Authors: Linda Grimes
“I don’t think they’re noticing much of anything except each other.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I miss him, Mark. I … I guess I didn’t think it would hurt this bad.”
He laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. You warned me about him from the beginning.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not sorry you’re hurting,” he said.
“Do you think he ever really loved me? Do you think he would still love me if I hadn’t … made the mistake”—Mark winced a tiny bit—“I made with you? Is that what it’s really about? He said he understood, but what if he can’t forget about it?” I shook my head slowly. “Boy, when I fuck things up, I do a bang-up job of it.” I quirked my mouth. “No pun intended.”
“Ciel, he
does
love you. That’s what this is all about. He loves you so much he can’t handle the guilt of your getting hurt.”
“But it’s not his—”
“Fault. Yeah, I know you told him that. But that doesn’t mean he’s not feeling responsible. Guilt and responsibility—it’s kind of a new combination for Billy where the opposite sex is concerned. Give him some time to adjust,” Mark said.
“He wasn’t this way after I got shot,” I said.
Mark smiled wryly. “I think he considered that to be as much my fault as his. And maybe even yours,” he said.
“True enough,” I said.
He stood and held a hand out to pull me up. “Let’s head back. That chili is calling to me.”
We walked along in silence for a while. But then I had to ask. “Do you think he will? Adjust, I mean? Or will he just keep on running?”
“I honestly don’t know, Howdy.”
It wasn’t until much later, when Mark was gone, that it hit me. I hadn’t melted once the whole time he’d been there.
A few weeks later I lay on the couch in my condo, one of Auntie Mo’s lovingly made, but hideous, afghans tucked around me. I’d just returned from a kick-ass training session with Laura—my third in two days—and I was whipped. Sweet Southern thing she might be, but when she got you in a gym, she was brutal. It was going to be so worth it, though. Current exhaustion notwithstanding, I was already feeling stronger. Physically, at least. And I was sure the rest would follow.
It had better, anyway, if I was going to survive Thanksgiving with the family at the end of the week. I
reeeally
didn’t want to go, but I’d promised Mom. If I didn’t show, she’d pack up the turkey, drive all the way down here, and force-feed me her special chestnut corn bread stuffing (actually one of her brilliant creations).
I was getting my life back on track. My only job since Hollywood had been completed the morning before, and had gone reasonably well. The first-time mother I’d been filling in for was overwhelmed by the new addition to her family. Her wealthy husband had offered to hire a nurse or a nanny (or both), but New Mommy had been terrified her offspring would bond with the help instead of her. So she hired me to take care of junior—as
her
—while she and New Daddy (who apparently didn’t give a fig if the kid bonded with him or not) spent a long weekend in Aruba.
Unfortunately, the kid had colic. I
know.
Dumb move on my part. What had I been thinking? Well, actually, I knew exactly what I’d been thinking. That taking care of a baby with colic would leave me no time—nada, zilch, zip—to think about Billy. And I’d been right about that.
The worst part wasn’t even the colic. Honestly, I’d felt sorry for the poor kid. The floor-walking and bouncing and jiggling and lack of sleep hadn’t been that horrible, since I knew it was temporary. No, the worst part was that the cook had a spectacularly horrendous cold. And yet still insisted on preparing every single meal for me (she was careful not to breathe on the baby), even though I offered to give her the weekend off. With pay. You can’t buy (or buy off, apparently) dedication like that.
Which meant, at the moment, I was unsure whether I was coming down with a cold or if I was about to start crying. Again. The feelings are remarkably similar, as the past month had taught me well. But as long as I stayed too busy to think, I was okay. I could keep it under control.
The trouble always started in the brief moments between frenetic action and falling into an exhausted sleep. That was when the thoughts of Billy hit me like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote’s head.
He hadn’t tried to contact me since he’d left me at Nigel’s. I knew he was alive—as of a week ago, anyway—only because Mark had given updates to Auntie Mo, who’d passed them along to my mother, who then overnighted them to me inside insulated packages of frozen casseroles, because I’d absolutely forbidden her to deliver them in person. Thomas had picked the casseroles up from my doorstep while I was on the job.
