A Blazing Little Christmas(83)

Whoa. Hold it, Bell. He wouldn’t be seeing her in New York. Tomorrow was it. Their last day. The snow was still falling, but Tuesday was Christmas Eve, and she was leaving for Connecticut.

Rebecca Neumann, one of the best people to have ever come into his world, was going away.

She was putting on lipstick, and he wanted to put a sledgehammer through the wall.

His fingers flexed into his palms, he took a long breath, his heart slowing down.

Although Rebecca was leaving, that didn’t mean he couldn’t make the most of the situation. She wanted Christmas. He’d give her an amazing Christmas. It might not be Tiffany snowflakes on Fifth Avenue, but no matter how big she talked, Rebecca wasn’t Fifth Avenue, either. He’d still make it special.

So for the final time, Cory had a new plan. His eyes met hers and he tried to smile. His was a weak, half-assed smile, but after thirty-one years, he hadn’t yet mastered the art of looking happy.

* * *

Rebecca wasn’t sure what was up. Didn’t all men want perfection? Undamaged goods? But when she’d confessed her secret to Cory, he hadn’t run. When she’d done everything right, he ran. She showed him the worst parts of her soul and he acted as if she was his best girl ever.

Talk about throwing her system for a loop.

However, she went along with it. After she finished getting ready, he kissed her. Long, lingering. No passion, all tenderness, enough to bring a tear to her eye. She wiped it away before he saw.

Downstairs, Mr. Krause was dressed up in a Santa suit, wandering around like he owned the place, because, well, he did. Rebecca expected Cory to take off. Instead he came up, shook the old man’s hand and wished him Merry Christmas. It was oddly awkward, like when Maximillian Guerlain had played Abraham Lincoln for the President’s Day play. Her heart twisted.

However, right now there was a sleigh ride to look forward to. A sleigh ride she knew he would hate.

“We don’t have to go,” she offered, getting embarrassed by all his niceness.

“I love sleigh rides,” he answered, lying his ass off.

It was cold outside, but she didn’t feel it—she was warm and happy. Marvelously, gloriously happy. Two tall draft horses guided the sleigh, huffing their way along the mountain path. As they rounded a bend, Lake Placid appeared, nestled between the hills. She watched Cory, daring to brush the dark silk out of his eyes. Instead of pulling back, he quirked his lips in a half smile.

The afternoon went on from there, roasting marshmallows by the fire in the main hall. He teased her that her mascara would melt. She slapped him on the thigh, but oops, missed, her hand lingering. His eyes darkened; she shrugged innocently.

Supper was in the room. Salad and baked chicken, only in deference to what she now termed his sissy appetite. It didn’t matter what she ate, Rebecca was entranced. After he cleared away the dishes, he rubbed her feet until she was purring with delight as he found the exact place in her misshapen instep that cured all her pains.

He talked to her about the houses he had demolished, and then rebuilt, his eyes lively as he walked her through the process. She listened, and fell head over heels in love with this very special man.

In her heart, she’d always kept Christmas in a place far away from the rest of things. It was her talisman and her strength, but it wasn’t Christmas in her heart anymore. It was him. So rough and hard at times, so tender and awkward at others. They made love that night in front of the fire, and she watched him with selfish eyes, keeping him close and near.

She watched over him while he slept, uncurled his fists when the nightmares came. He woke her in the morning, early, before dawn, and slid inside her, warmer than the sun.

Monday continued as the day before. They made a snowman in the morning, made love in the afternoon. She fell asleep listening to Christmas carols. When she woke up early in the evening, Cory was waiting with a box.

No wrapping paper, no bow. Plain and unadorned.

“Got something,” he said, pushing it across the bed.

She lifted the lid and dug through the tissue paper, only to find…

A pair of wool socks with a neatly stitched pattern of snowflakes.

Rebecca began to cry.

Her mascara was running, she knew her mascara was running, and she couldn’t stop the silly tears from flowing down her cheeks, ruining the natural finish to her blush. Oh, heck.

“Don’t cry, Bec,” he said, which made her laugh in her tears, because Cory wasn’t a “Bec” guy. He didn’t use nicknames, didn’t use endearments, anything that would personalize anything.

Except for snowflake-patterned socks.

Which started her bawling all over again.

He pulled her into his arms, hardened, tough arms with work-roughened hands, and slowly he rocked her, like a child. It was done with a slow, hesitant movement, a man so unused to this. Unused to touch, unused to love.