Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
CELESTE
The house is bare. Compared to Quinton and Maisey’s home, it feels dull. And for the first time in years, I feel the urge to decorate. To see this holiday, one that’s caused our family nothing but hurt, in a different light. My phone lights up with an incoming call.
Marie.
“Hi! How are you?” I answer, sliding onto a kitchen stool.
“Celeste, it’s so good to hear your voice. How are things going with your father?”
I pause to find something to say that doesn’t sound like I’m barely holding this house together. Literally and figuratively. “It’s going, I guess. I’m no cook, but I think he’s fed and watered appropriately.” I add a little chuckle to lighten the fact that I’m not great at this like Marie is.
“Oh hon, nobody expects you to be everything to everyone, everywhere. That’s not what I was asking. Has he deteriorated any more since I left?”
I can hear the guilt in her voice.
And I do my best not to associate my part in this with the fact that Hank Black has, in fact, been having fewer lucid moments and has been more upset lately than I ever remember.
“He has, a little. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. Just the disease. Maybe I should come back?”
For a beat I desperately want her to.
But that’s just another selfish thought. One I should be strong enough to tamp out.
“Nope. I’ve got this, Marie. You’ve spent enough time taking care of our family. I promise if things get tough, I’ll find more help.”
“Okay . . . you sure?”
The line stays silent for a moment before I set my shoulders back. “I’m sure. Enjoy your time. You’ve more than earned it.”
“In that case, consider me your backup plan.”
“I will. And Marie?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Thank you for loving us,” I say softly, the words strangled a little as my throat tightens.
“I made a promise to your mother, and I was happy to. Love you, hon.”
“Love you, too.”
The line goes dead, and I set my phone on the countertop. It’s so good to hear her voice. Marie always felt like our second mother. And didn’t that come with its own messed-up set of baggage? Which brings me back to the first thought I had before she rang.
This house looks lifeless.
I slip off the stool and wander around the big old home. And with every step I take, I notice more and more things that need maintenance or replacing. Dust covers every flat surface, and a few webs have bloomed in the archway leading to the corridor that meets the front door.
Right.
Well, if I’m going to own this new phase of my life and step up for my father and myself, this pity party I’ve been throwing myself ends now.
The cleanup phase starts this second. And maybe after I give every room and every corner of this old house the once-over, I can leave some baggage behind. Maybe even toss it out with some of the old crap I’m sure has been hoarded since Mom died.
When I reach the sunroom, I find Dad in his reading chair, asleep. Where he is more often than not. His routine is becoming more and more simple by the day, despite his needs increasing.
With him settled, I get to work. Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, I grab large garbage bags and cleaning products. Rags and some polish, too.
I start on the living room, making my way around the space.
I leave the corner the tree sits in ’til last. The hardwood floor is littered with pine needles, fallen from the neglected tree.
Another thing that needs some TLC. I sweep away the mess and water the tree.
But somehow it still looks sad. I’m sure Maise would be annoyed with my lame decorating attempt.
Maybe I can ask her for help bringing this tree to life.
I flick a text to Quinton asking just that.
When he replies that she would love to and is free Saturday, my face stretches with a smile that I feel all the way to my bones.
I can feel the weight lifting already.
The house is spotless. Me, however, not so much.
I strip the filthy clothes from my body and turn on the shower.
Dad is in bed, out like a light again after a good dinner of roast beef, root vegetables, and steamed greens.
I’m getting better at cooking up the basics, at least. His cocktail of meds for dessert had him sleepy in front of the television, which made moving him to his room difficult.
But he’ll sleep like the dead ’til early morning now.
Which is convenient, since I’m exhausted and in desperate need of a shower.
I can practically hear my bed and book calling my name.
Bare, I step into the steaming stream of water.
“Oh, that’s so good.”
I roll my head, letting the heated spray massage my neck and tight shoulders.
Pumping some shampoo into my hand, I lather it up before sliding it through my long, dark locks. It smells amazing, all apples and raspberries. It’s always been my favorite.
It was Mom’s. The one she used when we were kids.
If you associate memories with smell, then this scent is my mother, tangled in with every hug, every time she carried me when I was small or upset. The times she would lay in my bed to help me fall asleep or when I had a nightmare.
She’s entrenched in my childhood. And in the person I’m becoming.
The pipework groans. I glance at the tile like I can see through it to the source of the noise.
When the tap whines and spurts out freezing water, I scream.
“Ah! Fuck. What the hell!”
I sidestep the icy water, grabbing for the tap, desperate to turn it off.
Instead, my footing slips in the shampoo suds, and my ass meets the now-freezing tile.
“FUCK.”
Shivering, I clamber onto all fours. Every breath is staccato and burning as the deluge of water continues to freeze me to the bone, rendering me unable to move out of it fast enough.
Thundering footsteps close in down the hallway.
Glancing at the doorway, I haul my trembling limbs from the shower, one after the other. And when I come nose to toe with steel caps, my skin flushes with embarrassment.
At least I’m warmer.
“What the hell happened?” He squats, wrapping me in a towel.
I’m too cold to answer him, my teeth chattering to the point of chipping.
“Fuck, you’re freezing.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious. He hauls me to my feet, crushing me to his chest, his arms wrapping around my back as I stand dripping all over his boots. My hair is caked with suds.
“Your hot water crap out?” he says, eyeing the shower, still spluttering.
“S-some-fink, l-like dat.” My teeth crash into each other.
With a groan, the water ebbs to a miserable dribble before stopping altogether.
“F-fuck,” I mutter.
“I’ll take a look at it in the morning. You want to try the downstairs bathroom?”
