Christmas and Cannolis

by Peggy Jaeger

  “Maybe.” I brought a box of cookies I’d made the day before to the table, took one and offered him the box. “I have an aunt. Aunt Gracie. She’s not my flesh and blood aunt, really my mother’s sister-in-law’s sister. Follow?”

  “Got it.”

  “Afterward, months later after Angie was…buried, when I was able to function again, Aunt Gracie said something to me that I’d never considered. Something that made me feel guilty about the incident with Mendelsohn.”

  “What?”

  “She said he probably acted the way he did, cold and detached, because he dealt with dying children every day. No one gets better at Pearl’s Place, she said. It’s the place sick kids go to die. Their last stop before Heaven. He probably acted the way he did because if he ever really thought about it, he wouldn’t be able to cope, to function, to do his job. Who would, she asked, knowing that every day when you went to work you couldn’t prevent a child from dying? You had to watch them and their families suffer, knowing the ultimate end was always the same. That had to weigh on his soul. Heavily.”

  “I think she’s right.”

  “I do, too. When I saw him tonight, I should have gone up to him to apologize, not run away like a coward.”

  “I don’t think that word can be used to describe you, Regina.” He squeezed my hand and stood, still holding it. He squatted down in front of me and took my other hand. “You’re the strongest, bravest woman I think I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m not brave.”

  “You are. You could have told me to go to Hell when you found out why I wanted the cake made, what it was for. Said ‘no way’ and then kicked me out the door. But you didn’t. You agreed, even knowing how much it might dredge up old and horrible memories. That’s brave in my book. In anyone’s.”

  I wanted to believe that, I really did. I’d tried to tell myself the reason I’d agreed to make the cake in the first place was because I knew it was time to move on from it all. To try and forget.

  Memories can’t be lost, though, just tucked away until something comes along to spark them to life again.

  Connor tugged on my hands, bringing me to my feet. As he stared down at me, he wound his arms around my waist and pulled me up against him.

  “Thank you for telling me. All of it.”

  “I’m so sorry I ran out on you. I promised to stick around and help. Now, in addition to feeling like a fool for letting my emotions get the better of me, I feel guilty I left you to take care of it.”

  “Like I said, no worries there.” One corner of his lips pulled up. “Sharla and Mary, willingly helped by Uncle Aiden, took care of it along with the staff. The cake, like I knew it would be, was a huge hit. Before it was cut and served, every phone in the place was aimed at it snapping pictures. Don’t be surprised if you start trending on social media tomorrow.”

  For the first time in hours, I smiled. Really smiled. Just being with him seemed to chase all the sadness, all the worry, away.

  “There it is,” Connor said, his voice low, pleasure flowing through it.

  This time I knew what he was referring to.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For listening. For understanding. I never talk about this. Never. Any of it. It felt good to tell someone.”

  He kissed the tip of my nose. “I’m glad you did. That you trusted me enough to.”

  Trust. A five-letter word that meant so much more than its simple definition. For so long, so many years, I’d kept to myself, unable and unwilling to reach out and try to find love, knowing I couldn’t take the chance my heart wouldn’t get broken again. Even though I’m strong, and like the elder females in my family tell me often, I’m a San Valentino, I knew I wouldn’t be able to withstand another heartbreak. So I took care of myself, my business, and my family, allowing no one to enter into that circle.

  Connor was the only person I’d every told about Angie and Johnny who wasn’t related to me. For whatever reason, I did trust him with my memories. And, I realized, with my heart.

  I reached up and cupped his cheek with my hand. With a tiny shift of his chin, Connor burrowed into my palm and kissed it, his gaze staying glued to mine.

  His fingers began drawing tiny circles along the curve in my back. I swear on the rosary beads Nonna received when she made her Communion and which now sat in my purse, willed to me after her death, that each little trace and trail sent a shockwave through my entire body. Desire for this man, for his touch, shattered through me.

  I lifted up on my toes and pressed my lips against his warm ones. His breath exhaled in one long, sweet sigh.

