Eight Christmas Eves (8 page)

“Nothing. I was
just making a comment. You always have to be careful. There are plenty of men
who would just marry you for your inheritance.”

Helen
stiffened, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I know that. I’m not an
idiot, you know. Two guys have proposed to me just this fall, and I wasn’t
stupid enough to fall for them. I was just saying that I don’t have to worry
about that with Ethan, since his family has plenty of money. It helps.”

“Just be
careful,” Cyrus murmured. He still wasn’t looking in her direction.

Her gut
suddenly dropped. “What do you know? Do you know something about Ethan?”

“I couldn’t
even recall his name, remember? Just always be careful with men.”

She felt
strangely upset. “I am careful with men. I always am.”

It was true.
Other than Ben, she’d never dated anyone seriously. She hadn’t even had sex yet
because she was always so hesitant about sharing that much of herself when she
wasn’t absolutely sure she trusted a man.

“Is it serious
with Ethan, do you think?” Cyrus asked. There was an odd note to his voice she
couldn’t quite recognize.

She gave a
half-shrug, feeling strangely self-conscious, although she didn’t know why.
“Not yet. We’re still just going out. Not exclusive or anything. He’s not about
to propose so he can run off with my money.”

Her inheritance
was held in trust until she was twenty-one, even if she married before that
age, so it was still a few years before she would have to worry about that
anyway.

“I wasn’t
implying your money was the only reason a guy might be interested in you,”
Cyrus added.

“I guess you
would know what it’s like.”

“Yeah.” He let
out a sigh. “That I do.”

*
* *

After dinner, Helen went
upstairs to change into something more comfortable for the rest of the evening.
She hesitated briefly but then pulled on a pair of soft deep-red cashmere
lounge pants and a matching cardigan over a white top.

She’d bought the
outfit on a whim a month ago because she’d loved the color and the soft fabric,
but she felt kind of silly wearing something like that around the college
dorm—when everyone else hung around in flannel pants and sweatshirts—so she’d
never actually worn it before.

But the color
was festive, and the Owen men would often lounge around in highly unloungeable
clothes, so she felt it was finally a good time to wear it.

She brushed out
her hair down her back and stared at herself in the mirror. The deep red color
made her skin, lips, and eyes look very fresh and vivid, and she liked the way
the soft fabric followed the dips and curves of her figure.

She felt very
pretty and mature and was quite pleased with herself as she went downstairs. Of
course, no one would actually see her except Cyrus and maybe a stray bodyguard
or two, but it was still nice to look so pretty.

When she got to
the media room, where they normally watched the movie, she frowned to see it
was empty. She wandered around a bit until she found Cyrus in the library.

He was
slouching on the leather couch in front of the fireplace. A fire was roaring,
burnishing his face and brown hair with an orange-gold glow. With the exception
of the jacket, he still wore the clothes he’d worn to dinner—tailored trousers
and dress shirt—but he’d undone an extra button on the shirt and pushed the
sleeves halfway up his arm.

He was staring
at the fire and holding a half-drunk glass of Scotch in one hand.

He looked
exhausted, lonely, wounded.

“Are you okay?”
she asked, walking over to him in concern. He’d seemed to take his divorce in
stride—always matter-of-fact and professional about the realities—but she knew
it had hurt him.

She hated for
him to hurt like that.

He jerked, as
if in surprise, and shifted his eyes in her direction, although he didn’t
really seem to be seeing her. “Of course. You ready for the movie?”

She sat down
beside him on the couch, the leather warm from the heat of the fire. She tucked
her legs up under her hips and leaned toward him, putting a hand on his arm.
“How many glasses of that have you drunk?”

He gave a
half-shrug. “Not many.”

She wasn’t sure
about that. He’d had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner. She’d had one
herself, since Drake had insisted ceremony was more important than arbitrary
drinking age laws. But Cyrus must have had more than one glass of Scotch since
dinner. He smelled of it strongly, and his eyes and voice were a little glazed.

“Are you really
okay, Cyrus?” she asked, squeezing his arm.

He turned to
look at her for real. “Yeah.”

