Chapter 13 Gideon
Gideon
“What do you mean she read to you? Is this some kind of library kink?”
I shoot Rodrigo an irritated look as we leave the office and hurry to the subway. I’ve been trying to explain last night without admitting how fucking nice it was to fall asleep on Valencia, but Rodrigo keeps interrupting. “No, she read a book to me, and—never mind. Why do I tell you anything?”
“Because I’m your work husband.” Rodrigo blows me a kiss, but then his expression turns serious.
“Look, all kidding aside, this seems really fast. You’ve been spending every second with this woman, after not seeing her for nearly a decade, and the only thing you’ll say about that time is that you ‘weren’t really friends.
’” Even his air quotes look sarcastic. “Forgive me for worrying about your depressed ass.”
Rodrigo is too emotionally intelligent. It makes him a great friend—excuse me, a great work husband —but it means I can’t hide shit from him. After my father died, I’d probably have turned into a recluse who never left the apartment if it hadn’t been for Rodrigo.
But he’s right. Valencia and I are halfway through our list, and I can barely remember what my life was like before she came back into it. All I did was work, exercise, occasionally grab drinks with my colleagues—oh, and have weekly sessions with Ralph. Can’t forget those.
“Bailey moved in with you after a week,” I retort, because defensiveness is all I have at this point.
“That was different.”
“How?”
“It wasn’t official . He just never left. And don’t change the subject. Has Valencia shown signs that she wants to extend your kinky advent calendar past Christmas?”
I grit my teeth. “No.”
“Have you dropped hints?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Listen, I just don’t want you to get—”
“ Bye , Rodrigo,” I say pointedly, breaking off and jogging down the subway steps at Wall Street.
“Just ask her!” he yells, but I’m already underground.
I’m too nervous to do tonight’s activity under the influence, so Valencia is meeting me at my apartment before we go out for drinks. She arrives ten minutes after I do, and we get started right away.
I’ve done research, so I know to get Valencia revved up beforehand.
But to my surprise, when I show her the mini riding crop I bought, she insists I use my hand instead—on her ass and her tits.
I can’t lie, it’s kind of hot, but I’m afraid of hurting her, even though she assures me that I can smack her ass a little harder while I fuck her.
She, however, has no qualms about using the crop on me and turning my butt as red as Santa’s suit. But considering she’s also working my lubed cock with quick strokes of her fist, I barely notice.
Later, however, when we finally get into Rolf’s German Restaurant and take our seats on the high wooden bar stools, I’m definitely aware of the sting. Good thing tomorrow’s activity isn’t butt plugs. My ass needs a break.
Rolf’s is known for its bountiful Christmas decor and holiday cocktails.
Valencia orders the hot spiked cider, and I go for the vanilla-spiced eggnog with bourbon.
While she visits the restroom, I text a picture of the ceiling to Rodrigo.
It’s heavy with lights, baubles, plastic icicles, and vintage ornaments.
Porcelain dolls hover among the pine boughs like the restless ghosts of Victorian children.
I can’t deny that it’s atmospheric, somehow managing to be both cozy and overwhelming at the same time.
I hear Valencia’s voice a few minutes later. Out of the corner of my eye, I recognize who she’s talking to, and my blood runs cold.
It’s Fern Mulholland.
Fern’s hair is platinum now instead of brown, but her sprite-like face and smoky voice are unmistakable.
She’s farther down the bar with her arm around another woman.
I strain my ears and catch Fern introducing her date to Valencia.
Then Fern lets out a little laugh and says, “For a second I thought you were sitting with Gideon Noble.”
My body goes numb. There’s a long pause, and I fully expect Valencia to deny it. She has the perfect opportunity to say, “Of course not, don’t be silly,” and go, leaving me behind.
But Valencia, as always, is stronger than I give her credit for. “I am.”
Fern’s smile drops off her face comically fast. She blinks a few times, then whispers, “ Valencia. ”
There’s a wealth of feeling in the way she says the name, and it cuts me to the core. It would be easier if Fern launched into a litany of recriminations. But this one word, uttered with a combination of disbelief and censure and dismay, is a thousand times worse.
Because she doesn’t actually need to say anything. Valencia already knows. Hell, I know.