  Yeah, I know just how you feel.

  When I slid my fingers up over his marble-hard chest, past his perfect jaw, to link behind his neck, his shoulders relaxed against my hands. His own fingers stopped their subtle seductive dance at my waist, and he flattened his palms against me, pushing me so close there wasn’t a whisper of room between our bodies. Every cut, curved, carved inch of him was pressed against me, and mio Dio, I wanted to be closer still. And by closer, I mean skin to skin.

  Yeah, I know. But even good little Italian girls can have frustrated, sexy thoughts. Even needs.

  I’d been intimate with one other man my entire life, and let’s face it, neither one of us considered the other their soul mate. Sex had scratched an itch between us but had never been the fireworks exploding, la piccolo morte—little death—it was rumored to be. We were married, so we had sex. Easy and comfortable sex.

  Standing in my living room kissing and being kissed by Connor Gilhooly, I wanted more than easy and comfortable. I wanted the explosion, the notion that being with this person was going to be the be all and end all a true romantic connection was supposed to be. And I wanted it with him.

  Before I could form the words in my mind to ask him, Connor scooped me up in his arms and walked backward with me toward my couch. He plopped us both down, me on top of his lap, and we both laughed at the creaking sound my couch springs made from our weight.

  I slung one hand around his shoulders, laid the other over his chest. Against my hand, his heart raced like a speeding locomotive aiming straight for the finish line. He lifted it and brought it to his lips. Such an old-world gesture, so romantic, so endearing.

  I simply melted.

  “Regina.”

  I tilted my head. “How come you don’t call me Reggie like everyone else? You always address me by my proper name. How come?”

  He took the hand he held and rubbed the back of it against his cheek.

  Did I say melted? Turned into molten lava—boiling hot and explosive—is more the truth.

  “Queen,” he said against my hand. “Your name means queen.”

  “I know. Although I think it’s more like queenly woman.”

  He shook his head. “Queen. That’s what you are.” He let go of my hand, and his drifted across to cup the back of my neck. He gave a gentle tug, pulling my face a hair’s width from his. With a look I can only call wanting, he added, “My queen,” right before he kissed me again.

  Emotions and sensations slammed through me shooting straight up from my core. With a frenzied expectation, his tongue swiped at my lips and with expert determination parted them and mated with my own.

  Every single nip and suck and swipe shot little bullets of sexual frenzy straight down to the part of me sitting in his lap. Restless, needful, blind with frustration, I began squirming and writhing against him. When I felt the solid hard length of him grow and roll beneath me, I pressed down more firmly.

  We both groaned loudly enough for the sound to echo in my apartment.

  “God, Regina. You feel like heaven,” he whispered in my ear and then sucked my lobe between his teeth.

  “You do, too.”

  Gesu. Was that breathless, throaty voice really mine? It was a cross between Marilyn Monroe—Pop’s all-time favorite movie star—and Kathleen Turner, Ma’s favorite actress.

  Once again our lips met. I knew his taste now, the feel of him, his very e
ssence, as if I’d kissed him every day of my life. As if I fell asleep in his arms and woke up the same way. In his arms, I felt cherished and wanted, two things I’d never felt with my ex.

  Connor kissed me with possession and passion in every swirl of his tongue, every glide of his lips against my skin.

  After a long while, I laid my head down on his shoulder, nuzzled the space under his ear, and breathed him in.

  Connor exhaled a long, slow breath. Cuddled together, he kissed my temple. “Can I ask you something?” he said when his breathing slowed a bit.

  “Anything.”

  “Has there been anyone in your life since your divorce? Any guy you…cared about?”

  I sat back up so I could see his face. I’d been thinking my heart was open to falling in love again, but when I saw Connor’s expression—a little nervous, a little vulnerable, and a whole pasta-bowl full of desirable male—the thought my heart was opening again flew. It was already open—wide—and filled with Connor.

