by Amelia Wilde
But Mrs. Owens is in a chatty mood today, and she bustles right around from behind the counter to give me the once over.
“Merry Christmas, Dawson.” Her voice is tremulous, and are those tears in her eyes?
“Uh, thanks, Mrs. Owens. Merry Christmas.” I stick my hands in my pockets. Stepping around her to go to the coffee station would be a dick move, but I’m on the verge.
“Dawson, is something on your mind?”
The store is deserted, which is probably why she’s asking me this right now. And fuck, too much is on my mind to even begin to deal with, but it all boils down to one thing: India, and what a wreck I’ve made of my life if I never see her again.
Now that I’ll never see her again.
At least, I hope I never see her again because I think my heart would tear out of my chest and die a tortured death on the ground if I had to look into her eyes one more time.
“Not a thing. Just getting ready for the holidays.”
“How’s your father doing?”
“Just fine.”
Just fine—he misses my mother like an open wound, but he’ll never admit it as long as he lives. Tomorrow he’ll have some of his old single buddies over to his house to spend Christmas. He’s a damn good cook, and it keeps both of us from being alone.
An image of sitting at my dad’s house, my arm wrapped around India, hits me like a missile to the chest, and my hand floats up to pat at my ribcage.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I give Mrs. Owens as much of a grin as I can manage. “Do you ever desperately need coffee?”
She smiles back, but she’s not convinced. “I know the feeling.” Then she steps out of my way.
I go through the ritual of filling the cup, adding a couple packets of sugar, snugging on the plastic cap, but at the counter she waves me away. “It’s on the house.”
“Thanks.”
“You know—” I’m halfway back to the door, but I stop and turn back. “Dawson, a young man like you—” Mrs. Owens’ face goes red, but she soldiers on. “You shouldn’t spend the holidays alone. I hope—I hope you find a nice girl who you can count on.”
“I hope so, too,” I say, and then I give her a jaunty little salute and head back out into the bitter cold.
A nice girl I can count on.
I probably could have counted on India—the India of now, not the eighteen-year-old who wanted her father’s approval. But that ship has sailed.
The house is deadly silent when I walk in the front door, but I can’t bear to listen to any music. I settle for the TV.
I sink into the couch with my coffee, ignoring the gnawing emptiness in the pit of my stomach. This is going to be a long fucking day since I decided not to open the bar—it’s enough to deal with drunks on all the other holidays during the year—but somehow this is worse, now that India’s gone.
The coffee cup is empty before I realize I’ve been drinking it, and I’m three episodes in to some shitty cooking show on Netflix without having taken in a single detail. My stomach growls. I could get up and cook, but then I’d have to face the plates in the sink from last night. India’s plate.
Instead, I choose the laziest fucking option.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial B. C. Pizza. I don’t know what the hell those initials stand for, but they make damn good pizza and they’re open on Christmas Eve. I order two of them because who the hell knows when I’ll feel like getting up from this couch again?
Phone tossed into the cushions somewhere, I go back to trying to focus on the fucking cooking show, then abandon it after another half episode, choosing something at random from the suggestions list. It should only be another twenty minutes or so until the pizza shows up, and then I’ll stuff myself while I watch…
It doesn’t matter what I watch. All I can see is India. All I can think about is India.
My hand goes to my sweatshirt pocket where my car keys weigh down the fabric, but what am I going to do? Drive back to her house and knock on her door? Not a fucking chance. She’ll only tell me it’s not going to work, that it was never going to work, and to leave her alone on Christmas Eve. And the last people I want to see are her parents. No fucking way.
But the way she wrapped herself around me last night, the way her lips felt against my skin, the way we fit together so fucking perfectly…
I get lost in it.
I absolutely get lost in it.
When the knock on the door comes, it startles the hell out of me.
15
India
The tow truck guy is waiting by my parents’ car, hauled out on to the shoulder, when we get there. There’s a little dent up front, but otherwise it seems like the snow cushioned the blow. My dad steps out and pays him, and I unlock the doors and reach in for the ice scraper, going to work on the front windows. My dad pulls his own out of the back of his car and helps me. It takes a couple of minutes at most. Then he scans the car for any signs of damage and gives me a quick hug.
“See you back home?”
“I’ll meet you there. There’s—something I need to do first.”
My dad gives me a sly grin and heads back toward his car.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
His eyes are wide, waiting.
“Dawson’s a good guy.”
He nods, like he’s spent a long time considering this. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “You’ve always been a good judge of character.” He gives me one last smile. “See you at home, honey.”
Then he slides into the driver’s seat, turns on his blinker, and pulls out onto the empty road.
My heart thuds loudly in my ears, and I take in a deep breath, letting it out. I can’t see from here if Dawson’s car is in the driveway. But what the hell. I’m going to go anyway.