But Valencia still doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t deny me .
It warms the cold place deep inside me, moves me more than it should. If I had any decency, I’d get up now and leave. Not just the restaurant, but leave Valencia alone for good, like I tried to do in high school. She doesn’t need me and all my baggage weighing her down.
I sneak another glance while pretending to text, but all I can see is Fern’s concerned expression and the back of Valencia’s hair.
“Are you sure you know what you’re—”
“I’m fine .” Valencia says it firmly, and I would sell my soul to see her face right now. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
Fern’s features soften and she places a hand on Valencia’s arm. “I know. But I do anyway.”
Valencia’s posture eases almost imperceptibly. “You’re a good friend, Fern Mulholland.”
At that, Fern winces. “I’ll leave it to you to tell Ev about this.”
A chill goes down my back, and I’m relieved when Valencia shakes her head.
“I have nothing to say to him. Besides, it’s none of his business who I spend my time with.”
My chest swells with pride. Pride in Valencia for standing up for herself. And also, maybe, a bit for myself. To know that someone like Valencia Torres accepts me ... I don’t even have the words for what it means to me.
So I’ll just have to show her. Somehow.
But then Valencia says something that gives me what can only be described as a hot flash. “Why don’t you come over and say hi to him?”
My muscles tense as the two women approach. I greet Fern with a wary nod. “FernGully.”
She responds with an impish grin. “Hey, Knobble.”
I groan at the mocking childhood nickname, even though I had it coming. “God, I haven’t heard that one in years.”
“Always happy to remind you of what a scumbag you were,” she says cheerfully. “You take care of my girl here, all right?” Fern points two fingers at her eyes and then at me in an I’m-watching-you gesture. Then she gives Valencia a peck on the cheek and returns to her date.
I sag against the bar. “Well, that didn’t go as disastrously as it could have.”
Valencia takes her seat next to me. “I thought for sure she’d call you something worse.”
I nod, but seeing Fern is a reminder of our pasts, and glaring proof that we don’t exist in an eggnog-and-sex-soaked bubble.
Rodrigo’s parting words from earlier come back to me. Just ask her.
Rejection isn’t a death sentence, right? At least, that’s what Ralph always says. I take a deep breath and blurt out, “What are we doing here, Valencia?”
She glances up, her brow creased in confusion. “Having thirty-dollar drinks.”
“No, I mean, us. What are we doing? Together.”
Her expression turns guarded. “We’re working our way through our list.”
“And?” I need to know if she’s as invested as I am.
She toys with the thin gold bracelet circling her wrist. “I can only answer for myself. I’m here because I don’t want to be alone at Christmastime.
I’m here because, despite everything, you’re funny and hot and great in bed, and we have a good time together.
I’m here because we made a plan and it has been the bright spot in an otherwise dismal year, and I’m committed to seeing it through.
Beyond that?” She gives a tired shrug, and finally looks at me.
“I don’t know, Gideon. That has to be enough for now. ”
Her words are like an icicle in my chest, cold and sharp and deadly, but I only nod. Sure, her response was layered in compliments, but the bottom line was clear: Christmas Eve is our termination date.
I open my mouth—to say what, I have no idea—but she pins me with a steely look. “I have a question for you, too.”
I can already tell I’m not going to like it, but she answered me honestly, and I can only do the same. “Shoot.”
“What does your therapist think about us?”
I cough. “While I suspect Ralph doesn’t think it’s the smartest choice, he hasn’t come right out and said so.”
She taps her lip in thought. “I figured he wouldn’t agree with you making a sex pact with someone you used to hate.”
I frown. “I didn’t hate you.”
“No?” From her tone, I can tell this has been bothering her. I meet her gaze and try to let her see everything I’m feeling so there’s no misunderstanding.
“Never. Not even when you had the nerve to get prettier and more brilliant every year.”
Her lips press together like she’s fighting a grin. “Fine. But what about now? What did you think when you saw me at the bar?”
“Fishing for compliments?”
“Only if you mean them.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice and sliding one hand up the back of her cherry red sweater to cup her nape.
“I thought you had the sexiest fucking neck I’d ever seen, and that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so attracted to anyone.
And even if you laughed in my face, I needed to talk to you.