“I know you
loved her.”

“I thought I
did.” He gave a strange little laugh, no more than a breath. “I was wrong.”

She wasn’t sure
what to say about that. Part of her was relieved to know he hadn’t really loved
her—since Rose Marie wasn’t worthy of Cyrus’s love—but he still seemed broken
somehow, and she had no idea how to fix him.

“I wish…” He
trailed off, staring again at the fire. Then he leaned over and refilled his
glass from the decanter on a side table.

Helen sucked in
her breath. “What do you wish?”

Cyrus wasn’t
the kind of man who shared his feelings often or easily, so she always took it
very seriously when he did.

He took a
couple of long sips of the Scotch. Then closed his eyes for a moment. “I wish I
could make at least one relationship work.”

She sucked in a
breath again—this time for another reason. “You
can
make relationships
work, Cyrus. Rose Marie just wasn’t the right person.”

He let out
another of those same breathy laughs. “Yeah.”

“You
can
make them work,” she insisted, pulling the mostly full glass out of his hand
and setting it on the coffee table. She didn’t want him to drink anymore. “All
these years, you’ve made a relationship work with
me
.”

He turned and
looked at her with something dazed, almost confused in his eyes.

“I know it’s
not the same as a marriage, but it’s something. Isn’t it?”

He reached an
arm out and pulled her against his side, giving her an almost clumsy half-hug.
“Yeah. It is. Of course it is, kid.”

She snuggled against
him, wrapping an arm around his belly so she could hug him back. Part of her
liked how he called her "kid"—it felt comfortable, familiar, like an
old friend. But part of her resisted it.

She wasn’t a
kid anymore.

This wasn’t the
time to object, though. She just pressed against him more snugly and squeezed
his middle in the only kind of comfort she could offer. They weren’t usually
touchy-feely with each other, but it seemed right at the moment and he seemed
to need it.

He still felt
broken. She wanted desperately to fix him.

He didn’t say
anything, but he didn’t pull away.

That sat that
way in silence for a long time. Cyrus’s body was hot against hers. Hot and
strong and familiar. Her cheek was pressed up against the side of his chest,
and her arm was draped over his flat belly.

She liked how
firm he felt under his clothes. She liked that she could feel some kind of
tension coiled inside him. It was intangible, but she could sense it, and it
gave her a pleasant clench in her stomach.

Maybe it was
the glass of wine, but she felt like she was in a dream—like the room, Cyrus,
everything was slightly fuzzy around the edges.

His arm was
still around her, and his hand had ended up tucked under one of her arms,
spanning the curve of her rib cage. There was nothing inappropriate about its
location, but she liked how it felt there. And, when she shifted, the side of
her breast brushed against it.

She shifted
again, and she felt one of her nipples skim lightly against his side. Her
breathing quickened a little, and the tension in her belly tightened even more.

Cyrus let out a
long sigh and seemed to relax a little, as if her presence was helping him. She
felt even better, even more
right
.

Slowly, like he
wasn’t consciously doing it, Cyrus’s hand started to stroke down the length of
her loose hair. Gently, leisurely, his palm slid from the back of her head to
her shoulder to her back, as if he just liked the way it felt.

She sighed as
he did it again. The light gesture triggered a number of different nerve
endings. She shifted against him to get more comfortable, very slightly rubbing
against him. “That’s nice,” she murmured. “It feels good.”

He made a
wordless sound, half-murmur and half-grunt, and stroked her hair again.

She looked up
at him, suddenly worried about him. She was enjoying the snuggling, but he
might still be suffering. “Are you okay, Cyrus?” she asked again. She’d lost
count of how many times she’d asked him.

He gazed down
at her, his expression glazed over but soft and not wounded anymore. “I’ll be all
right.”

She reached up
to cup his cheek, her heart aching with tenderness. “I want to help.”

“You are.”

Since she’d
liked how it felt when he stroked her hair, she slid her hand up to stroke his
jaw. The skin was rough with his bristles, and the sensation caused ripples of
pleasure to run through her. She could feel that tension she liked intensifying
in his body.

