The Wedding Night Before Christmas Page 7

  We are almost to the coat check when he asks, “When will I see you next? I want it to be soon.”

  He does? Happiness and anticipation skip through me. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked at my calendar since this afternoon—and that was before we established a date for the wedding. So everything will have changed.” And will need to be updated again, after I send Jessica a message about Patrick’s ugly sweater party.

  “Then look at it while I get our coats.”

  I can’t look at my calendar until he returns with my trench, because I didn’t carry my phone into the ballroom. I scroll through my new schedule as we make our way to the hotel lobby.

  “I don’t have anything else scheduled with you before the wedding.”

  A scowl darkens his face. “Do you have any free time?”

  “Before or after the wedding?”

  “Both.”

  “Not much. But I can tell Jessica to change that.”

  “Then tell her I want to see you every damn day. Even if you can only manage a few minutes.”

  I would like that, too. And I can certainly manage more than a few minutes, but I’ll let Jessica figure that out. I tell her what I want to do but don’t attempt to create my own schedule, because I begin obsessing over the details—such as how long it’ll take my driver to get me from one appointment to another—and spend more time planning my schedule than working. Far better to just place all of that into my assistant’s capable hands.

  Outside, it’s snowing again. My driver’s waiting for me, and as Caleb walks with me to the car, one of the hotel attendants opens the rear door with a flourish.

  A tug on my hand brings me to a halt. “Hold up, baby.”

  Standing in front of the open car door, I turn to face Caleb. He glances at the attendant, who blurts a “Happy Holidays!” before vanishing.

  His dark gaze returns to mine before falling to my lips, and the gravel in his voice seems to abrade my nerve endings, bringing my entire body to raw awareness. “A man should kiss his fiancée goodnight.”

  A horrible ache re-opens within my chest. “No,” I tell him. “You’ve already established that you don’t want me to kiss you hello. A good-bye follows the same rules as a greeting.”

  The skin over his cheeks draws taut. “You think I don’t want you to kiss me? Because I really fucking do.”

  I frown in confusion. “Then why tell me no before?”

  “I didn’t want any woman kissing me because she felt obligated to and not because she wanted to.”

  My brittle smile feels as fragile as my heart suddenly does. “And you thought I didn’t want to...because I’m an ice queen?”

  “Because I’m a stupid piece of shit,” he rasps. “Did you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes close briefly, as if in regret. “And now?”

  Yes. But how vulnerable will the truth make me? I don’t know—but I’m terrified that I won’t simply be opening myself up to hurt. Caleb Moore might be able to completely tear me apart. Because I already feel as if I’ve been shredded.

  Yet I can’t lie. So instead I remain silent and let my eyes answer with the cold stare that’s so effective in these circumstances. Too late, I remember that I told him exactly what I use it for.

  But he doesn’t seem to remember. Because his jaw clenches and he nods before replying as if I’d said the word no out loud. “You don’t want to. All right. No kiss.”

  He steps back, his big hand clenched on the top of the open door frame as I slide into the car’s seat. My throat aches and my eyes burn as I tell him, “Goodnight, Caleb.”

  Softly he replies, “Goodnight, Audrey.”

  The door swings shut. I close my eyes, fighting the hot sting of tears.

  I liked it better when he called me ‘baby.’

  6

  Caleb

  I don’t sleep for shit. In the morning I stumble into the shower and stroke one out to the memory of Audrey’s lush red lips. But as my cum washes down the drain, another image sticks in my head. The same image that haunted me all fucking night. Of Audrey looking up at me with that withering, icy stare. The stare she uses instead of saying a lie.

  Because she still wanted to kiss me. But she didn’t want me to know it. And there was no hiding the wariness that accompanied her every response after we emerged from the dark room.

  Afraid. Because I hurt her last night. And not just once.

  A handful of text messages greet me when I leave the shower, and a tight band of tension wraps around my chest when I see the name of Audrey’s assistant, Jessica. Maybe calling everything off. Notifying me that the Wyndham mansion isn’t worth putting up with my shit.

