Eight Christmas Eves (13 page)

She remembered
how he’d been looking at her as she’d been sleeping.

And she
realized something. Something that changed everything.

She was
suddenly overwhelmed with a flood of joy and recognition. She had to act on it
and, since she couldn’t say anything to reveal what she now knew, she just
threw herself toward Cyrus in an enthusiastic hug.

He responded
immediately, hugging her back and laughing at the spontaneous gesture. But she
felt a neediness in his clutching grip that she’d never noticed before.

She understood
now. She
understood
. He’d lied to her before, a lie that was supposed to
protect her. He
did
think about her that way. He
did
want her
that way. He just thought he wasn’t supposed to.

And that was
understandable, given their history. That was something that could change.

He loved her.
She knew he loved her. And, what was more, he
wanted
her. He wouldn’t be
able to hold on to his resistance forever.

She loved him
too. She wanted him. But she could wait until he was ready.

Things were
different now, but she was still Helen. And she was still with the same man on
Christmas Eve. The man she knew intimately, trusted unquestionably, and loved
deeply. The man who had found her on the side of the road exactly ten years
ago.

Things were
only likely to get better from here on out—which meant it was a pretty good
Christmas Eve after all.

today

Cyrus was swelteringly hot,
torturously itchy, and incredibly uncomfortable.

He would have
liked to say he had no idea how he’d gotten roped into doing such a ludicrous
activity, but he was acutely aware of why he’d agreed to something he never
would have agreed to under normal circumstances.

Normal
circumstances had completely flown out the window ever since Helen had entered
his life.

When he was
finally able to leave the festivities, he headed into a room in the back where
he could he change out of his costume. He cringed when he glanced in a mirror
and saw himself—long white wig, thick white beard, fake glasses, fuzzy red
pants and jacket, and a very unfortunate big red hat.

Santa Claus.
Helen had actually convinced him to dress up like Santa and give out books to a
bunch of children he didn’t know. She’d said it would be good for him, which hadn’t
been an argument that held much weight with Cyrus. Then she’d said it would
make her really happy, which was a much stronger argument as far as he was
concerned. Then she’d looked sad when he’d continued to tell her no, so he’d
reluctantly agreed.

Her smile had
been so bright and glowing at his acquiescence that the physical and emotional
discomfort was almost worth it.

Almost.

He took off his
Santa hat, glasses, wig, and beard. Then he wiped some of the perspiration from
his face, exhaling in relief.

Helen had
started a foundation with her inheritance from Mac, which she’d come into
possession of earlier that year when she turned twenty-one. One of the programs
the foundation had sponsored this year was an early literacy program for
low-income families in D.C. aimed at providing books and encouraging families
to read with their children.

For some
reason, Helen had taken on herself the responsibility for finding the sucker
who would dress up like Santa to give the books to children at the Christmas
program.

Which meant, of
course, that Cyrus was the sucker.

But it was over
now, at least. And Helen had been bubbling over with excitement, joy, and
amusement for the last two hours. So there was that too.

Cyrus was about
to shed his big red jacket when the door of the little room flew open without
benefit of a knock.

“Hey,” he
objected, “A little privacy, please. I was changing clothes.”

“Sorry,” Helen
said, still grinning with a lovely, luminous glow. “I’ll close the door then.”

She did close
the door, but she didn’t leave the room first. Instead, she flung herself at
him with an exuberant hug. “You were wonderful,” she said, her voice muffled by
the fuzzy red fabric at his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Cyrus.”

He hugged her
back, frustrated that he couldn’t really feel her because of his thick costume
and the amount of padding he wore beneath the jacket to widen his girth. The
discomfort of the last hour vanished in the absolute sincerity of her gratitude
and enjoyment.

He would do a
lot more than dress up as Santa if it would make Helen happy.

“Was it too
bad?” she asked, pulling away from him at last. She wore a red velvet jacket,
stylish jeans, ankle boots, and an elf cap on her long hair.

She looked
utterly irresistible.

“I managed to
muddle through,” he replied, feigning grumbling. “You better appreciate it. And
you’re going to owe me for a long time.”

She just
laughed and helped him unbutton the jacket, pulling it off his shoulders with
more enthusiasm than care. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You just owe me a
little bit less.”