  “The only man ever in my life was my husband,” I confessed. “Since Angie’s death, and then my divorce, I haven’t dated or been interested in any man, despite the well-intentioned, crazy efforts of my family.”

  His grin was lopsided and adorable. I ran a finger along his bottom lip, slightly swollen from kissing me so thoroughly. He sucked it between his teeth and gently bit down. That little nip shunted down my spine all the way to my toes.

  “There hasn’t been anyone I felt I wanted to be with.”

  He tilted his head, his stormy gaze trained on me.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and set my heart free. “Until now.”

  Those storm clouds cleared, brightened, and grew soft.

  He pulled my head back to his shoulder and ran his lips across my temple. A sigh filled with so much emotional release glided from deep inside him. “You can’t possibly know what that means to me,” he said.

  A sense of complete contentment drifted through me. I closed my eyes, my head on his shoulder, my hand on his chest, the feel of his heart beating under my fingers once again.

  Not only contentment, I thought, but happiness as well.

  And…love.

  ****

  Something warm was heating my cheeks. I shifted and opened my eyes. I was in my bed, bright sunshine streaming in through the window across from it.

  Morning.

  I had no idea how I’d gotten here. My last, clear, before-morning-caffeine memory was of sitting on the couch with Connor, talking and cuddling.

  Connor. Just the thought of him made me smile. We’d talked for hours the night before, interspersed with periods of such intense and hot—and by hot, I mean burning—kissing sessions that my lips still felt tingly and satisfied. The man was a world-class master of the art of making love to a pair of lips.

  I sat up, tossed the covers off, and glanced down. I was still completely dressed. My shoes were sitting on the floor next to the dresser. Connor must have carried me to my bed before leaving. A quick glance at my bedside clock and I nearly had a heart attack.

  8:15 a.m.

  Madonna. Pop was going to be here any minute to pick me up for Sunday Mass.

  I shot up from the bed and ran into my bathroom. I’m a world-class speed shower-taker. It comes from living with four brothers who, during their teenage years, defined the term narcissist, spending hours in the bathroom each morning as they got ready for school, and then later on, work. In less than three minutes, I was washed and dressed for church.

  I sprinted to my living room and had the second almost-coronary of the morning. Connor was sitting at my kitchen table, a mug in his hands, another one on the table across from him. His tuxedo was rumpled and wrinkled. A dark swatch of morning scruff slid across his chiseled jaw and cheeks, and my fingertips tingled with longing to run them across it. His hair was no longer slicked back at his temples but fell again in its natural state across his brow. He looked totally at ease and effortlessly natural sitting in my chair, as if he woke every morning clad in a tuxedo, ready to face the day.

  “I heard the shower go on, so I knew you were up,” he said, his mouth lifting in one corner. He nodded at the steaming mug on the table. “I made you tea. I didn’t see any coffee in the cabinets, so I figured you drank it in the morning.”

  “You spent the night?”

  He nodded. “You need a new couch.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s at least one spring that’s died. Maybe more.” He cocked his head right, then left. “I may need a massage today to work the kinks out.”

  “No, I mean, why did you stay?”

  He put his mug down on the table and reached out a hand to me. Slowly, I walked around the table, stopped in front of him, and took it. With one small tug, he had me on his lap.

  “I didn’t want to leave you alone after you fell asleep.”

  “Why not?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “I just didn’t. You’d had a pretty emotional evening. I thought I should stay close in case you needed anything.”

  What would he have thought if I’d told him all I really needed was him?

  “You carried me to bed?”

  “Yes. You never even batted an eye, you were so deeply asleep.” With a chuckle he added, “If I hadn’t known why, my poor ego would have been bruised at your falling asleep while we were…together.”

  I swiped at the fringe cross his brow. “And you took off my shoes?”

  He nodded again and grinned. “I didn’t think you slept in them.”

  I grinned back at him. “Not as a rule. And that’s not the first time I’ve slept in my work clothes, either.”

  He lifted his mug and had a sip while he held me.