He let out a
breath that was mostly a soft, thick groan. The sound was strangely
intoxicating.

She leaned
forward to kiss his cheek. This was Cyrus, whom she knew, loved, trusted more
than anyone else in the world. And she wanted to make sure he knew it—make sure
he knew it as surely as she did.

After she’d
kissed his cheek, she pressed her lips against the skin on his jaw line,
enjoying the scratchy sensation. She'd just started pulling away when he
suddenly turned his head toward her.

Her lips landed
on his without warning. A surge of pleasure overwhelmed her as his mouth
brushed clumsily against hers. His tongue darted out to tease the line of her
lips, and one of his hands moved to cup the back of her head.

The other hand
was spanning her ribs, then moving up slightly to delicately brush the
underside of her breast.

She moaned into
the kiss, stroking his jaw as she let feeling and sensation overwhelm her.

It felt good.
It felt right. As if this was what she’d always wanted.
Cyrus
. Always,
only, just Cyrus.

Then suddenly
it all ended with a jarring move.

Cyrus jerked
away from her, pushing her off him in a clumsy rush and jumping to his feet.

Helen stared up
at him, dazed and disoriented.

“What are we
doing
?”
he gasped, rubbing his flushed face. “We can’t—we can’t
ever
—do that.”

“Oh.” She
blinked, trying to get her mind to work when her feelings were still so
intense. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know what happened.”

“I know.” He’d
been staring at her, but something like horror flashed over his face and he
turned away. “I was completely out of it, but I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

“It’s okay. I
thought…” Her cheeks started to burn as she realized what had happened. She’d
come on to Cyrus—to
Cyrus
. He’d been hurt and wounded, and instead of
comforting him she’d tried to make a move on him. “I mean, you seemed to…”

She couldn’t
finish. It had seemed like he was responding to her, but he clearly hadn’t been
thinking. Now that he was, he was appalled by the very idea.

It had felt
right to Helen, but it obviously didn’t feel right to Cyrus.

She felt a
full-body cringe overtake her, and she prayed she hadn’t ruined their entire
relationship. “I’m sorry,” she said, a little wobbly. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you
didn’t.” He rubbed his hands over his face again. “I’d drunk too much. But we
can’t ever do anything like that again.”

“Okay.”

He left the
room in long, quick strides, and Helen was left alone on the leather sofa. She
curled up in a ball, feeling young and childish and foolish and utterly
humiliated.

And desperately
scared she’d ruined everything between them.

After a few
minutes, she got up and went to the media room, where they had always watched
White
Christmas
.

She was on the
verge of tears, but she didn’t let herself cry. If things were messed up, they
were messed up. Eventually, everyone left her anyway—especially those that she
loved.

She got the
movie ready and then went to sit down in a big chair, pulling a fuzzy throw
blanket up over her.

She just
waited, staring at the blank television screen.

Last Christmas
Eve, she’d had waited too—while Cyrus had a long phone conversation with Rose
Marie, whom he'd just started dating. She hadn't been sure he would hang up in
time to watch the movie with her at all, but he had at last.

This evening,
she waited almost thirty minutes, but Cyrus finally walked into the room.

His skin was a
little pale now, rather than flushed, and his collar was slightly damp, as if
he’d thrown water on his face.

His expression
was sober as he walked over to sit on the sofa adjacent to her chair. He leaned
forward, clasping his hands on his lap and obviously ready to say something.

She was
suddenly terrified that he was going to say they couldn’t hang out anymore. She
sat up straight and said in an anxious rush, “I’m really sorry, Cyrus. It
didn’t mean for that to happen. I mean, I wasn’t thinking and it just…I mean,
it just happened. It won’t happen again. I'm so sorry.”

He shook his
head. "It's not your fault. It's my fault. I was the one who…I should have
done better. Can you forgive me?"

"Of
course," she exclaimed, a wave of relief overtaking her. If Cyrus thought
it was his fault, then he wasn't thinking she was some silly little girl who
was trying to make a move on him. "There's nothing to forgive. It doesn't
have to happen again."