When the doorbell rang, I ignored it. I was in no mood to see anyone, or, especially, to have anyone see me. Not before I’d regained enough strength to take a long, hot bath and soak the kinks out of my poor, abused muscles.
When I heard the front door open, I might have been nervous, except I knew it had to be a member of my family. The locks were too good for a stranger to get in without breaking through the door, and I was pretty sure doing that would have made more noise. I figured it was probably Thomas with a backlog of creative casseroles. Laura must have told him my job was done, the rat. You’d think a spook would be better at keeping secrets.
“Go away. I have a cold!” I hollered, deciding I liked the idea of that better than the alternative. When I didn’t hear the door open and close again right away, I added, “Leave, or I will breathe on you.”
“Promise?”
Billy.
I rolled over so fast I almost fell off the couch. I pushed up to a seated position, and held myself steady until the dizziness passed. When I could focus, Billy was still standing across the room, looking uncertain of his welcome.
“Do you still want me to leave?” he said.
I shook my head.
“Hi,” he said after what felt like forever, still not approaching me.
“Hi,” I said, and waited.
To break the suspense about who was going to move first, I snatched a few tissues from the box on the table beside me, turned my head away, and quickly swiped them across my eyes, covering the action by blowing my nose.
“When did you get back to the States?” I asked.
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
“Oh.” I waited some more. “So,” I said at last, “you look awful.” And he did. He was unshaven, sunburned, scratched up, and covered in small red welts. “Are those bee stings or do you have the measles?”
“Africanized honey bees.”
“
Killer
bees?”
“Yeah. They get testy if you wander too close to their hive. Territorial little buggers.”
I nodded. “Does it hurt?”
“At first. Not so much now.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “How’s your nose?”
“All better.” I blew it again. “Well, the break is healed. It’s just kind of runny because…” I shrugged.
“Your cold.”
I nodded, and nodded some more, until the nodding changed to shaking, and the tears were leaking from my eyes again.
He came to me then. Crawled under the ugly afghan with me and gathered me into his arms. I held on so tight I thought I must be cutting off his breath. He didn’t seem to miss it.
“I might not actually have a cold,” I said after a time.
He held my head to his chest. His heart was thrumming so fast I could hardly distinguish separate beats. “I just keep hurting you, don’t I?” he said hollowly.
I sat up, not letting go of him, and looked into his eyes. “Why did you come here?”
“Well, Mommo said I couldn’t come to Thanksgiving dinner without you…”
“That’s it? I’m your ticket to a turkey dinner?”
“That’s not the only reason. Mark told me to sack up and go see you. He said that judging by your workouts with Laura, and the job you took—colicky baby? You really did that?” I nodded. “He said it was obvious you’re a masochist, so maybe I was the right guy for you after all.”
I laughed. “Reminds me of a joke Dad told me. What did the masochist say when asked why he stayed with the sadist?”
“‘Beats me,’” Billy said. “That’s an oldie.” His eyes became less guarded, and I saw the shallow indentations of his dimples beginning beneath his scruff of a beard. But only briefly, as if he couldn’t—or was afraid to—muster his humor.
“Does this mean you’re back?” I said.
“If you’ll have me. Ciel, I—”
“Wait. I’m not finished yet.” I pushed myself away from him. Looked into his gorgeous blue eyes … and punched his face. Didn’t pull it either.
He grabbed his jaw. “What the fuck, cuz?”
“You keep acting like you were the one who personally beat me up. Well, I’m showing you I can fight back. Maybe you won’t be so worried about me then.” I scooted off the couch, slapped the other side of his face, and hopped backward.
“Ha-ha. Very funny. Now stop—”
I jabbed his chest. He stood. Tried to loom. He’s normally a good loomer. “I said stop it, cuz—”
“Why should I? If ‘you’ beat me up, I should get to beat you up, too. Fair is fair.” I stepped back and executed one of the maneuvers I’d just learned from Laura.
“Ouch!” he said, and rubbed his arm. I couldn’t kick nearly as high as she did, but his bicep was going to have a bruise. “That’s enough, Ciel. I get it.”