  Instead sheer relief hits me when I see it’s a group message titled ‘Audrey’s Little Helpers’ that includes Jessica and the other assistant, Jeremy. And I must be crazy about this woman, because group messages are stupidly fucking annoying and yet here I am, glad to see it. I carry the device into my kitchen and begin reading while I pour my coffee.

  Jessica: Good morning, Mr. Moore. I’m attaching a calendar to this message. When you click on the link, it should sync with your phone’s.

  Jessica: I’ve cleared most of my employer’s evenings per her request. At your convenience, please send me your work schedule and let me know of any social events you’d like her to attend with you.

  Yeah, my schedule’s not exactly hopping with ‘social events’—and I’m not likely to drag her to any of my friends’ parties. Not if she doesn’t do well with crowds and loud noise. But I’m damn pleased that Audrey opened up her evenings.

  I pull out a griddle and continue to the next message, then start grinning when I hit the assistant’s name for her.

  Jessica: Please understand that this calendar is extremely flexible. Audrey Motherfuckin’ Clarke (AMC) can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, wherever she wants, however she wants. But she likes the structure of a schedule. So if you’ve planned something, let me know. Updating the calendar is no problem.

  Jeremy: Also—though she might have a different preference with you—generally AMC prefers texts and emails to phone calls.

  That last one came in while I was looking at the screen, so I type out a response.

  Caleb: Who doesn’t?

  Jeremy: Truth. Also, if your reply is rhetorical, or if the tone of your message might be easily mistaken or is unclear, AMC appreciates emojis that can clarify your meaning. If you are joking or teasing her, I recommend the winking emoji.

  Caleb: Got it.

  Jessica: For the upcoming wedding, would you like us to schedule tuxedo fittings, arrange transportation to church and honeymoon, make sure you and AMC obtain a marriage license and have all necessary documentation, hire movers to take your belongings to her house, etc.? Before you say no, or that it’s not necessary, or that you can do it, consider that we make AMC’s life easier by making YOUR life easier—and that we are very good at it.

  Caleb: You can do it.

  Jessica: Great. We’ll accomodate your work schedule as much as possible. Also if your employer is reluctant to give you the week off between Xmas and New Years’, let us know. AMC’s name can be very persuasive.

  Caleb: Absolutely fucking not.

  Jeremy: Hard limit noted and accepted.

  Jessica: AMC is scheduled to attend the Bennet Foundation’s Christmas carnival tonight from 6 to 9ish. Do you wish to accompany her?

  Caleb: Yes.

  Jeremy: This evening’s fundraising festivities include a raffle drawing, a pie-eating contest, several wintertime sports activities, a Polar Plunge, and—if you’ve been a good boy—you can sit on Santa’s lap.

  Caleb: Pass. What will Audrey like?

  Jeremy: Ice skating!

  Jessica: Hot chocolate with marshmallows.

  Jeremy: Manly yet sensitive displays of strength!

  Jessica: Anything soft and fuzzy.

  Jeremy: Correctly punctuated signage!

  Caleb: Tha
nks.

  Jeremy: Our pleasure! We look forward to helping you become Mister AMC, husband to the beautiful and successful woman who gives us a tremendous bonus at the end of every fiscal year.

  Jessica: I’ll send updates to your schedule as I arrange them. Do not hesitate to contact us if there is something you need or if you have any questions regarding ANYTHING.

  Caleb: Will do.

  Though not often. I’m not using Audrey’s assistants as a go-between for me and her. But they’re obviously invested in making her happy—and they know her likes and dislikes better than I do.

  But that’ll change. If I get my way, I’ll know her inside and out.

  I get dressed for work, then pick up my phone again. Audrey’s number is the newest entry in my contact list but our message history is blank. Not anymore.

  Caleb: Tell your driver to take the night off. I’ll pick you up from work around 5:30 and take you to the carnival, and then drive you home. Bring your ice skates.

