Merry Inkmas: A BWWM Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  Chapter Twenty

  Cash had the best sleep of his life in Bailey’s arms. When he awoke the next morning, he found the room bathed in a pale light that reflected his mood perfectly. Peace reigned, from the winter sun streaming in through the windows to the light tapping of computer keys coming from the chair in the corner of the room.

  Until the tapping turned faster, sharper, more irritable. He opened his eyes just as taps turned to slaps. Bailey was curled up in the armchair, smacking at her laptop, frustration all over her face.

  “What’s up?” Cash frowned. She looked up at him, and he was alarmed to see tears gleaming in her dark eyes.

  “My laptop’s fucked. And I think I just lost the last two thousand words of my dissertation.”

  “Shit.” He got up out of bed, barely noticing the fact that he was still naked. The two of them had stayed up late into the night, exploring each other’s bodies in both desire and innocence, running through the box of condoms like they were going out of style. He’d been hoping for more of the same this morning, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. Bailey looked ready to throw something or burst into tears, and neither of those options sounded good to him.

  “Hey,” he soothed, kneeling before her and pulling the clunky old laptop from her hands. “Don’t worry. You have plenty of time, right? Your deadline’s not for months.”

  She sniffed. “How do you know that?”

  “I do listen when you talk, you know.”

  “I never told you that,” she insisted.

  He winced. “Yeah. I listen when you talk, but you’re not always talking to me.”

  At least that admission, embarrassing as it was, shocked the misery off of her face. She giggled slightly, pressing her hand to his cheek, and he let himself sink into the touch. She was wearing one of his T-shirts, and, he suspected, a pair of his boxers. Despite himself, he felt his cock harden.

  She looked down and arched a brow. “Seriously?”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Are you?”

  “Stop,” she laughed. But then her expression sobered. “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m gonna do about my laptop.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Right. Well, I wouldn’t worry about that too much.”

  “How can I not?!” She shook her head frantically, dislodging her glasses. He pushed them safely back up her nose and was rewarded with a glare.

  “Just… Hang on,” he sighed, getting up. While she grumbled under her breath, he went over to the wardrobe, where he’d dumped their luggage last night. He unzipped his suitcase—yes, he’d brought a suitcase, but in his defence, it was 80% presents—and pulled out the biggest box. Just like the rest, it was wrapped in brown paper that he’d picked up from the post office. But this one had a red ribbon around it, tied in as close an approximation of a bow as he could manage.

  He returned to Bailey’s little corner of the room, putting the box in her lap. “Here you go,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

  She pursed her lips. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Merry early Christmas.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it and found out.”

  She winced. “It’s not expensive, is it?”

  “Come on, woman. Open the bloody present.”

  “It’s not a laptop, is it? Please tell me it’s not a laptop.”

  “It’s not a laptop,” he said. She gave him a hard look, but then cracked a smile and pulled off the ribbon, tearing into the paper with barely-disguised glee.

  “Oh, my God. Cash! You said it wasn’t a laptop!” He watched as Bailey gaped at the box in her lap, smoothing her fingers over the picture on the front.

  “It’s not,” he said smugly. “It’s a MacBook.”

  “A MacBook is a laptop.”

  “Nope. A MacBook is a MacBook.”

  She smacked the back of his head lightly. “Stop that. I can’t accept—“

  “What you can’t do is reject a Christmas present, you ungrateful wench,” he teased.

  “But—”

  “Bailey. Come on. You said it yourself; you need something to work on. And I don’t want you using a piece of crap that loses your work. Although,” he added with a grin, “that’s really your own fault. You should save it to a memory stick every few hundred words.”

  “You’re insufferable,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. But her fingers curled around the edges of the box, and she looked down at it with a mixture of awe and pleasure in her eyes. “I just… This is really thoughtful of you, Cash.” She laughed suddenly. “The present I got you is kind of terrible in comparison.”

