“I want to know what I can get Olly for the holiday.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

  Saint still looked very tense, and she thought about offering him a foot rub. That always put her at ease. “Whatever I want?” he echoed. “No, I need better information than that. I don’t want to upstage whatever you have planned.”

  Brooke smiled. “That’s very considerate, but I kind of overspent, so I doubt that’ll happen. I got him a new tablet. Well, it’s new to him, anyway.”

  He nodded, rubbing at his chin; it had a few days’ stubble. That isn’t like him. This wasn’t adding up, any of it. He could’ve texted all this. She put down her tea and scooted closer to him, leaving about an inch of space between their legs. He stood up immediately, rubbing his hands on his jeans.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t know why I asked you over. I . . . I’ve wasted your time. I’m sorry.”

  Her stomach clenched watching him struggle. I don’t know how to put him at ease again, help him find the words he can’t seem to get out. Not that my efforts worked so well the last time we were together . . .

  “Okay. I understand.” She sat back against the leather couch cushions.

  He stilled. “You do?”

  “Sure,” she said, shrugging one shoulder, leaning over to retrieve her tea. “Honesty is hard. Maybe you’ll tell me next time, whatever it is.” She smiled in a way she hoped was reassuring. He rubbed the back of his neck, his face going pink in an adorable way.

  “Will you dance with me?”

  Brooke felt her lips part as they opened in shock. “Dance with you?”

  He nodded. “I think it’ll help.”

  “Help how?” she asked, and she knew that her sincere confusion was coming through in her smile just fine, based on the embarrassed look on his face. He just held out his hand, and she accepted it and stood up into his arms. Brooke, being shorter than he was, turned her head to rest her ear against his chest and wrapped her arms around his middle. The pounding of his heart eventually slowed, his shoulders dropped, and he let out a big sigh. She felt his fingers combing the ends of her long hair, then he stopped and just held her around her shoulders. Their feet moved together, a slow rhythm that was more shuffle than step.

  “I want to tell you a story, and I just want you to listen. Two stories. And they might not seem to go together, and you might not want to hear them, but just listen until I’m done, and then you can go, okay?”

  She nodded, her cheek rubbing his firm chest. Gah . . . that chest. She forced herself not to turn her head and give it a little kiss. It deserved so much more. So did the heart inside it.

  “I grew up without a dad, for a long time. I know you did, too. But for a man, I think it’s different. You don’t know how to be a man unless someone shows you. My dad—my adopted dad—he spent time with me. A lot of time. More than the other kids, and I knew it, but I didn’t even feel guilty, I ate it up. I was so hungry for a man to care about me. I needed it more, I had a lot of catch-up to do. And I can’t tell you what to do, because I don’t know Charlie . . .” She stiffened at Olly’s dad’s name; this was not at all where she thought this conversation was going, but it certainly explained why he’d been so nervous. He rubbed her back in big, slow circles until she relaxed again.

  “I don’t know Charlie,” he repeated, “but I know Oliver. And he’s great, he’s so great. And if he was my son . . .” Saint coughed to clear his throat. “I’d want him in my life, too. I know it would be hard to share him, so hard. But you’re strong. You’re so much tougher than you give yourself credit for. So even though you’re moving, I think you should consider giving Charlie a chance to be a dad, especially since he won’t have me and Judson around anymore.”

  Brooke squeezed him briefly. “Okay.” His care for Olly touched her heart. His perspective on the situation was unique, and she appreciated that he’d share it with her, even though it was obviously painful for him and he seemed to worry that she’d be upset. “What’s the other story?”

  He cleared his throat again and his fingers went back to combing her hair. “There was just one story.”

  “No,” she whispered. “You said there were two. I want both. I want to know what’s going on in your head, in your heart.”

  “You’re remembering wrong.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  He swore like only a military man could and held her tighter, like he was afraid she was going to bolt. “Fine, but remember: you asked for this.”

