I always believed it would ruin everything. Like my parents. They used to say it occasionally, in a card or when they thought I wasn’t listening, but it’s been years since I’ve heard either one of them say it. Was it life that ruined their relationship, or did they just never find true love in each other?
Thinking about them specifically, it wouldn’t surprise me if it was neither, nor if they married for convenience to carry on the good Haywood name. Even my thoughts are inflicted with sarcasm these days.
We all have our crosses to bear . . .
As for the feelings I blurted earlier to the woman sleeping next to me, I couldn’t hold back. Not this time. Not with Story.
I didn’t want to. I’d say it now if she was awake. Now that I’ve slept, I was foolish to believe that telling her my feelings would have kept me awake, restless, or tossing and turning with regret. In fact, sharing my heart with her had me sleeping like a baby.
Glancing at the time, I find it’s just past ten o’clock.
With the drapes left open from last night, I can see it’s a beautiful day. Soft white reflected off the snow brightens the room as it falls outside the window. If Story ever dreamed of magical holidays, I think I’ve got this one covered.
She’s got my back as well. I can’t think of anything better than Christmas morning with the only person I want to spend it with. Even if she is slightly snoring.
Sneaking out of bed, I grab my phone from the bedside and check for a certain text before getting the fire started in the fireplace. Hopefully, that can clear the slight bite in the air from the room before she wakes up.
I try to be quiet but glance back when she stirs. When she stays asleep, I do a silent fist pump, glad she doesn’t wake before I’m ready. It’s a surprise that I want to keep.
The text message I’ve been waiting for from the concierge hits my screen—the final piece of the surprise puzzle. Tiptoeing across the room like a damn elf, I open the door to find the room service delivery.
Using my foot to prop open the door, I stretch to reach the cart and drag it in, then start setting up the table. I check to make sure all the dishes and the special surprise are here.
“Now I understand why Mommy was kissing Santa under the mistletoe.”
The sound of her sweet voice has me grinning before I even turn around to see her watching me. “Oh, yeah. Why’s that?” I rub my hand over my abs just because I know she likes it.
“Come back to bed, and I’ll show you.” Story pats the bed next to her, then flips the corner of the blanket back to welcome me in.
“You’re about to be put on the naughty list, little girl.”
She props up on her elbows. “I’m not seeing the problem.”
I walk over and sit down beside her. Leaning closer, I say, “Neither am I. Merry Christmas, babe.”
Her arms come around my neck, and she smiles like an angel on Christmas morning . . . Oh wait, she is. Goddamn, she’s beautiful. “Merry Christmas.”
We kiss, not with fire and frenzy but with passion and my whole fucking heart wrapped up in her. When our lips slowly part, she strokes the hair back from my eyes. “I love you, Cooper Haywood.”
I’m left stunned.
Speechless.
As I stare into her eyes, mine get wet. What the fuck?
My heart isn’t racing but calm instead.
It dawns on me by just looking at her—she means what she says. “You love me?”
“I do. I love you.”
Just like that. She just puts her own heart on the line, this time for my benefit.
I drop my gaze to the bed sheet between us and shake my head, trying to comprehend what that really means.
She adds, “Last night, you said you were in love with me?” The question has me looking up again. The tremble in her voice has me taking her hand and holding it between mine.
“I do. I’m so in love with you, Story.”
She runs her thumb over the side of mine. “Then what’s wrong?”
Grabbing my neck, I try to force down the lump that’s formed, but it’s the overwhelming feeling that I don’t deserve this woman. Her heart is bigger than the universe. “Nothing, actually,” I start, struggling to figure out why I’m so fucking emotional. “It’s all right. I mean, this.” I bounce a finger in the air between us. “Everything is so right.”
She smiles with a tilt of her head. “It is. So right.”
Locking down whatever’s happening on the inside, I grin. “We should eat while it’s hot.”
Commanded by the suggestion, her stomach growls. “What did you order?” She waggles her eyebrows. You’d think we were still talking about sex. Nope. Food.
I chuckle as I push off the bed. “Let me serve you, ma’am.”
Reading my mood, she lets me go without protest. It’s not that I want to leave her side. It’s that I need to clear the air to figure out why I was just sideswiped by her telling me she loves me.
With the back of her hand to her forehead, she puts on a good damsel-in-distress act when we both know she doesn’t need a man. For me, it’s a privilege to be a part of her life . . . and have her love. Shit. Now the l-word is casually being thrown around like we’re okay with it. Am I okay?
I think I am.
With her, I know I am.
“Your kindness is much appreciated, kind sir.” The dramatic flair is fun at the moment, but I sure am glad that’s the opposite of who she is.
It sucks that Camille and my mom come to mind, but they’re prime examples of women who use those tactics to get what they want.
I prefer being grounded in Story over the fake I grew up around. She sits on the couch, and although she’s waiting silently, her wiggling gives her excitement away.
“Lap or table?” I ask, holding a domed plate for her.
“Lap but only if you’re sitting next to me.”
I hand her the breakfast plate, then pour us both a cup of coffee. She says, “Orange juice, water, coffee, breakfast? I might be mistaken, but you’re either trying to fatten me up or hydrate me so when we spend the next twenty-four hours in bed, I have the energy.”
“Not a bad idea, but I’m not sure that waffles and strawberries will be that energizing. They might have you back asleep in an hour.” Chuckling, I sit on the couch with the plate on my lap. Taking a bite of bacon, I start thinking about Christmases past, and although I wouldn’t trade this one for any other, it’s strange not being home for the holiday. “At home, I never ate anywhere but at a formal dining table until I went to college. I’m talking silver, china . . .” Always the rebel, I cut my waffle with my fork instead of the knife. “Servers. The whole works. Every night. It was . . .” I chuckle again, thinking about how much I hated that we couldn’t act like a normal family. “It was a lot. I used to—”
“Servers? You had servants?”
The questions and the accusation built into them draw my eyes to her. “No, we had staff. They didn’t wait on us hand and foot.” Feeling defensive, I add, “I couldn’t just order what I wanted or demand someone to do something. They did a job, and that was it.”
“Like me,” she states, her tone flat.
“No.” Fuck. Not sure how I even fucked this up or how to proceed, I run my hand through my hair.
“Not like me?” she prompts.
“Like you at work. Yes, Story. Not like you now.”
Her head jerks back. “You mean eating with you in this fancy hotel? They weren’t allowed to eat with you?” She sets her plate on the table in front of us. That can’t be good. Not that it has been so far.
“Story—”
“Cooper.”
“I’m not sure why this upsets you, but let me be clear. The staff is paid. Yes, like you are at the coffee shop, but they’re given a salary. We don’t tip them at the dinner table, though they get bonuses.” I shake my head as I dig this hole deeper. “We’re fucking awful people, Story. Is that what you need me to admit? I admit it. Openly. You’ve seen the red flags.” I don’t think she’s even aware that she’s running her hand over her scar. I sigh heavily, losing my appetite. “I’m really fucking this up. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing, Cooper?” she asks, her eyes set on mine.