Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

by M. Robinson

  I close my eyes.

  Stagger backward on weakened legs.

  Just before I turn away, I meet those golden eyes one last time over my shoulder. Reid Paxton stands with one hand braced against the wall, his cheeks flushed color. He looks like a man holding on to a single thread of control when it’s a battle he has no hope of winning. The outline of his still-hard cock against the seam of his slacks is blatant, and my mouth goes dry. Would he growl my name if I dropped to my knees for him? Does he even care that he’s turned my world upside down and shattered every illusion that I’ve ever erected?

  “Ask me if I hate you,” I whisper.

  The fingers pressed against the wall curl into a fist. “Do you hate me?”

  “No, Reid.” A sob threatens to choke me. “I hate myself so much more.”

  Chapter Four

  Laela

  “I made a mistake.”

  Seated at her office computer with views of Central Park behind her, Stassi glances up at me with a scowl. “Pretty sure that you don’t ever make mistakes.”

  “Clearly, there’s a first time for everything.”

  Shoving away from the door, I cross the room and collapse into the chair opposite my sister. Damp snow still shimmers like dewdrops in her chestnut hair from her walk to work, and I try to summon some guilt for bombarding her this early in the morning but come up blank. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.

  Because it’s been the two of us against the world for as long as I can remember, I don’t bother asking for permission before swiping her coffee off the desk. The hot brew scalds my tongue, and I don’t know what it says about me that I eagerly welcome the burn with a hiss of gratitude. Coffee might not fix everything but the sting of pain does what forty-eight hours of pacing back and forth in my apartment couldn’t—it briefly erases the memory of Reid.

  “For the record,” Stassi says, tightening her bouncy ponytail like she’s mentally shoring herself up for my emotional purge, “I told you not to go.”

  I set the thermos down on the desk. “Lucian asked me.”

  “He asked me, too. But like I told him, I’d rather stab myself with a paperclip—repeatedly.”

  Morbid curiosity prompts me to ask, “In the eye?”

  Stassi doesn’t even blink. “Both eyes.”

  “The horror.”

  A wide grin splits across my sister’s face at my less-than-subtle sarcasm. Despite everything, I grin back at her—before taking another sip of her scalding coffee.

  I don’t remember a time when Anastasia Donna wasn’t my best friend. At twenty-nine and thirty-two, respectively, she inherited Dad’s olive skin and dark hair while I’ve always been a near-spitting image of our Irish mother. Physically, Stassi and I are completely mismatched. Tall against short, willowy instead of curvy. Side by side, no one would ever mistake us for siblings. In our hearts, though, my younger sister has always been the other half of my soul.

  Which is why I don’t evade her touch when she brushes her forefinger over my cheek with a gentleness that just might shatter me. “You haven’t slept,” she says softly.

  I haven’t slept.

  I’ve barely bothered to eat.

  I can still feel him. Still taste him on my lips like a curse that I have no hope of ever breaking. Why would he . . . Why couldn’t he have—

  With a harsh exhale, I kick off my stilettos and draw my feet onto the chair like I used to do as a little girl. Only in those days, Mama was still alive to pull me in for a tight hug whenever my mood turned sour. Her hugs were only ever second to Dad’s, whose broad chest soaked up countless tears from me and Stassi as kids. When I saw him on the last day of the trial, there’d been no more tears left to cry.

  “Laels?”

  “I emailed someone I shouldn’t have.”

  Stassi reclines in her chair and watches me steadily, her brows furrowed.

  I don’t know what she sees in my face—want and need and debilitating lust, maybe—and I fight the urge to squirm under the weight of her gaze. “I was angry, that first time. So fucking angry and all I wanted was to pin the blame on anyone else but Dad. Obviously, it all had to be a mistake. A lie.”

  And it was a lie, just not one told by Reid or the various witnesses who took to the stand or the jury who ruled unanimously that Guglielmo Donna was guilty of kidnapping and murdering the wife of the Fifth Circuit of Appeals judge in New Orleans, on a hot and humid summer night. We still have no idea why he pulled the trigger or dumped her body in the Mississippi River, only that he did.

