Chapter 13
13
CARSON
“ W hat?” May glances around nervously, her cheeks the slightest shade of pink.
“Hmm?”
“You keep looking. Is there something in my teeth?” She reaches for her lips.
I take her hand and keep it in mine on the table. “You’re perfect.”
When her eyes meet mine, a smile turns the sweet corners of her lips. “Perfect?” The doubt and hope in her voice are almost too much to bear.
“Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
Her eyes widen.
“Sir, the 1946.” The waiter arrives with a bottle of wine and proceeds to uncork it.
“I mean it, May.” I squeeze her hand. “I need you to believe me. Do you?”
“I-I…” She licks her lips. “I want to.”
That’ll have to be enough for now. The minute she walked in wearing a sweet little dress, I couldn’t seem to get a grip on any words. But my hands knew what to do. I haven’t been able to stop touching her since we left my condo and headed to the restaurant. Even now, I’m off-kilter, my focus entirely on her when it’s usually on exits, windows, and any possible threats. Soft Christmas music plays in the background, happy tunes that go perfectly with the crisp air out in the city and the warm lighting in here. May looks right out of a holiday ad in her dress, pitch-perfect for the season. She’s almost too good to be true.
I lean closer, taking her in, watching the way her lips part, the way her eyes dazzle even in the low light. “Tell me about you, May. I want to know everything.”
“Everything?” She thanks the waiter for pouring our wine.
The restaurant is warm, the smell of rich food swirling around us. A hidden gem just a few blocks from Central Park on the East Side. But all I can focus on is her.
She takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m from California. My parents are teachers, though they’re both retired now. They joined some sort of old hippie commune and send me beads and weird stuff in the mail from time to time.” She smiles warmly. “I visit every summer and at holidays, and they’re happy, living in a yurt, farming, doing crafts.”
A good home life, then. That pleases me. I don’t want to think she’s ever suffered. “Christmas is only a few weeks away. Are you visiting them this year?”
“That’s the plan.” She nods. “Though I refuse to do the yurt thing.” She laughs. “There’s a nice hotel in the next town I stay at.”
“No commune for you, then?”
“Don’t worry,” she adds hurriedly. “It’s not, like, a religious cult or anything. No Kool-Aid on the menu. It’s just older people who want to lead simple lives and work together. I still live in the house where I grew up, though I’ve made it mine now. And the property beside it was falling into ruin, pretty much. I was able to buy it and repair it, and now it’s an animal shelter.”
“So, you work at the shelter?”
She frowns the slightest bit. “No. I mean, I’m on the board, and I provide all the help I can, but I try not to go inside too much. It’s … complicated.”
“Because you can hear them?” I squeeze her small hand.
She nods. “Yeah.” Her voice is lower now. “I used to go more. But sometimes it’s hard when they’re hurting or when their forever family hasn’t arrived yet. I comfort them as much as I can. It’s just … it can take a toll.”
“It’s all right. I understand.” The last thing I want to do is make her sad.
She clears her throat. “But like I said, I do what I can. I make decent money helping people with their pets, and a lot of that goes back into the shelter. But, I mean, the shelter needs more than I can give. We have other donors, but it’s still a struggle. Getting volunteers isn’t easy either.” She sighs. “It’s just ironic, I guess, that helping animals is my life’s work, but I can’t get too close, you know?”
“You’re doing more good than most people ever dream of doing. Don’t forget that. People are cruel–just as cruel to animals as they are to each other. You’re making a world of difference.”
Her smile returns. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Just take the compliment.”
“I’m not sure that’s my strong suit.”
“It should be. You’re gorgeous, smart, and you give your whole heart to helping others.” I hand her the glass of wine. “Have you always been able to hear the animals?”
She sniffs the red wine, then takes a sip. “Yes. My mom used to think I had lots of imaginary friends when I was a kid. Then she realized I really could hear cats.”
“How?”
“Umm, well, when I was about five or six, our neighbor’s cat went missing. He was an inside cat, but he snuck out when the dad left the back door open to take out the trash. They put up flyers all over the neighborhood, and a lot of us would go out after school or at night with flashlights to try and find him. Everyone knew Frenchie, that was his name. He was a tuxedo cat who’d sit in the front window of the house and watch everyone go by. Anyway, my parents and I were out looking after school about a week later, and I heard him.”
“Meowing or …”
“No, he wasn’t meowing. That was the thing about Frenchie, he had a birth defect that took his voice. The most he could ever do was sort of a grunt. But I heard him all the same. He was stuck in Mr. Byron’s basement. Mr. Byron was an older man who had two Dobermans. Somehow, Frenchie had squeezed his way into Mr. Byron’s basement–he told me later that he was chasing a lizard, trying to get back to his natural state as an apex predator or something. I think he’d been watching too many nature documentaries, but anyway, I heard him calling for help. He sounded so tired and sad. I told my mom. She listened intently but didn’t hear anything except the Dobermans barking in Mr. Byron’s yard. I insisted Frenchie was in the basement, that he was starving and needed help. I remember being so afraid that she wouldn’t believe me and it would be my fault if Frenchie didn’t make it out.”
I move closer to her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. The emotion in her voice is still somewhat raw, as if she remembers the whole thing so clearly–maybe a little too clearly.
She sighs and leans into me. “I think I made such a scene about it that my mom got scared. I cried. Kicked when she tried to pull me away. It was a whole drama.” She laughs a little. “When I wouldn’t stop screaming bloody murder, she finally gave in. Mr. Byron got his dogs locked away in a bedroom, and he found Frenchie just where I said he would be. After that, my parents believed me. Mom even did this whole genealogy thing to track our ancestors, hoping to find someone else with the same ability.”
“Did she?”
“Well, one of my great-great-great grandmothers was hanged as a witch in Scotland, so maybe?” She shrugs. “And I think that may have been the start of my parents getting more in touch with what they call ‘the shared divine.’ Not a religion or anything, just the belief that there’s more to our world than what we can see or hear. You know, the ‘woo-woo’ stuff.”
“So, you’re the reason they live in a yurt?” I tease.
She laughs, the sound breaking what remained of her tension in sharing about Frenchie. “Maybe so. But they’re happy, and that’s really all that matters to me. They spent their lives serving the community with their teaching, and they were always there for me. They deserve to live whatever life makes them content.”
Have I ever met someone with goodness written so large across their character? I can’t say I have. And something about it is beyond intoxicating. Maybe it’s because I’m so damn jaded. I don’t know, but I’m drawn to her like I’ve never been drawn to anyone before in my life.
“Did all that sound really weird?” She ducks her head.
“No.” I tilt her chin back up to me, her lips stained slightly red from the wine. “It sounds amazingly kind and brave. Do you intend to surprise me like this on the regular?”
“I surprise you?” Her gaze darts to my mouth.
“From the moment I saw you, yes.” There’s no lie in my words. Nothing is more true than my complete infatuation with this woman.
When she smiles again, I press my lips to hers, tasting the wine, her sweetness, her uniqueness. I get lost in it, swiping my tongue across hers as a low growl rumbles through my chest. She grips my shirt, holding on to me as I deepen the kiss, tasting and taking from this ethereal creature, this angel dropped in my lap.
The table moves, our server bringing our food, but I don’t stop kissing her, not until she’s breathless, her eyes dazed. My mind is likewise fogged, a haze of lust coating every bit of reason in my brain. If I don’t slow down, I’m going to scare her away. If I don’t slow down … I might never be able to stop.