  “Impossible,” he said, standing up. “If it’s from you, I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

  “That’s a very sweet thing to say.” She squinted up at him mockingly. “Actually, are you feeling okay? You’re being unbelievably pleasant this morning.”

  “Yep. Cuz I finally got you into bed.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her up, into his body. Then he reached around her and squeezed her arse hungrily. “You should come back and top me up before the effects wear off.”

  She tutted, rolling her eyes at him. But she followed him willingly as he walked backwards to the bed, their bodies tangling together. And she kissed him happily as he pulled down the boxers she was wearing. And she moaned for him five minutes later.

  So he guessed she didn’t really mind.

  ∞∞∞

  “Will!” Monroe hollered. “Play nicely! Are you listening to me?”

  Will took the toy car off of his little brother’s head with a guilty pout. “Yes, Mum.”

  “I don’t know why you cluck over them, sweetheart,” said Karen. “When you and your brother were little you’d stuff rocks up his nose and all sorts.”

  Monroe gave her mother a horrified look. Cash shared an amused glance with Bailey, who was sitting on the carpet with the kids, but doing little to temper the… Enthusiasm of their play. Turned out she was a total pushover. George, who was tapping away at both a laptop and a tablet at once, grunted something that might have been a laugh.

  As the sun sank into the trees, the living room became a breathing embodiment of Christmas Eve. They’d spent the day playing hide and seek in the huge, icy garden—which George was especially good at—and then his mum and Bailey had done some baking with the boys after lunch. Now every belly was full, yet homemade gingerbread remained piled on the coffee table. The TV was on, playing a Shrek film that the boys had insisted be recorded—but of course, they weren’t watching it at all. The fire crackled, the kids bickered, as did Cash’s mother and sister.

  And his woman sat there in the middle of it all, exactly where he wanted her.

  She caught him staring, gave him a shy smile. “What?” She asked, pushing her glasses up her nose.

  “You look beautiful,” he told her, his voice low.

  Her smile widened, and she looked down, letting her hair swing over her face. He liked that. He liked making her shy, and he liked making her smile.

  So fucking much.

  “I’m very pleased for you, Cash,” George said suddenly.

  “You are?” Cash grinned at his baffling brother-in-law, though the man hadn’t looked up from his glowing computer screens. “Why’s that?”

  “Roe has always been worried that you would close yourself off completely. But now you are in love, just like us.”

  Cash stared. His mouth became dry, and sound filtered into his ears as though through a tunnel. The kids, the TV, whatever his sister was currently saying to George—it all faded into the background. And all he saw was Bailey’s shocked face, as though he’d zoomed in on her like a picture on a screen.

  Then, all at once, every sense returned, slapping him in the face with their intensity. Just in time for him to hear himself say: “I’m not in love with Bailey.”

  Silence fell. Actual silence. It was broken only by the sound of Shrek grousing at Donkey on the T
V. Funny, really; irreverence was the backing track to what felt like the heaviest moment of his life.

  Bailey looked like she’d been slapped. All the warmth fled her skin, as though the blood had drained from her face.

  Cash stood, panic descending like a mist.

  “Really?” George asked, clearly confused. “Because I was quite sure—”

  “Shut up,” Monroe hissed. Then she stood up too and clapped her hands. “Time for bed, boys!” She trilled, her voice reaching a decibel that would do their mother proud.

  Oh, fuck. Mum. She was right there, staring at him with disappointment in her eyes.

  And what the fuck was he supposed to do with that? Disappointment for what? He’d done everything right, everything he could to avoid turning out like the monster who’d fathered him. He wasn’t going to risk it all now, just for a woman whose touch was pure sunlight. He was stronger than that. This was strength.

  “But it’s not even late!” Will was moaning.

  “Do as your mother says,” George told him. As though everything was fine. As though Cash’s world wasn’t splintering.

  “I’m not in love with Bailey,” he said again, his voice vehement.