  “It was a mistake,” I utter raggedly. “What I did—reaching out to him like that—was a mistake.”

  My sister audibly swallows. “Laela . . .”

  “He shouldn’t have replied. I shouldn’t have fought back.” Releasing a bitter laugh, I link my arms around my bent legs and lower my chin onto my right knee. “It was a battle of the wills from the start with words that felt like weapons. I wanted to hurt him for having hurt us, and I was so blinded by pain that I couldn’t even see that he’d done nothing at all. But there I was, coming back again and again for more, because somewhere in all the mess, he offered something dark and twisted that felt like it had the power to drown me, if I let it.” If I let him.

  I think of his hand on my throat.

  Without thinking, I trace a small, lazy circle over my pulse at the base of my neck.

  It doesn’t feel the same.

  Nor does he look the same. His jaw is clean-shaven, unlike before, and his hair is dark and unruly instead of blond and trimmed neatly against his skull. For almost two years now, I’ve carried with me the memory of him standing on my father’s doorstep, FBI badge flipping open to show his credentials when he asked to speak with Dad.

  Reid Paxton is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  That hasn’t changed.

  Stassi reaches for her coffee. “Is this guy married?”

  “No.”

  “Is he sitting behind bars and looking for a get out of jail free card?”

  Throat tight, I shake my head.

  “Then I don’t see the problem. You like him? Go for it. Does it really matter how it all started if he’s got you flustered like a—”

  “It’s Reid Paxton,” I manage thickly, unable to meet her gaze and witness the judgment sure to be waiting for me there. “The FBI agent who was in charge of Dad’s arraignment.”

  The temperature in the room drops by several degrees.

  “I hated him.” The admission escapes me, hot and angry. “You have to believe me. I wouldn’t . . . There’s no way that I would ever—” Want him.

  Except that I did, didn’t I?

  I fell into his arms and didn’t even shove him away when recognition finally struck just before I came all over his fingers. All my life, I’ve always been in control. I do the right thing and never step out of line. And yet, for eighteen months, one week, and five long days, stone-cold Laela Donna has taken a back seat for a woman who feels too much, all at once.

  Panic pricks my lungs, and I hear myself breathe, “I hate him, Stass. I promise that I do.” Her silence speaks louder than words ever could.

  Which means that I’m left to sit alone with my fear that she’ll never forgive me, as well as my heart-wrenching guilt that if Dad were to discover that his daughter messed around with the agent who officially locked him up, I’ll be disowned. Losing BellaDonna wouldn’t be the end of the world, not for me. It’s a legacy I’ve worked damn hard to see last for yet another generation but it’s never been my dream. No, my fear is that Dad will never speak with me again.

  Murderer or not, he’s all Stassi and I have left.

  Tugging on her ponytail, my sister presses her lips together. “Did you see him—Paxton, I mean? Is that what’s brought all this on?” She waves at me like it’s explanation enough.

  “At the gala,” I answer. “He didn’t give me his name.”

  “And?”

  “He’s magnetic, Stass,�
�� I confess on a shaky breath. “Powerful in a way that has nothing to do with class or money. It’s his self-restraint, I think. How he can hold out his hand and tempt me to throw caution to the wind. There’s something about him . . .”

  I swallow, hard.

  Until Reid, I’ve never kept a secret from Stassi. What started out as an attempt to bulldoze my way into gaining information about Dad’s arrest, when no one would tell us anything, became something else entirely.

  Clutching my knees to my chest, I let the pieces fall where they may. “When Reid Paxton looks at me, I fear I’ll go wherever he leads.”

  She lowers her gaze to the thermos and fiddles with the plastic rim. I don’t know what to say to make this nightmare better, if I even can. While Reid didn’t promise to call when I ran out on him two nights ago, I know that I won’t be able to avoid him forever. Just like I can’t keep hiding from the world.

  My father is a lying, scheming rat.

  The sooner I accept it, the sooner we can all move forward.