” I release her and sit back, but leave my hand at her waist. “And then you turned around.”
She laughs. “That must have been horrifying.”
Before I can say that it was probably the best moment of my life, the bartender plops our drinks down, and I don’t get the chance. Valencia insists we take a ton of photos, and when she’s satisfied with the results, we finally tap our glasses together and drink.
My eggnog is served in a wineglass with ice cubes and has a cinnamon stick floating on top. It’s creamy and strong and packed with holiday spices. We swap and I taste Valencia’s spiked cider—warm and tart—before I return to the topic at hand.
“All right, same question. What did you think when you saw me?” I’ve been wanting to know since the first night, and if all I have left with her are a handful of days, I might as well ask.
Her gaze flits over my face, soft as a caress. “That you’d grown up handsome. And there was ... I dunno, a vulnerability in you that hadn’t been there before.”
She always did see too much. Or maybe I’m not as good at hiding things as I thought.
“You used to hate me, too.” I don’t like saying it, but I feel compelled to get everything out in the open.
She shakes her head. “I actually didn’t. I resented how you treated me, but ... it was closer to pity than contempt.”
I groan. “I think that’s worse.”
“Is it?” Her compassionate tone makes me stop and consider.
Maybe it isn’t worse. Maybe it meant she saw underneath the sneering facade to someone who was insecure and scared and unhappy. Someone whose parents hadn’t done right by him, as Ralph often points out.
“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper, and her mouth twists.
“Gideon, I need to know ... Are you sure being with me isn’t some path to redemption or a manifestation of self-loathing?”
My stomach feels hollow. God, if that’s what she thinks, no wonder she doesn’t see a future for us. “No. Is that what it is for you?”
“I don’t hate myself, Gideon.” She says it gently, and the implication is that I do.
And honestly, I do hate myself for everything I said and did in an effort to be the son my father wanted me to be. What better way to spite my dead dad than to take up with the extraordinary girl who’d drawn his ire, the target of my own childish taunts? What better method of self-flagellation?
Except while I might hate what I did and who I’d been, I’m not here now out of some misguided attempt to get back at my father, and I’m not trying to fuck my way to forgiveness.
“So why are you here?” she asks softly, and I give the question due consideration.
The simplest answer is that I want to be.
Why? Because I like her. Beyond the physical attraction.
Beyond the combustible chemistry. I like her wit and her sharp mind.
I like her prim tone and her lusty sighs.
I like that she doesn’t shy away from what needs to be said or done, and I like that she’s practical and hardworking but also playful and fun.
The patient understanding in her eyes nearly masks the uncertainty lurking there. She’s so strong, but with a soft, caring, and compassionate heart beating beneath the armor. Once I would have sneered at it as a weakness, but now I know it’s her greatest strength.
I drag in a breath. Being vulnerable does not come easily to me, is in fact something I’ve avoided for nearly my whole life.
But I’m trying to change, right? To grow. To be better.
Even if this isn’t going anywhere, I promised to communicate. So I do.
“It’s you. I just like being with you.”
To my surprise, she scoffs. “No, you don’t. I’m a bossy smart-ass, remember? That hasn’t changed.”
“But I have,” I say seriously. “And the bossy smart-ass thing is a turn-on.”
She still looks skeptical, so I take her hand.
“What you said earlier, about not wanting to be alone for the holidays? It’s enough.” I hold her gaze as I press a slow kiss to her knuckles. “For now.”
It isn’t, but if she doesn’t want to pursue this any further, I have to be okay with it.
Even if it destroys me, as Ralph seems worried it will.
The bartender asks pointedly if we want anything else, so we take that as our cue to leave. Outside, a light snow has started to fall, and I order a car for Valencia. If left to her own devices, she’ll walk, and if I bring her home, I’ll try to stay.
After the conversation we just had, I think we both need space.
I’m warming her hands between my own when her car arrives, and then I lean down to kiss her forehead. “Until tomorrow.”
She nods and squeezes my hand. “I’ll meet you at Rockefeller Center.”
As I’m getting into my own taxi, I realize we haven’t rated any of our activities in days.
I don’t let myself read anything into it. Instead, I text Rodrigo.
She said no.