  Monroe turned to glare at him. “I think we heard you the first time!” She snapped.

  But he barely noticed her. He focused on Bailey’s face, on the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. And he saw the exact moment when she reigned them in, when she set her jaw and straightened her spine and locked him out of her heart forever.

  And he had no idea why the sight felt like a death.

  He looked to the right, where his mother remained—for once in her life—stonily silent, and then to the left where George—fucking George—continued to frown at him sceptically. And panic continued to claw at his throat, drawing blood.

  “I… I have to go,” he choked out. He pushed past his sister and his nephews on their way out of the living room, stumbled into the hall. Had enough presence of mind to shove on his boots and grab a coat. Then he unlocked the front door and stepped out into the icy evening.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bailey shoved her ancient laptop into her holdall with shaking hands. It took three tries, but she finally forced the wide, plastic carcass past the zipper of the bag. Her breath was fast and laboured, as if she’d just run a mile—but she hadn’t run at all. No; she’d left the living room and climbed each flight of stairs at a sedate pace, as though she were a duchess and not an interloper who’d just been quite firmly put in her place.

  Shit.

  Releasing a long, shaking sigh, she sat down heavily on the bed. The bed where just last night, she’d allowed herself to believe that she’d found an impossible man. A man who was capable of real partnership.

  Of real love.

  She should never have judged her mother. But Bailey hadn’t realised just how convincing men could be. How they could speak with a look, with a touch, and then open their mouths and bring the fantasy crashing down.

  Fuck, Cash had been clear from the start. He’d told her exactly what he wanted. She’d agreed! And still, she ended up ascribing impossible values to intangible things. Ended up developing feelings, for Christ’s sake. She’d made a damned fool of herself, and she deserved the humiliation.

  But she didn’t have to like it.

  With a huff of disgust, Bailey tore off her glasses, swiping angrily at the tears that threatened to overflow from her lashes. Was she a child to tantrum over rejection? Her own mother had handled divorces with more dignity than this.

  Clutching that thought tightly to her heart, Bailey took a deep breath. Then another, and another, until the shard of ice in her chest felt like nothing more than a splinter. She cleaned her glasses on the bed sheet and pushed them back into place, then tied her locs up neatly.

  There. Now she was being sensible. Now she was in control.

  First things first: she had no ride. If she wanted to leave, that meant ordering a taxi to the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve. And she was pretty sure that Uber wouldn’t be an option.

  Okay, so she’d Google it. The price would be astronomical, but she had some savings. Humiliated flight from her boss’s family home wasn’t exactly what she’d intended to use those savings for, but whatever.

  Her movements calmer now, Bailey stood and went over to the little pile of luggage Cash had left by the wardrobe. Between their busy night and a day spent entertaining the kids, they hadn’t really had time to unpack. Her mother would’ve called that a sign.

  Some of their things had been pulled out and left on top of the pile, though, and Bailey spied one of her favourite cardigans amongst the mess. She wasn’t about to leave that behind, or anything else; if he had to return any of her things at work, she’d die of mortification.

  God, work. She’d have to see him every day. Everyone would want to know how their Christmas went. Of course, that was assuming he wouldn’t sack her, after this mess. But he’d never do something like that.

  Would he?

  Bailey flicked through her mental Rolodex of men, the archetypes she’d created through years of watching her mother’s mistakes. For what felt like the thousandth time, she tried to figure out exactly what kind of man Cash Evans really was.

  There was the Roger: a guy who was looking for a trophy, a badge of honour, another enviable possession for his collection.

  That wasn’t Cash. If it was, he’d hardly go for a girl like her.

  Okay. The Paul: a mess of a man whose big dreams were eclipsed only by his sense of entitlement. Work was for others; rewards were his due. Probably called his bedmates Mummy. Thought ‘girlfriend’ was code for ‘live-in maid’ and ‘wife’ was code for ‘slave’.

  But Cash didn’t fit that mould either.