  It feels like a goddamn year passes before the reply comes. I’m on my way out the door when my phone buzzes and the message notification pops onto the screen.

  Audrey: Okay.

  Fuck. Is that a happy okay? An irritated okay? A disinterested okay? I wish she’d used an emoji. Because I can read that simple ‘okay’ a million ways.

  And I don’t know what the hell to write next. Sorry I hurt you? I’m a fucking asshole? I want to kiss you hello and goodnight and I don’t want you to be afraid that I’ll hurt you again? But that’s not the kind of shit you say over a message. That needs to be said face-to-face.

  So… We’ll just leave it at ‘Okay.’

  For now.

  At five-forty, I pull up to the Clarke building. When I saw it yesterday under a gray sky and in the drab winter sunlight, it struck me as an unwelcoming sculpture of glass and steel. With night falling and warm light filling the windows, the building looks more like a flame rising against the dark and the cold.

  Christ. Even her building is telling me how wrong I was about her.

  It’s a damn good thing she needs that Wyndham property, because it’ll give me a chance to make it right. And since I left her last night, the only thing on my mind has been how I should go about doing that. The main thing is—taking it slow. Let her see that I’m not going to hurt her again. Build up her trust. Because she might be sexually attracted to me, but her icy stare last night told me that she doesn’t think I’ll take care with her emotions. Not after I treated her like she doesn’t have any.

  So I’ll go slow. And luckily, I have time to go slow. She agreed to marry me to get her hands on that property. So we’re stuck together for a while.

  Earlier, Jessica sent a text telling me to park directly in front of the main doors, so I do. Feels damn strange, but the way the security guard in the lobby greets me by name and some of the looks I’m getting tell me that the word is out. That I’m not just Caleb Moore anymore, but the soon-to-be Mr. AMC.

  “Miss Clarke says not to bother coming up. She’ll be right down,” the security guard says—Reginald Johnson, according to his name tag. “And congratulations on your engagement, sir.”

  “Thanks. And it’s Caleb.”

  “No can do, Mr. Moore. Just like she’ll always be Miss Clarke here, whether she invites us to call her Audrey or not. The employees of Clarke, International like anyone coming in from outside to know how much respect they ought to be showing her. Now that respect extends to you—along with other privileges.” He holds out an envelope. “In here is a key card that’ll give you access to the building after hours and allows you to take the elevator to the executive levels. It’ll work in combination with your thumbprint, so if you’ll let me scan that now, we’ll get that all set up. There’s also a parking sticker. You have a designated spot in the garage, but the truth is, your spot is called ‘anywhere you like.’ Though we’d appreciate a heads-up if you change vehicles.”

  “I’ll do that.” I stick my thumb on the scanner. “I guess these are the perks, huh?”

  He grins, then with a lift of his chin gestures behind me. “That’s your perk.”

  Audrey. Looking fucking beautiful as she crosses the lobby toward us. She’s wearing a thigh-length puffy coat over a long white sweater and black leggings, with heavy snow boots that look twice as big as her feet. Her blonde hair is braided this time, with a fuzzy red hat pulled down over her ears. She’s carrying a canvas bag that I assume holds her ice skates, and I take that small burden from her as she draws near.

  “Thank you, Caleb,” she tells me in a soft voice, her pale eyes searching my face. Still wary, and seeing her fear tears at my gut. After a second she pulls her gaze away and glances at the security guard. “Did you get everything you need, Reggie?”

  He nods. “We’re all squared away.”

  “Thank you. Have a good evening.”

  He wishes us the same as we head for the exit. I open the passenger door of my truck and take her hand to steady her as she steps up into my cab—because it’s not a big step, but I’ll use any excuse to touch her. Even buckling her in. I feel her gaze on my face as I lean in close to perform that simple task, aware of her soft pink lips and her incredible smell and the way she’s holding her breath.

  And that quick, I’m hard as hell. Jesus. Taking this slow is going to kill me. But I suppose it’s what I deserve.