  “I take full responsibility.” Even though her stomach was coughing up acid into her throat, and emotions were making it hard to breathe, she had to hear it. She had to know what he wanted to say, just in case it was what she needed to hear.

  “You were going into that ridiculous restaurant, the medieval one, and you were under the mistletoe, but you didn’t see it.” Cheeks burning, Brooke tried to lift her head to see him better, but he gently pressed it back against his chest. “But I saw it, and Olly did, too. He told me it was bad luck that I didn’t kiss you. And I know I have to let you go to Gardenia, because that’s what you want. But before you go, just to reverse the bad luck I gave you, I just wanted to see if you’d . . .” He shifted to pull something out of his pocket and let her go enough that she could see the mistletoe he held over her head on a thin red ribbon. “I just wanted to make sure you’ll have good luck before you go.”

  He wants to kiss me goodbye.

  “Okay.” She nodded, trying not to look too eager.

  “Just to clarify,” he said, bringing his other hand to the back of her neck, “I don’t want the kind of kiss you gave Judson.” He was not smiling. Not. At. All. In fact, he was almost pouting, his pink lower lip protruding even more than usual. Jealous much, Captain?

  A nervous laugh bubbled out of her chest. “That? That was nothing.”

  “Which is why I don’t want that kind.” He shifted even closer to her, all earnest-eyed, his left foot coming between hers, and she figured this was about as close to a declaration of love as she was ever going to get from this tight-lipped bastard. She nodded, schooling her face into solemnity.

  “So, just to clarify, you want a kiss that’s something?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of something?”

  She expected annoyance at her teasing, but he stayed sincere. “A sweet something. Not like you kissed me when you were drunk.” His thumb lightly stroked her cheek.

  She smiled. “How did I kiss you when I was drunk?”

  “Hungry.”

  “Hi—have you seen yourself? You can hardly blame me. It’s been a long five years . . .”

  He looked into the fire, shaking his head, scowling. “This is coming out wrong. This isn’t—”

  “Saint.”

  He looked back at her with clear trepidation.

  “It’s coming out fine. Now I’m going to give you a sweet something kiss that’s entirely for the benefit of my good luck.”

  Saint lifted one eyebrow. “For the luck to work, I think I’m supposed to give it to you . . .”

  “I’ll risk it,” she said, pulling him down to touch that pouty lip to hers. She kissed him slowly, pressing him firmly against her everywhere she could reach, and he sighed out through his nose like he’d been holding his breath. After a few moments, Brooke upped the ante, sliding her tongue shyly along the seam of his lips, and he opened for her immediately. Apparently, using my tongue does not make it too hungry. His tongue touched hers in tiny tastes, and she could taste the cocoa he must’ve had before she got there. Saint tossed aside the mistletoe, and his hands slid down to her backside to lift her up so their faces were level. That’s better. Brooke wrapped her legs around his waist, cinching herself around him like a belt, still kissing him slowly, languidly, like she never had to leave and never wanted to. With half an ear, she listened with delight to the fire crackle and the jazz singer croon, asking what the object of her affection was doing New Year’s Eve. New Year’s. I’m leaving after New Year’s. Her stomachache was back, even as her skin flushed under his touch.

  “Saint,” she murmured, feeling every finger of his hands on her backside. “What are we doing?”

  “Kissing,” he answered. Though he didn’t say it, she heard the “finally” in his tone. He turned and sat them on the couch, not giving her any room to shy away, his hands coming up immediately to tangle in her long hair and cradle her neck.

  Brooke decided to ignore her mind’s objections that this was Foolish with a capital F and let her body have its way for once. She did not allow her heart to weigh in, though she had a sneaking suspicion which bits of her it would side with. Brooke leaned into his gentle caresses, enjoying the long, loose feeling of her whole body. She wasn’t a rational person now, she’d melted and re-formed into a creature of instinct and impulse, wholly focused on the sensation of being close to Saint, this grumpy-but-secretly-sensitive man she respected and trusted . . . and loved.