I get behind the wheel and scan the road behind me, waiting way too long to make sure it’s clear, then I pull a U-turn and steer the car down Dawson’s driveway.
As soon as I turn in, I see his car.
He’s home.
My throat goes tight. It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways, but what does that matter when you’ve spent ten years apart only to discover that what you were missing was waiting here all along?
I park carefully beside his Jeep and take one last deep, cleansing breath. I’m hot underneath the collar of my coat, and the bitter air is a balm against it. Once again, I’m wearing the damn red hat. I could have at least done something—
Well, I didn’t, so this is where we are now.
At Dawson’s front door, the chill finally registers, and even the nervous heat I’m radiating under my coat can’t fend it off. If this were the middle of the summer, I’d probably stand here for ten minutes working up the courage to knock, but it’s damn cold out and Christmas Eve, so I raise my hand to the hard surface and bring it down three times. It’s a way more chipper knock than I planned, but fine.
There’s silence from inside the house and I strain to hear any hint that he might be coming to answer the door.
It’s less than thirty seconds later when he does, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at a collection of bills and credit cards in his pocket.
“Sorry, I just realized—”
“Hi, Dawson.”
His eyes fly to my face, his forehead wrinkling in confusion, and then the blue eyes widen. “India.”
“It’s me.”
“You’re not the pizza guy.”
We’re both trying so damn hard that it just about kills me.
I raise both palms up. “No, but if you want, I could go get some.”
“I ordered two.”
“Sounds good.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I’d invite you in for some, but—”
“But I was an idiot earlier.” The words come out in a rush. I can’t wait anymore. I can’t drag this out. “I’m sorry, Dawson. It wasn’t pointless, what happened between us, and—”
He ho
lds up one hand. “Come inside. It’s freezing out there.”
I step over the threshold, desperate to keep the conversation happening. “I never forgot about you. I never did, I swear. And when I saw you outside my car window, I was so—I was so relieved, and so damn ashamed, and—”
Then Dawson’s hands are on my face and he’s pulling me in for a kiss so soft, so unbelievably tender, that I melt right into him, throwing my hands around his neck, red hat be damned, puffy coat forgotten.
The kiss lengthens, deepens. He tastes like home. He tastes like being together at every holiday. He tastes like never having to worry again.
Tears slip out from underneath my lashes. “I’m sorry,” I mumble against the side of his cheek. “I should have come after you. I should have—”
Dawson pulls back to look into my eyes, his green eyes shining. “That is pointless. Don’t think about that fucking ten years anymore. We both should have gone after each other. But luckily—” He lets out a laugh. “Luckily you crashed your damn car into my ditch.”
I laugh then, too, a lightness suffusing my entire body, and then I kiss him again, pulling him in so close.
“But seriously,” I say when we break the kiss again, gasping for air. “You could have come found me at any time. All those other men—” I shake my head. “They were worthless.”
“I’m not worthless,” Dawson says with a wicked grin. “I own a bar. You could be the bartender’s wife.”
“Whoa,” I say, opening my eyes wide. “Don’t you think you’re going a little fast?”
He doesn’t hesitate, but he also doesn’t respond like it’s a joke. “Not. At. All.”
Another deep kiss, and when we come out of this one, he threads his fingers through mine, holding my hand tight.
“So, for Christmas,” he says, taking in a deep breath. “Your place or mine?”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t care.” His tone is skeptical.
“As long as I’m with you.”
Epilogue
Dawson
One year later
“I look like an idiot.”
India looks up at me, absolute perfection as always. Her shining dark hair falls in a straight, shining sheet down her back, and she’s wearing a sneak peacoat over an outfit that can’t help but drive me wild. Everything she wears drives me wild, even after a year together. I can’t wait until the spring when we’ll finally be married, and I can tell everyone in the world that she’s my wife.
“You look great.”
I’m wearing a brand new pair of jeans and an honest-to-God sweater. India spent an hour picking it out, and I don’t hate it, it’s just weird as hell to be wearing something that screams out married man as a sweater.
I would have sneered at being married at age twenty. Now, standing next to India, I feel slightly uncomfortable in the damn sweater, but totally confident in the idea of marrying her.
She raises her hand and presses the doorbell, and the door swings open almost instantly, like they’ve been waiting inside.
“India!” cries her mother, pulling her in for a hug. “And Dawson!” She hugs me without hesitation. “We’re so glad you could make it up.”
“No snow yet,” I say with a dashing smile. “Sunny skies.”
“A damn green Christmas,” thunders India’s dad good-naturedly. Something relaxes in my shoulders and I didn’t even realize I was tense.
There are other people waiting inside—aunts and uncles, a few teenaged cousins, and they’re all happy to see India. The house smells like cookies and Christmas dinner—ham, probably, and mashed potatoes. There’s plenty of chatter, and I sit on the couch with India, my arm around her shoulder, fucking buzzing with a happy kind of deja vu, even though we’ve never spent a Christmas together before.