  Who else?

  The Mike: desperate to be loved—not to love in return, but to feel like he was worth something. Charming one minute, hateful the next. Every insult he sent your way was originally meant for himself. Toxic to the core. Needed a punching bag with a pussy.

  Was that Cash? The man who’d spent all day playing tirelessly with his nephews, the man who worshipped his mother in his own quiet way and loved his sister so dearly?

  She was starting to think that he didn’t fit into any of her categories. In fact, the more she considered the man she’d come to know, the more she thought that he might simply be… Good.

  Good, and not at all in love with her. Obviously.

  Irritated, Bailey tugged roughly at the sleeve of her cardigan, hanging out from beneath all their other luggage. It came loose—and pulled down the whole pile of stuff with it. For fuck’s sake.

  She knelt on the floor and picked everything up. It was mostly Cash’s: his clothes, the box of condoms they’d almost emptied—she felt her cheeks heat up and hated herself for it. And—what was this?

  His sketchbook. No—not the kind she’d seen before, the kind he left lying around the shop and bought in bulk because he went through them so fast. This one was smaller, heavier, bound in buttery leather. A loose sheaf of pages hung from its edge—they must have been dislodged when everything fell. Bailey picked up the book with brisk hands, pushing the loose pages back in.

  But then her gaze caught on a slice of familiarity, cast in black Biro. The corner of a smile, the edge of a thick pair of glasses, a few long locs.

  That was her. Cash had drawn her.

  She eased the paper slowly out from the sketchbook’s embrace, her heart pounding. She shouldn’t be doing this. It felt like reading somebody’s diary. A small part of her brain said Fuck him, anyway! But most of her was horrified at her own audacity. Not to mention her weakness. She shouldn’t want to look inside his head--she shouldn’t even want to look at him.

  The page slid free and she came face to face with herself, and her doubts disappeared. She simply didn’t have room for them anymore.

  God, he was talented. She hadn’t known that he could do this—portraiture, and so realistic, too
. The drawing took up the whole page; just her, smiling at nothing, wearing one of her Christmas jumpers, the one with the snowflake pattern. The image was cut off just below her chest, but that was enough to recognise her clothing. In the corner, he’d written: Bailey, life, 16/12/17.

  She turned the page over. There was more.

  This side featured multiple drawings, much smaller than the other one, and more cartoon-like in style. There were four, and she was in all of them. But she wasn’t always alone.

  In the first, she was drawn from above, lying down in bed. Naked. She remembered his words the night before: I always see you naked, when I dream of you. Her locs were arranged into heart-shapes that fanned out around her head, scattered with roses. The sight made her smile. Then she wiped her expression clean. No smiling. No softening. No weakness.

  In the second ,she was another version of herself, a winged version whose hair rose about her head in a maelstrom, with terrible eyes and a wicked smile, wearing a gown that looked like a dark wedding dress.

  In the third, she was her usual self, clad in jeans and a jumper, but she held hands with someone whose body was just out of frame. Only their forearm was visible. A forearm decorated in familiar ink, tentacles wrapping around its wrist.

  In the fourth, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. There was a smiling, curly-haired toddler in her lap.

  She stared at the fourth picture for a long time. A long, long time.

  Then she opened the sketchbook.

  Bailey, life, 21/12/17. Bailey, 17/12/17. Bailey, life, 12/12/17. She worked back from the middle to the front

  09/12/17.

  28/11/17.

  20/11/17.

  Bailey, life, 30/10/17.

  What the fuck? In these images, she was in the coffee shop, her sleeves rolled up and her hair in a bun, steaming milk or stacking mugs or serving a customer.

  He’d been drawing her since the coffee shop?

  She flicked to the very first page. It was a quick sketch of she and Tara, laughing together behind the counter. Labelled Coffee Girl, life, 12/10/2017. In bold, block caps beneath the label, Cash had written: TOMORROW, FIND OUT HER NAME.