Connor’s mother obviously had very good taste. Maybe it was her artist’s eye that had led her to choose these things, so different from the cheerful chaos of eclectic ornaments that decorated Sydney’s family’s Christmas tree.
By some unspoken agreement, Connor and I started hanging up the larger glass balls first, using them to create a sort of framework that we could fill in later with the smaller pieces. We worked without talking, focusing on the task at hand. Earlier he’d put on what sounded like a New Age holiday station, and the music played quietly in the background, mingling with the crackling of the fire.
As I moved I was far too conscious of him only a few feet away. We took care to maintain a safe distance between us, as if we both knew that a single touch would cause us to flare up hotter than the fire blazing in the hearth on the other side of the room.
I’d just reached up to hang one of those glittering mirrored ornaments from a high branch when a flicker of movement outside the window caught my eye. Lowering my hand, I squinted into the darkness outside. There it was again, a pale splotch against the black night. Then another, and another.
“It’s snowing!” I cried, and ran to the window, ornament still dangling from my fingers.
“You sound like a kid hoping for a snow day,” Connor said, hanging up the bell he held before coming to stand next to me and peer outside. “It’s just snow. We get a lot of it around here.”
“Well, we don’t in Jerome,” I replied, watching as the white flakes drifted down, swirling in a wind I couldn’t feel. It wasn’t entirely dark outside, of course; there were street lamps at regular intervals, and occasionally a car would go past, presumably running late to some Christmas Eve get-together or another. “It snows every once in a while, but it doesn’t last long. And Adam — that is, our weather-worker tries not to meddle with it too much. A couple of years ago, he tried to give us a white Yule, and the snow piled up so high it actually broke some basement windows.”
Connor’s lips twitched. “Well, it definitely snows here. Tomorrow morning you’ll get to see it piled up on every street corner.”
“You sound so jaded.”
“I was born here.” He shook his head. “Come on — we’re almost done with the tree. And then there are those tarts to eat.”
Truthfully, I couldn’t see as much as I would if it were daylight, so I let myself be persuaded to go back to the tree decorating. A few more minutes, and then it was pretty much done, except for the star to go on top.
That was a beautiful piece, made of cunningly twisted brass wire in delicate filigree designs, the sort of thing that looked as if it had been purchased from a local artisan. You didn’t see ornaments like that at your local big-box store. Connor had pulled the star out of the box earlier and set it aside. It was sitting on the coffee table, waiting to be set on the top of the tree.
We both reached for it. Maybe I could have pulled my hand back in time…maybe not. It was as if some part of me didn’t want to stop…wanted this to happen.
Our fingers touched. That same heat rushed over me, flooded every limb, every vein, sent the pulsing desire into raging life right in the center of me, into that emptiness I wanted filled. Filled with him.
For a second our eyes met. His seemed to glow almost as bright green as mine, and then we were falling to the rug, his weight on top of me, his mouth on mine. I opened to him, let him taste me, tasted the faint sweetness of cherry sauce and rosé wine on his tongue. My arms tightened around him, and I felt his hand drift up my waist, cup my breast, his touch so warm, even through my bra and camisole and sweater.
And then he paused, gaze locked on mine. His breath came harsh and ragged, just as it had that first night he had kissed me and awakened our bond. “Angela…are you sure?”
I didn’t have the power of speech in that moment. I only knew that I needed him, wanted him, and I didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore. Moving away from him then was as impossible as escaping the pull of a black hole.
Wordlessly, I nodded.
“Then I don’t want to do this here.” He let go of me, but only briefly, just so he could scoop me up in his arms and lift me from the floor, carry me up the stairs to his room.
It was colder there, away from the fire, but that didn’t matter, as the heat was still pounding in my veins, seeming to burn me from the inside. He set me down on the bed, and then he was on me again, mouth so sweet against mine, hands moving down my body so he could pull off the cardigan and lift the camisole over my head, unhook the fastener on the front of my bra.