t what she was thinking when she walked into the kitchen, and this isn’t pity. She’s not letting me do this because she’s sorry or any of that nonsense. This is a moment. One of those classic moments that everyone talks, writes, and sings about. It’s sudden like fire. Like a downpour from a storm that blew up out of nowhere, one second the sky blue and clear, and the next instant, the storm driving down.
I shouldn’t do it, but I do. Because of the whisky. Because it’s been two years since another person even bothered to touch me, even in passing, because I’m lonely, and because I’m broken. Because…because…because I want to. Because of all of it and everything.
CHAPTER 13
Feeney
I know a bad idea when I see one.
This. This is a bad idea.
A bad idea that I can’t stop. It came out of nowhere, as bad ideas often do. It crouched down, waiting, and then it sprung. I don’t feel trapped, and I’m not pressured. This isn’t forced.
When I wrap my arms around Luke’s neck, yeah, it’s a bad idea, but it feels good. He’s warm and strong. Ultra-manly. All rock-hard muscle, straining tendon, and hot, silky skin. I press in against him, seeking his warmth—all of him with all of me. That’s what I want—his massive chest, huge shoulders, lean waist, and strong legs.
He bends his head, and I close my eyes, but when I feel his muscles tighten under my fingers and the rest of him tense, I realize he’s hesitating. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want to do this, but rather, he’s worried I don’t want him to. That it’s not right, that I’m his nanny, and blah, blah, blah. I know that. But right now, I don’t care. It’s wrong, but what bad idea isn’t?
So, I reach up and cup Luke’s face. His cheeks are bristly with stubble, and my fingers burn just touching it. I’ve never actually touched an unshaven face before, I realize. A thrill shoots up my arms and rockets straight to the tight coil of sudden need lodged in the pit of my stomach. My thighs burn, and yeah, it’s just my thighs. I’m leaving my lady cave out of this one because this is just a kiss, it’s Christmas, and I guess we’re two lonely people, two lost souls, and…and… and whatever.
We’re doing this.
I drag Luke’s face to mine, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His lips land on mine, and it’s warm. So warm. Also, so strong, and so, so soft? God, they’re so soft. I didn’t know that a man’s lips could be this soft. He’s a good kisser, an expert kisser. He makes me want to open my mouth, makes me want to taste him, and makes me furious with sudden want and the need to writhe up against him. He makes everything in me pulse and throb, and he makes me feel frantic, like I did when I thought that opossum had died, but also wildly joyful, like when I realized it hadn’t indeed kicked the bucket at all.
I slowly give in to this bad idea by opening my lips and letting my tongue sweep over his. He tastes like whisky. Rough, sweet, and also slightly spicy. Delicious. I knew he didn’t have water, coffee, milk, or juice in the mug. The kettle wasn’t plugged in, and the coffee maker wasn’t going. I knew it was something stronger.
Tasting the whisky on him makes me feel something wild and untamed that I’ve never previously discovered. I’ve let myself explore a few bad ideas before, and all of them ended in regrets. I have no doubt this will be any different. I need to stop this. Stop it before anything happens because I can’t leave Shade. I can’t make things awkward and horrible or give Luke a reason to fire me. I know I want to find another job and get out of here, but that seems like months down the road. I don’t want to leave Shade all alone, and I don’t want him to have to get to know another nanny. I’m already attached to him and really enjoy being with him.
Sometimes time really doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a good measure of care or affection. I have to stop this. Even, surprisingly, as much as I don’t want to. I need to get this under control. I need…no, I don’t need to part my lips, I don’t need to whimper into Luke’s mouth, I don’t need to curl my body around his hard planes, I don’t need to dig my fingers into the tight muscle at the back of his neck, and I don’t need to sweep my tongue into his mouth. I also don’t need to sigh and whimper like I might be dying, and I don’t need his strong, steady hands at my waist to hold me up because my legs are suddenly watery. I don’t need…
I sweep one hand down over Luke’s soft cotton t-shirt and onto his chest. I push into the granite there without any strength whatsoever. I try again, putting more force into it, but it doesn’t help because I’m still kissing him furiously, attacking his mouth. I’m still…
I have to stop. I have to freaking stop this. What am I even thinking?
Finally, I do manage to put some weight behind my hand. I make my feet move, and my legs cooperate. I untangle our tongues and lips and tear my mouth from Luke’s.
I even take a step back, physically separating us and putting some distance between us.
“We can’t,” I rasp. At least that’s what I think I said. My lady cave might have spoken up and said something like, fuck yes, can we take this to your room or mine? Which has a greater chance of us not being overheard?
Jesus. Do Luke’s eyes have to be so dark a
nd bedroom-y and hooded? Does he have to look at me like he’d enjoy nothing better than to unwrap me like a present from underneath the tree in the living room and devour me?
He keeps watching my lips, but he’s all casual now. Way too casual. He doesn’t look disturbed in the least by what just happened. I know he did not expect it, but now he’s acting like he doesn’t even care it happened, and somehow, that’s worse than anything. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with my thighs aching, my crotch about to explode, and the rest of my body parts turned into some unidentified rubbery goo, kind of like an old piece of chewing gum that’s been melted into the sidewalk.
My eyes flick down. I can’t help it. Down past the deliciously loose t-shirt hiding his rock-hard chest, down past the jeans that sit casually on hips meant for doing so much more than just standing there. Down to the bulge that I can literally see in his jeans. I know it’s there because I could feel it poking me in the thigh while we were pressed against each other.
Dear god, it’s not a small bulge.
“This is the worst Christmas ever!” I hiss. I try to spin on my heels and walk out of the kitchen, but Luke catches my hand. He wraps his long fingers around mine, and they are strong, masculine, and probably very talented.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because! We…we can’t do this. You can’t kiss me, and I can’t kiss you. It’s against the rules.”
“What rules?”
Why now, of all times, do his eyes have to sparkle with amusement? He should be freaking out. He should be pissed. He shouldn’t be looking freaking happier than he has any other time I’ve seen him. I almost wish he’d go back to being sad, tragic, and missing his wife. God. We were talking about his wife, who passed away, who he misses, and also about how this time of year sucks, how every time of the year sucks, how it all sucks. Then he kissed me. Or maybe I kissed him. Anyway, a kiss happened. How is it not wrong just because of when it happened?