She didn’t wait
for a reply, just dropped the jacket on the floor and then busily started
working on unfastening his padding. When she’d gotten the padding off him, he
was left wearing a white t-shirt, oversized red pants, and black suspenders.

He gazed down
at her, feeling something tugging at his heart that was very familiar to him.

She glanced up
at him, laughter still flickering in her eyes, but her expression changed when
she saw his face. Her eyes softened. Her mouth softened. Her hands grew still
on his chest, her fingers curling around his suspenders.

Cyrus told
himself to be very careful. To be
very
careful. He was approaching an
incredibly dangerous situation, and the hunger in his body and his heart would
only lead him where he’d vowed not to go.

Helen swayed
toward him, turning her face up toward his. Her green eyes were full of
affection and what looked like desire, and her full lips had parted slightly.

Cyrus’s
conscientious resolutions disintegrated, and he leaned toward her with a
muffled groan. Her arms flew up around his neck without hesitation, and she
pressed her little body against his as he sank into a kiss.

His body hummed
with excitement, feeling, and desire, and he tangled his hands in her long,
soft hair. Her mouth was very eager against his, and she enthusiastically
rubbed her breasts and hips against him, causing his body to tighten with
delicious need.

When he felt
his groin hardening dangerously, he jerked his mouth away, unwrapping her arms
from his neck and taking a few clumsy steps back.

He gasped as he
tried to pull himself together and rein in the need he couldn’t seem to
control.

Helen looked
even more delicious than before, with her hair mussed, her cap askew, and her
cheeks deeply flushed. “Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all. “You looked
so yummy still half-dressed as Santa I couldn’t resist.”

He swallowed
and tried to speak, but couldn’t make himself say anything coherent.

This was happening
far too often. For the last few months, they’d been kissing more and more
frequently. Helen would act like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was completely
natural for them to stop and kiss without warning and without explanation. She
never wanted to talk about it—she’d just go about her business afterwards.

And Cyrus was
having trouble remembering why kissing her was so wrong.

On her
twenty-first birthday, he’d gone way too far. They’d gone out to dinner with
friends and his dad to celebrate. When he’d taken her home, she suggested he
stick around to watch a movie, and he’d seen no reason to refuse. Helen had
cuddled up beside him on the couch. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened,
even though he’d tortured himself by going through every detail in his mind
over and over again afterwards.

They’d just
suddenly started to kiss, and he hadn’t been strong enough to pull away like he
should. So the kissing had deepened. And soon she was straddling his lap and he
was pushing up her top so he could stroke and then suckle her breasts. She was
writhing and moaning with pleasure at his touch, and the sound was absolutely
intoxicating. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t
stop
. Until he’d slipped a
hand beneath the waistband of her pants and stroked her intimately.

He could still
remember how she’d felt—warm and wet and clinging. She’d gasped with increasing
urgency as he’d caressed her. And then she was shuddering, shaking, crying out
with release as she came hard around his fingers.

She’d collapsed
on him afterwards, hot and gasping and pliant. And he’d had to admit to
himself—even through the desperate haze of his lust—that he was holding
everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever needed, everything he’d ever
loved in his arms.

But then he’d
remembered he couldn’t have her. She’d always been a kid to him, and it was
just wrong to bring her to shuddering climax like that. She’d always been
small, bright, precious, innocent—he shouldn’t be thinking about her in any
other way.

So he’d had to
thrust her off him and scramble to his feet, hard and hot and sweating. He’d
had to leave her alone, even though he knew it would hurt her.

He’d expected
her to be angry with him. Wasn’t sure she’d be able to forgive him for treating
her like that. But the next morning she’d acted like it had never happened and
had been her normal, cheerful, affectionate self.

Six months ago,
he’d been sure he was right to resist. Helen could never be his—not the way he
wanted. Life wouldn’t give him everything.

But now he just
wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem so wrong, and he couldn’t quite remember all of his
well-rehearsed arguments about why he had to resist even thinking about her
that way.

He wasn’t even
sure when he’d stopped thinking of her as a kid, but he definitely didn’t
anymore.

“So do you
think it went well?” she asked, breaking into his reverie.

Cyrus blinked.
The kiss had definitely gone well, but he wasn’t quite sure that’s what she was
asking.

“The Christmas
program,” she added. “Do you think it went well?”