  I toss her bag behind the seat and slide in behind the wheel. The directions to the carnival are already loaded into my GPS. We’re quiet as I fire up the engine and head out, and I don’t know what the hell to start with aside from a, “How was your day?”

  “Good,” she replies.

  “Was it?” Because that remote response doesn’t sound like it was good. Then I remember what she said about questions like that. “That’s not an empty question. I’m really asking, baby. Because if you had a shitty day, you can unload on me. And we’ll make sure the rest of your day is better.”

  Her eyes brighten. “It wasn’t a shitty day. I spoke to my lawyers regarding your case. They’re confident that they’ll prove the will’s validity, since Eleanor wrote it almost ten years ago—and she reaffirmed the contents of the document with her lawyer every year afterward. So it will be difficult to argue that she wasn’t in her right mind, which is what the Wyndhams are trying to do. And her intentions were clear. She made several statements to witnesses that echo the reasons she gave for disinheriting the other Wyndhams. So her habit of speaking bluntly will work in our favor.”

  “I guess that’s good news for us both.” Otherwise Eleanor Wyndham can go fuck herself all the way down to Hell.

  “Yes.” She glances at me curiously. “Did you ever meet her?”

  “Once. At my mother’s funeral.”

  Her brows furrow. “Only once? How long ago was that?”

  “Twelve years.” My throat tightens as I say it, because it feels a hell of a lot longer than that—and also like it was only last week. “And meeting Eleanor once was enough.”

  “You didn’t like her, either?”

  That understatement drags a harsh laugh from me. “After the funeral was over, she came up to me and said, ‘Your mother might have been a thieving slut, but obviously she wasn’t the liar that I believed she was. You’re the spitting image of Robert.’ Then she asked me to lunch.”

  “But you declined, obviously.”

  “Declined is a very nice way of putting what I said to her.”

  Her pink lips curve into that gorgeous smile. “You must have been surprised by the will, then.”

  “Yeah, I was. And my first impulse was to tell the executor to burn the damn thing, because I didn’t want anything from her.”

  “Burning the document wouldn’t invalidate it. And there would be copies.”

  I grin. “That’s what her executor said, too—and that I’d have to officially disclaim the inheritance. But then those Wyndham fuckers contested the will and I started rethinking. Because I don’t want them to have i
t, either.”

  She nods, then casts me a speculative look. “How many times did Keith Shayne contact you today?”

  The lawyer I tried to hire? Laughing, I shake my head. “I blocked him after the third message.”

  “Jessica and Jeremy told him that I’ll eventually return his calls,” she tells me with a mischievous little grin. “They probably have a bet regarding how long it’ll take him to realize that a call from me is never coming.”

  “When would your guess be?”

  “That he’ll realize it on the day that we run into each other at some event.” She shrugs. “I’m not good at stringing people along.”

  No surprise there. It might amuse her that Jeremy and Jessica do, but she would tell Shayne flat out that she’d never hire him. Thinking of her assistants, I ask, “What’s your middle name?”

  “Madison. Why?”

  I can’t stop my grin. “Just curious.”

  She eyes my grin for a long moment, as if wondering what I’m not saying. Then she asks, “Why do you drive a pickup truck?”

  The first thing that pops into my head is wondering whether she thinks a pickup’s not classy enough to ride around in. The same kind of shit that popped into my head last night.

  I’ve got a big fucking chip on my shoulder. Knowing that never bothered me before. But I’ve got to knock it off. At least with Audrey. Or I’ll risk hurting her again.

  “Because I spend a lot of time in junkyards,” I tell her. “And it’s better for hauling auto parts around in than a car or an SUV is.”

  “Ah,” she says as if my answer solves a mystery. “So you also use it for work, then?”

  “Not usually. The shop where I work has its own vehicles.”

  Her brow furrows. “Then why haul auto parts around?”

  “Because restoring vintage cars is a hobby of mine.” Or a side job, maybe. Just not one that’s very lucrative. “I pick up an old junker for cheap, rebuild it, then sell it off for a profit. Then pick up another junker and start again.”