  Dropping my feet to the ground, I splay my fingers wide across each thigh. “I know you’re probably disappointed and angry. Or just plain confused but—”

  “He came here on Friday.”

  My head snaps up. “What?”

  Stassi pushes the coffee aside. “We were getting ready to close for the night and he showed up, asking to speak with you. I didn’t recognize him at first, not without the”—she gestures at her jaw—“but I sent him packing the minute he introduced himself. It was petty of me, I’ll admit. Totally immature. He was only doing his job when he came to transport Dad to New Orleans, just like we all have shit to do around here that we can’t stand.”

  My heart leaps to my throat. “You told him that I’d be at the Morellis’?”

  “No.” She shakes her head with a wry laugh. “Pretty sure he saw the invitation plastered to the computer up front and took matters into his own hands.”

  But why be in New York at all? From what I’ve gathered, he doesn’t have any business in the Northeast, unless . . . Unless he told the truth when he said that he came to the gala to find me. Because, despite everything, he cares.

  I’m halfway to the door, stilettos abandoned by the desk, when Stassi calls out, “Wait. Where the hell are you—?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Well, clearly.” Stassi shoves to her feet. “But where—”

  “I just . . .” I back up, banging into the doorframe in my haste to leave. “I have to go. Don’t wait for me.”

  “Laela! Dammit. Don’t just take off!”

  It’s too late.

  A second later, I’m already gone.

  Chapter Five

  Reid

  New York City is a goddamn nightmare during the holidays.

  Cabbies nearly clipping pedestrians like it’s a sadistic game of cat and mouse while tourists spill down narrow, cracked sidewalks, elbows jabbing all over the place as they oooh and aaah over the twinkling Rockefeller Christmas tree. Which doesn’t explain why I’m willing to risk freezing my nuts off for something that’s sure to end in misery.

  I stare at the ice rink and feel my brows lower mutinously.

  Closest I’ve ever come to skating has been on a pair of rollerblades. Much as I’d like to think that the two are compatible experiences, there’s a solid chance that I’ll end up on my ass while some toddler breezes past me, looking like Wayne Gretzky in a unicorn onesie.

  “Fuck it,” I grunt, shoving my thickly socked foot into a pair of battered skates. I’ve got another seven hours to kill before my flight takes off for New Orleans, and I might as well spend it eating a slice of humble pie.

  Anything to keep from thinking about Laela.

  Gritting my teeth, I lace up the ties, then tug off the rubber skate guards, tossing them aside. At this time of day, Bryant Park is relatively empty. A few families skate on the far end, near the New York Public Library, while a man tugs his partner along behind him, their gloved hands clasped together as he tries to keep the shorter guy from sprawling on his face.

  Looks like I’ll be in good company, at least.

  I shove off the cold bench and hobble awkwardly toward the rink, not the least bit ashamed of the way I cling to the waist-high Plexiglas like I’m a newborn fawn trying to find my legs. Born-and-bred New Orleanians aren’t meant to walk on ice. It goes against the laws of physics, the very rules of nature, and here I am, living life on the fucking edge.

  This is going to be a disaster.

  With a silent prayer, I lift one foot to set it down on the ice when I feel my cell vibrate in my back pocket—thank fuck. Reaching for it, I’m suddenly knocked aside with a gruff, “Hey, watch where you’re standing, asshole!”

  Any other day, I may have gone out of my way to put the bastard in his place. In these skates, though, I’m more likely to eat shit before I even get close enough to put my hands on him. If my rank could see me now, they’d never let me live this down.

  Shuffling aside, so that I’m not blocking the entryway to the rink, I grab my phone and answer without looking at the screen. “Paxton.”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  “Laela.” My voice is too low, too hoarse. Allowing my eyes to slam shut, I lean against the Plexiglas and press a hand to my chest, to the heart that’s lurching wildly behind bone and muscle. “I didn’t expect to hear from—”

  “Sometimes I think that people are put in our path for a reason,” she says, the words rushing out of her like she’s desperate to make them be heard, “and it doesn’t matter how much we fight it. If they’re meant to be ours, they always will be.”