“Yes,” he said,
honestly. “The children and parents all seemed to enjoy it, and you all were
able to give out a remarkable number of books.”

She beamed at
him. “I think it went well too.”

Cyrus was
sometimes awed by Helen. He knew exactly what kind of neglected, isolated
childhood she’d had, and he couldn’t imagine how she’d turned into such a
generous, compassionate woman. She’d poured all of her passion and intellect
into her foundation, and he knew it would accomplish so much good for so many
years simply because of who she was.

He’d never be
good like she was.

She sighed and
her expression changed. For a moment, she looked almost poignant. “I’ve been
thinking about my parents a lot today—maybe it was watching so many different
kinds of parents with their children. I’m so glad I still remember them. It’s
important to me to know that…” She trailed off, suddenly looking a little
self-conscious.

“To know what?”
he prompted softly, strangely touched by her confession.

“To know that
they loved me.”

Cyrus gazed at
her for a long time, forgetting about the setting, forgetting that he was still
wearing the damned Santa pants, suspenders, and boots.

“You know I
love you too, don’t you?” he asked, the question voiced spontaneously and
without conscious volition.

Her lips parted
slightly, and her eyes seemed to glisten with tears. Then she grinned. “Yeah.
I’ve known that for a while.” After a pause, she added, “You know I love you
too, right?”

His chest
almost ached with the feeling, but the words weren’t a surprise, although she’d
never said them before.

He had no idea
why, but he’d known she loved him.

And he told
himself he was allowed to love her.

They’d always
been almost like family.

She reached out
to hug him, and he hugged her back, able to feel her soft body against him now that
the padding was gone.

As she drew
away, he couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d been wrong all this time. As
miraculous and unthinkable as it seemed, maybe he wasn't just allowed to love
her. Maybe he was allowed to love her all the way.

***

“I’ve got the best present for
you,” Helen said to Drake Owen as they were all getting up after Christmas Eve
dinner. She grinned at him endearingly. “I can’t wait to see you open it.”

“Please tell me
it’s not another Christmas sweater,” he drawled, his eyebrows arching
alarmingly.

Cyrus chuckled,
enjoying his father’s consternation and Helen’s teasing smile.

“Oh no,” she
said, her eyes wide. “It’s much, much better than that.”

His father
groaned, and Cyrus laughed again.

“You’ll have to
wait until tomorrow morning to open it,” she said. She stepped over and then
stretched up to kiss his father on the cheek affectionately. “Merry Christmas,
you magnificent man.”

His father’s
face softened, just momentarily. Cyrus wouldn’t have even seen it if he hadn’t
been specifically looking for it. “It’s about time you recognized my remarkable
qualities,” he murmured dryly, smiling down at Helen. “Merry Christmas, my
dear.”

Helen’s face
was fond and laughing as she looked up at his father, and it got even softer
when she shifted her gaze over to Cyrus. “I’m going to change clothes before
our movie,” she told him before she turned to leave.

Cyrus watched
her as she walked away, her red-gold hair long and shiny down her back and the
curve of her ass lush and full. He had no idea how it had happened, but over
the last twelve Christmases, she had done something miraculous to his life, to
his father’s.

He had no idea
who or what either of them would be without her.

He was so
distracted by the warm emotions that he forgot to guard his expression, and all
of his feeling must have been reflected on his face.

When he turned
back, his father was arching his eyebrows quizzically.

Cyrus fought a
flush of self-consciousness but didn’t say anything.

“How long do
you think that woman will wait for you?”

Cyrus blinked,
taken completely by surprise.

His father
didn’t wait for an answer. “She’s been remarkably patient with your
unforgivable vacillation, but she’s going to soon give up and find a man who
isn’t afraid to take what he wants.”

“Dad,” Cyrus
said hoarsely, suddenly overwhelmed with confusion. He never confided in his
father. He never confided in anyone but Helen. At the moment, however, he
needed to talk to someone. “I don’t know—“

“You
do
know,” his father interrupted sharply. His expression was highly displeased.
“You simply won’t act. And she deserves so much better than that.”

“I know she
deserves better,” Cyrus gritted out, “Why do you think I’m reluctant?”

“You are not in
the position to decide for her what’s best for her. You only decide for
yourself. It doesn’t matter what she deserves. It matters what she wants. And,
for some ungodly reason, she wants you.”