“Do you?” I punched his stomach. Not as hard as I could have, but he felt it.
He reached for me. I ducked under his arms and danced away from him. He followed, a determined look on his face, and maybe … yes, definitely a sparkle in his eyes. I rounded the sofa, taunting him with a two-handed come-and-get-me motion.
He lunged for me. Missed. I circled behind him and landed another kick, right on his butt. He whirled and reached for me again, but I was already gone.
“Laura’s lessons?” he asked, dimples no longer shy.
“Yup.” He came at me one more time. I let him get close enough to grab my shoulders, lifted my arms up between his, hooked my leg behind his knees, and brought him to the floor while breaking his hold on me. He landed with an
oof.
“She’s a good teacher,” he wheezed out.
“That’s basically the move I used on Itchy in jail. Laura helped me refine it,” I said, standing over him. “So, now we’re even. You can stop feeling guilty about me. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said. “Help me up?”
I took his hand. He gave a quick yank and I was on top of him. He flipped me over and held my legs to the floor with one of his. My arms were pinned, too, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t trying to get away.
He was smiling like the Billy I knew. Even with the scruff, scratches, and bee stings (and possibly the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw), he was utterly gorgeous.
“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” he said.
I grinned, and shrugged as much as my pinned arms would allow. “Smarter than you. Of course, considering the level of intelligence you’ve displayed recently, that’s not saying mu—”
His mouth descended on mine. Several minutes later, when he finally lifted his head, I said, “Don’t ever make me beat you up again.”
“I don’t know … if it ends up like this, it might be worth it. Go ahead, slug me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Hey, idiot…”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and take me to bed.”
* * *
Thanksgiving was in full swing when Billy and I got to the Doyle homestead. It was their turn to host it this year, though I was sure Mom and Dad had been there since morning helping with the preparations. The smells emanating from the kitchen were enough to make my taste buds weep with anticipation. This was a meal the Doyle-Halligan clan had down to a science. It was always as close to perfection as food could get.
My parachute pin was securely attached to the high collar of my green silk sweater. Billy had wrapped me in his arms when he saw it, his embrace soundlessly reinforcing the apologies I’d told him I didn’t need to hear anymore. I was sure my new piece of jewelry would be gushed over by every female in the family before we made it to the appetizers.
We were greeted in the entry hall by my brothers, who took our coats jovially enough. I got a hug from each of them in turn.
“Where’s everyone else? Are Laura and Devon here?” I asked.
“In the family room. You can see them in a minute,” Thomas said. He took Billy’s hand to shake it, and pulled him into one of those manly one-armed hugs, clapping him on the back. “You okay?” he asked. “I hear it was a rough job.”
“I’m fine,” Billy said. “No sweat.”
“Good,” Thomas said, and punched his left jaw.
“Thomas!” I said, appalled.
“Sorry, bud. But I told you if you ever hurt my sister…”
James was next. Greeting, punch (the right jaw), apology. I shoved him aside and reached up to stroke Billy’s face. “Are you okay? James, I cannot
believe
you did that.”
Thank God Brian was nonviolent. He hugged Billy (both arms—he’s always been affectionate), pondered life for a moment, shrugged, and punched Billy’s nose. “Sorry, dude. You know how it is with sisters.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I stared at my youngest brother, absolutely boggled.
Billy didn’t seem all that surprised. “We good now, guys?” he asked, cupping his nose with both hands.
“Of course.”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
They were all smiling and laughing, as if slugging my boyfriend was the most fun they expected to have all day. And Billy was laughing and grinning along with them, the idiot.
“Excuse me!” I said. “Billy, is your nose okay? Let me check it.” I ran my fingers along it gingerly, wiggling it the tiniest bit at the tip.
“Not broken,” he said, without so much as a grimace. “Satisfied?”
“Huh. You’re lucky Brian hits like a toddler. Um, sorry, Bri,” I said when I saw the chagrined look on my brother’s face.
“Hey, I can hit him harder if you want. I was going easy on him because he came back to you.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I think he’s suffered enough.”
Billy nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. So, guys, is that it? Anyone waiting to dismember me along with the turkey?”