  Beneath my palm, the hammering of my heart doesn’t settle down. “What are you trying to say? That—”

  “I can think of a hundred different reasons to walk away from you, Reid Paxton.”

  Fire burns hot and livid in my blood. “Then walk, sweetheart. You want to tear me a new one for lying to you at the gala? I’ll sit here and take every goddamn lash. But what I’m not going to do is—”

  “And six hundred and seventy-three to stay.”

  “What?”

  “Six hundred and seventy-three emails, Reid. I can ask myself . . .” She swallows audibly, and I can almost see her clutching the phone, her dark red hair whipping around her in the December breeze. “I can ask myself why I never walked away but maybe—maybe I should have been asking myself instead why I stayed.”

  The cold weather is hell on my lungs, and yet I don’t move a single muscle, too fearful that if I do, she might stop talking. “You hate me,” I hear myself rasp.

  “Do I?” Her laugh is sweet and brittle, all at once. “Because I just spent the last two hours reading every email that we’ve ever exchanged, and that hate . . . it burned away months ago. I wrote to you when I was alone in my apartment, the silence damn near suffocating, and I wrote to you when I was in a room so packed that I could barely hear myself think. I wrote when I was sick and I wrote when I felt guilty over being happy, because how can I be when the man who raised me is locked up?”

  I drag in a lungful of air. “It’s not on you. What he did, sweetheart, it’s not on you.”

  “You told me that, too.”

  “Because it’s true. You aren’t your father’s sins.”

  “Why did you come to New York?”

  Swallowing roughly, I glance over my shoulder to sweep my gaze over Bryant Park. Laughter rings in the air. Everywhere I look, there’s happiness and a fuck ton of Christmas cheer. Maybe their lives are a little bleaker at home. Maybe the edges of that happiness are singed with despair or grief. But here, for a few minutes, at least, they can bury the sadness and remember what it’s like to hold joy in the palm of their hands.

  “Reid?” she prompts in a soft, aching voice that guts me.

  “I wanted to hold you.”

  Her sharp inhale is loud, vulnerable.

  “I wanted to stop living minute by minute, just waiting for your name to pop up on m
y screen. I—” Breaking off, I clear my throat but the dryness doesn’t leave. “I wanted—want—more, Laela. And I knew that if I stood even half a chance at making you mine, I’d have to do it in person where you could see that I’m not—”

  “You aren’t the enemy,” she whispers.

  “You thought so once.”

  “I was angry and hurt, and I should never have said those things to you.”

  “And I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you not recognizing me. It wasn’t right.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Fuck, Laela, it wasn’t right.”

  “I felt you right from the start, I think.” Over the line, I hear the squall of a cab honking. “You looked at me like you knew me, like I was yours. It was . . . You made me feel like I was alive, Reid. Like I’d finally stepped out of the shadows to feel the sun on my face.”

  Fuck.

  Raking my fingers through my hair, I tear away from the Plexiglas and nearly wipe out on my way back to the bench. In record time, I wrestle off the skates and pull my heavy boots back on. I need her in my arms. I need her mouth on mine and her skin under my palms and—

  “Where are you?” I growl.

  “At BellaDonna.”

  Bryant Park’s rink attendant flashes me a look of surprise when I practically hurl the skates at him, but it’s too late to apologize for being a mannerless bastard because I’ve already turned away. “I’m stealing you from work,” I tell Laela, flagging down a cab when I hit the crosswalk and immediately climbing in. “Put a Do Not Disturb sign on your office door. Close the blinds. Whatever the hell you have to do, you’re mine in ten—”

  “You’re ridiculously neat as a guest, by the way. I probably should have expected that since you practically scream law and order.”

  The words hit me.

  Then register.

  My cock hardens to steel in my jeans, and I can’t stop myself from putting a palm flat on my thigh. Dig my fingers into the muscle to alleviate the sudden tension boiling to life in my veins. “You sittin’ on my bed, sweetheart?”