  “You didn’t have to spend an uncomfortable night on the couch, Connor. You could have crawled in next to me to sleep.”

  Something in his eyes changed. Those wispy cloud colors morphed into smoldering smoke and ash as hunger glazed through them, and mio Dio, I wanted to be the one to feed him. And by feed him—well, I don’t think that needs an explanation.

  With purposeful movements, he put the mug back down, his gaze never leaving mine, and said, “As lovely an invitation as that is, when I…sleep…with you the first time, Regina, I want you to be awake.”

  Oh, holy and sweet bambino Gesu.

  I swallowed the bocce ball in my throat, the sound so loud there was no way he couldn’t hear it. “I…I…”

  Never in my life had I been speechless. There’s no such word in my Italian family’s lexicon. Words trip off our tongues like pebbles roll down a hill.

  But that statement, one of fact for sure, turned me mute.

  That little corner lift of his lips drifted up higher as his hand nudged me a little closer. “Now, you’ve been awake for five minutes, and I still haven’t gotten a good morning kiss.”

  Ma and Pop didn’t raise a fool. And Connor didn’t need to ask me twice.

  I settled my hands on his shoulders, marveling once again at how strong, solid, and powerful they felt, and, with a grin, leaned in.

  The slam of the downstairs door had me pulling back and jumping off his lap.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my father. He’s here to pick me up for church. Quick.” I yanked on his arm, pulling him up. “Go hide in the bedroom so he doesn’t see you. You can slip out after we leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask. Just please, please. Go.” I tried to shove him from the room, but do you know how difficult it is to shove two hundred pounds of non-complying male anywhere? I’m strong, but Connor is built like a tank. Add that he’d rooted his feet to the floor, and I had no chance of propelling him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

  “Regina, what’s wrong—”

  He was cut off when my father blew through the front door of my apartment, bringing cold air with him and swiping snow from his hat and shoulders.

  Now before you ask why he has the key to my apartment, rememb
er, he owns the building and, in effect, is my landlord. If your next statement is that doesn’t give him the right to burst in on me and invade my privacy, I’ll counter, have you met my father? Mia famiglia? Personal privacy is as alien a concept to them as little green men from Mars.

  “Madonna. It’s cold out today,” Pop declared as he tugged his hat off and looked up at me.

  And stopped in his tracks.

  “Pop. You’re early.” My voice was a bit too loud and bright for the scene I knew was playing in front of his eyes.

  “Regina Maria?”

  Uh-oh. Pop never addressed me by my full name unless I was in deep, deep merda.

  His gaze slid to Connor. I watched as it took in the scruff on his face, the way he was dressed, the nonchalant way Connor’d stuck his hands into his pants pockets.

  “Irish. This is a…surprise.”

  “Mr. San Valentino.” He glanced at me. “I’ll let myself out, Regina, so you two can get to Mass. Thanks again for last night.”

  “What?”

  My shoulders met my ears at the hit from the bellowing sound. My father’s roar is legendary in our family, and whenever he lets it out, the wisest choice is to run.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have that choice right now.

  Before I could say a word, Connor, God bless him, came to my defense. In a calm voice and with a smooth smile, he told Pop, “Your daughter is a lifesaver, Mr. San Valentino. She baked a magnificent cake for a fundraiser I had last night. The entire place was amazed by how it looked and the delicious way it tasted.”

  “You know, Pop. The one for Pearl’s Place?”

  His skeptical brow quirked as his gaze popped from me to Connor and then back to settle on me.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I remember. But what are you doing—”

  I knew the direction that question was going, so I pulled an old teenage trick out of my pocket that my cousin Chloe used to use on her parents: I diverted his attention.

  “Pop, we’re gonna be late.” I grabbed Connor’s coat from the peg and shoved it at him. “You’re welcome for the cake. I’m glad everything turned out okay.”

  God bless him again, because he got the hint, took it, and ran with it. Literally. Within a second of shrugging into his coat, he tossed my father a wave and sprinted down the stairs.