  Damn it, heart, I told you to keep quiet. Go to time-out.

  “I’m going to walk you home now,” he whispered, breaking the kiss to bring their foreheads together.

  “Already? I could stay a little longer . . .” Yes, my body is clearly calling the shots.

  He shook his head, even as he pressed light kisses onto her cheeks and neck. “If you do, there’ll be a different kind of luck happening, and it’ll be a lot more mutual.”

  “I see,” she said. Would that be so bad? Her brain protested loudly at this line of thinking, citing even the remote possibility of another baby she couldn’t afford as ample reason to let the man walk her home.

  Saint interrupted her thoughts. “Thank you for letting me right my wrong.”

  “Oh, it was my pleasure,” she replied, her voice sounding huskier than normal.

  He groaned, kissing her lips again. “Don’t use that voice.”

  “What voice?”

  “Your sex voice.”

  She laughed low. “My sex voice? How would you know what my sex voice sounds like?”

  “Because it’s exactly how I’ve imagined it for months, you vixen.”

  He has? Um, what? He pushed gently on her hips to get her to stand up. Brooke picked up her teacup; it was stone cold. How long have I been here? She took it to the kitchen and dumped the liquid down the drain. Her heart went with it; there would be no more of this. No more sweet Sundays, no more snowball fights. No more the three of them going out to eat or for a walk. No more toe-curling, heart-melting kisses.

  She felt herself tearing up, and she kept her back to him to try to hide it. But her running nose betrayed her.

  “Brooke?”

  She swiped at her eyes, still giving him her back. “What?”

  “You okay?”

  “Of course.”

  Saint pressed in behind her and turned her, scowling. “Hiding feelings is my thing, not yours. Stay in your own lane, woman.”

  “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

  “Really? I do. And I’m ‘an emotionally unavailable jackass,’ even though I’ve stopped looking at anyone else’s skirts . . . ,” he said. She laughed, but he went on. “Just like I know why you’re really leaving.”

  Guilt stabbed at her. Charlie was part of it; she didn’t want to share Olly. She didn’t want Charlie screwing him up somehow, hurting his feelings, upsetting the delicacy of the good place they’d been in lately. But that wasn’t all of it. She hadn’t even admitted to herself that she was running from Saint.

  “I want to go home now.”

  He stared down at her, clearly torn. Then he turned and retrieved her coat and held it for her while she put her arms in the sleeves. He followed her all the way home, as silent tears turned to icy trails on her cheeks. He paused on the top step of the stairway, hands shoved in his pockets, his feet in a wide stance, just watching her.

  “Good night. Thank you for . . . for the luck. I have a feeling I’ll need it.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he kept staring at her. She closed the door, locked it, and rested her head against it.

  “Hey!”

  Brooke jumped; she’d forgotten Judson was there. “You scared me!”

  “Sorry. Everything all right?”

  She didn’t bother taking off her winter gear. She sat down on the couch next to him and leaned her head onto his shoulder. “The second-worst feeling I know is wanting to do the right thing and not having a darn clue what that is.”

  “What’s the first-worst?”

  “Thinking you knew the right thing, then finding out you were so, so wrong.” She wiped her face. “Am I doing the right thing in moving across the continent? Should I give Charlie a chance? I honestly have no idea.”

  He patted her leg awkwardly. “I don’t know, love.”

  “I’m so lost, Judson. I know it was the right thing for Mom to move back home and take care of Grandma, but it devastated me. The right thing for me is to be near her; she’s the only close family I have. But I don’t want to ruin Olly’s life, ripping him away from you and Saint and his dad, away from his school and his friends. What do you do when you can’t make everyone happy? When not everyone can have what they need? When every combination is literally, heartbreakingly impossible?” He started to answer, but she interrupted him. “How can I stay? I know myself; it’s amazing I’ve stayed away from him this long. And if we do start a relationship, I know he’d resign. He’s worked so hard for this, Judd—you have no idea. But I still need to work to support my kid, and journalism is what I’m qualified for. Even if I wasn’t covering the palace, if any sensitive information was leaked, they’d blame me. In Edward’s eyes, I’ll always be the enemy.”