Not like this one.
Last year was hot, for fucking sure, but it was a hasty visit to her parents’, another hasty visit to my dad’s, stumbling over explanations and a story we hadn’t quite worked out yet.
This year feels…normal.
The doorbell rings again, and India’s mom leaps up from her seat next to the fireplace, her dad hurrying out for the kitchen, and they open the door wide to let my father and a couple of his friends in. My dad looks nervous, cheeks pink, smile wide, and my heart pinches in my chest. I’m the next person to shake his hand, to welcome him into the living room.
“Fancy,” he mutters to me under his breath, and I hear the question in his voice.
“They’re not like that.”
It’s true. India’s parents might have been a little higher on the social ladder than my dad, but they spend the entire afternoon making everyone feel right at home. It’s a far cry from those minutes I spend standing outside on the porch, trying to convince India that she was making a mistake.
I’ll never have to do that again.
After dinner, overstuffed with food, India pulls on her coat and whispers in my ear that she wants to walk around the block.
The night is cold and clear, glittering stars blanketing the sky, and I walk with her gloved hand in mine.
“That was good,” I say, and there’s not a trace of sarcasm. I’m all sincerity this Christmas.
“Yeah,” she says with a grin. “It was good. But I’m glad to be leaving on Sunday.”
It’s Friday.
“Why?”
“To get back to our bed.”
My cock gets hard at just the slightest suggestion.
“I can’t either.”
“Leaving” means heading back downstate, to the house we share there. India’s a rising star at her job, and there are bars to be started just about everywhere, so I hired a management team for this one and still make a good amount off of it.
It feels fucking great to be out of this town, to finally feel like I’m not trapped here anymore with the ghosts of rejections past.
“My mom’s over the moon,” she says, after we’ve gone another few paces, looking at the decorations in people’s yards.
“Yeah? Do you guys have wedding stuff planned for tomorrow?”
India rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling while she does it. “A full day. But you don’t have to be stuck with my dad, if you don’t want to be.”
“I won’t be.”
She laughs.
“My dad wants to take a trip to Johnsfield in the morning. Your dad can come, too, if he wants.”
It almost feels unnatural, this easy invitation, but it’s getting there. It’s definitely getting there.
We’re almost all the way around the block, a few houses down from India’s, and she slips her hand around my waist, stopping us in the middle of the sidewalk and pulling me close.
“Hey,” I say into her hair. “What’s up?”
“I just love you. I’m—I’m so glad I went to the store last Christmas Eve. It was worth the risk.”
“I almost agree with you. Except I’d like it if you never drove to the store again.”
“Same to you, buddy.”
We both laugh, and I hold her tight, then put a finger under her chin and raise her face to mine, kissing her deeply. When we finally break apart, her eyes are shining.
“You ready to go back in?”
“As long as I’m with you.”
“You’re too kind.”
“You’re too perfect.”
She squeezes my hand, and tugs me along with her. “Let’s remember that forever, okay?”
“Forever sounds great to me.”
More from Yours Truly
Single Dad’s Waitress
“You love being dirty like this, don’t you?”
She opens her eyes wide, her hands sliding up to brace against my shoulders. She’s trembling so hard now that I have to lower my hand to her back, hold her in place. I don’t stop running my fingers over her hot slit for a second. We can talk all she wants. I’m going to keep up this rhythm until she explodes.
“Yes.” The word is a whisper
that goes straight to the center of me.
I turn her head to the side so I can growl into her ear. “You’re not an innocent little waitress after all.”
“I’m not,” she says, and her breath hitches. “I’m so scared someone might see us—”
“You love the thought of being seen like this, with your legs spread wide for me, with my hand stroking that sweet pussy. You love it.” Valentine tenses. She’s right on the edge. “Say it for me, love. Say it.”
“I love it.” She cries the words into the night air, and I take the opportunity to thrust two fingers into her opening, my thumb circling her clit.
I feel Valentine start to come, her muscles clenching around my fingers, and I brace for the wave to hit.
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Books by Amelia Wilde
The Cash Brothers Series
Hard Cash
The Endless Kiss Series
Reckless Kiss
Fearless Kiss
Shameless Kiss
Ruthless Kiss
Priceless Kiss
The Second Chances Series
Slow Burn: Boxed Set
—Individual Titles—
Never His
Only His
Always His
The Dirty Series
Complete Dirty Series: Boxed Set
—Individual Titles—
Dirty Rich
Dirty Royal
Dirty Rogue
Dirty Ransom
Dirty Rumor
Crossover Novels
Reckless Falls Kiss (with Vivian Lux)
Standalone Novels
Heavy: A Second Chance Romance
Single Dad’s Waitress
Cover Design: Booming Covers
© 2016, 2017 Amelia Wilde
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