  “Couldn’t you quit? Let him support you?”

  She sniffled. “That’s putting too much pressure on a relationship that’s not really a relationship yet. Anyway, I don’t think it would help.” She wiped her running nose on her sleeve, not caring anymore.

  “Did you ever read those Choose-Your-Own-Escapade books as a kid?” he asked.

  “What?” Sometimes Judson was so obtuse, she just wanted to slap him into next week.

  “Remember? They say, ‘If you want to attack the octopus, turn to page 37. If you want to swim away, turn to page 94.’”

  “What about it?”

  “I think life is more like that than we realize. You think you’re choosing your own escapade, your own path, but more often than not, you end up in the same place you would’ve anyway.”

  “Are you saying I’ll end up with Saint anyway if I leave?”

  “Perhaps. If it’s meant to be.”

  “You know I don’t believe in fate.”

  “It’s all right; you don’t have to. It still exists.”

  She considered this quietly for a few long moments before she sighed. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  AT 2 A.M., SHE GAVE up on sleep and grabbed her phone off the nightstand.

  Brooke: We can’t be together.

  She didn’t have to wait long for an answer; she didn’t think he’d been asleep, either.

  Saint: Why?

  Brooke: You know why. You’d ruin your career.

  Brooke: I’m not doing that to you.

  Saint: Edward would get over it.

  Brooke: I don’t think that’s true, babe . . .

  The pet name just slipped out, as easy as breathing. She’d been using it in her head for weeks now, and she should’ve known it was inviting trouble. She should’ve erased it. She shouldn’t have hit “Send.”

  Saint: Babe, if we’re working out nicknames, you should’ve warned me.

  Saint: I’ve got a whole list prepared for you, blondie.

  Brooke: Did you want me to stay?

  There was a long pause.

  Saint: Did I want you to spend the night with me tonight?

  No, she thought, laughing to herself, pretty sure I know the answer to that.

  Brooke: No, stay in Orangiers. Not move. Stay and try to . . . relationship.

  Her brain was mushy. She was no longer wired to enjoy nighttime activities . . . with a few specific exceptions. Wisely, he did not razz her about her verbal flub.

  Saint: Of course I do.

  Brooke dialed his number, burrowing deeper under the covers, as if they were a refuge from the hard conversation that was coming.

  “Hi, babe.”

  Talk about sex voice. Gah.

  “You say ‘of course’ like it’s a given, Saint. I have no idea what’s happening in your head. Until you kissed me, I wasn’t even 100 percent sure you thought about me that way; you brushed me off so easily when I came on to you when I was drunk. I didn’t think—”

  He snorted. “Easily? Are we recalling the same event?”

  “Given all that’s happened between us . . .” She shook her head. “You have to start giving me more to work with if you want me to understand you.”

  “Babe, you painted me as this horrible skirt-chasing manslut before we even met. You’d already decided who I was, and you wrote me off—permanently. I think I was entitled to a little information from you, too, if you changed your mind . . .”

  “Wasn’t hanging out with you every weekend enough information?”

  “It could be for Olly’s benefit . . .”

  “No, it couldn’t.”

  “I wanted to think otherwise,” he said softly, “but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “You told me never, Everleigh. Those were my orders.”

  “I’m not your CO.”

  He snorted. “You clearly don’t realize the sway you hold over me, beautiful.”

  Brooke was quiet. Trying to absorb this new information into her tired brain was like doing calculus with finger paint. It would probably work . . . but it was messy. “I have a lot to think about,” she said quietly. “I’m not promising anything.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.” He paused. “Will you come with me to the palace New Year’s Eve party, though? As my date? Please?”

  “Yes.” She was glad he wasn’t there to see her embarrassingly large grin, but based on his low chuckle, he could hear it anyway. “Sweet dreams, Saint.”

 

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