He releases me and takes a step back.
And I’m just standing here, his gaze traveling my body the only source of warmth I have. A girl should be grateful for that, I guess.
“S-sure.”
“To save wandering around in the cold, I’ll go and check if it’s functional. If not, my place.”
Before I have a chance to object, he’s out the door. Hurried, thundering steps fall down the stairs. Still freezing, I grab another towel from the rack and slide it over my shoulders and sink onto the bathmat, crossing my legs and leaning over to conserve warmth.
I have to rinse my hair out, or it will be impossible in the morning.
A beat later, my flannel-clad neighbor is leaning on my bathroom doorframe. “No-go downstairs, I’m afraid. Get dressed and bring something warm, you can use my bathroom.”
When my eyebrows rise dangerously close to my hairline, he adds, “The guest bathroom downstairs, Celeste. Don’t get too excited.” The stupid grin on his face sees me screw my own face up at him.
If my mood was any less stable, I’d poke my tongue out at him.
He steps inside the bathroom and extends a hand to me.
I take it. It’s so warm. So big. It folds around mine as I pull myself to my feet. “Just give me a minute.”
“Your dad’s okay?”
“Yeah, asleep. He should be out for hours.”
“I’ll wait downstairs.”
“Sure, thanks.”
He hesitates before stepping out of the bathroom. And it’s only after he’s left the cold space that I realize he must have heard me scream and come running.
Oh wow, that was . . .
Sweet?
The last word I’d associate with Quinton MacKelvie—at least, as per my original assessment of the grump next door.
Five minutes later, I’m bundled up and have a toiletry bag of essentials, ready for a deliciously hot shower. I’m more than ready to thaw my bones after the last ten minutes. Closing the door and locking it just in case, I walk across the snowy ground from my porch to Quinton’s.
His is lit up like the North Pole, waiting for Santa to come home from a late-night flight. Just in case Rudolph loses his way . . .
Inside, he shows me to the guest bathroom and pulls the door shut tight.
Turning on the water, I’m elated to find it’s almost scorching. I spend an inordinate amount of time letting my bones melt in the sweltering heat. As if that will erase the frigid fright I got or the fact that Quinton saw me naked on the floor . . .
And despite the heat circulating around the small space, my face heats further. How embarrassing. Is this going to make things super awkward now?
I finish up and dress, taking my time to brush out my hair and fix it into a long plait. A small knock rattles the door.
“CC, is that you?” a small voice says.
“Maise? You still up?”
“Daddy said I could say goodnight.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll be out in a sec.”
Bundling my things back into the bag, I open the door. Maisey is in her reindeer pajamas, her hair braided, big eyes looking up as she slams into me. Her arms wrap around my waist, her face smooshed into my stomach. “Night, CC.”
Her muffled words vibrate through my belly.
“Righto, little miss. Bedtime.” Quinton’s low tone sees Maise peel away, a little pout on her face before she schools it back.
“One more thing,” she says, beckoning me down to her level with a finger.
“What is it, sweetheart?” I bend down, and she closes in like we’re about to exchange secrets.
“There’s mistletoe under the kitchen door,” she whispers, loud enough for us all to hear.
I glance to Quinton, whose face is straining to stay neutral.
“Okay, don’t tell your dad. We’ll make it a surprise.”
“He totally didn’t notice yet.”
“Mum’s the word.”
Her eyes light up as she nods quickly, lips pursed.
I kind of feel bad putting ideas into her head.
But it’s not like it didn’t almost happen.
And sometimes you just need a little hope, right?
But the second the thought passes, I realize that getting her hopes up is cruel.
She’s so young, she probably has dreams of her father finding someone that will become part of their life permanently.
There’s nothing permanent about my existence.
Shit.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
Before I can take back what I said, Quinton is ushering her up the stairs and to bed.
God, I’m a horrible human being. Planting ideas and dreams in the heads of young children, only so they can be ripped away . . .
May as well be the grinch.
I consider ducking out without saying goodnight, but that would be worse.
So I wait at the front door, bag in hand, gaze on the floor as I reprimand myself for my reckless stupidity with a little girl’s heart.
“Must be an interesting patch of floor.” His words are soft, low.
He clears his throat.
“Huh? Yeah, about before, I’m sorry if I gave Maisey the wrong ide—”
“The only wrong anything with this scenario is the doorway you’re standing by.”
“Right, she’s going to expect that now.”
I am truly an idiot.
“She’s not the only one,” he says, a grin widening his lips.
And my gaze is stuck on them.
The silence turns to tension-filled white noise as I raise my eyes to meet his. “Qui—”
“It’s okay, Celeste. I don’t . . .” He rubs a hand behind his neck, his gaze searching the room. “Nightcap?”
Tugging my bottom lip through my teeth, I shift on my feet before nodding. “Sure.”
I drop my bag by the door, and he leads me into the living room. The fireplace crackles away, two stockings resting on the rustic wooden mantle above it. The entire room is bordered by garland and trimmed with strings of fairy lights.
Maisey sure went all out on this space.
“She loves Christmas so much, doesn’t she?” I wander to the mantle, running my fingertips over the soft fabric of the stocking with Maisey’s name on it. How long has it been since our family exchanged gifts? I can’t remember. But a long time, that’s for sure.
“She does. Easter and Fourth of July, too. My girl is big on events and the people she shares them with.”
I glance back as he pours two fingers of something amber into two glasses. “That’s incredible, Quinton.”
Handing me a glass, he comes to stand by my side in front of the fire with a chuckle. “Tell that to my wallet.”
“Oh, I bet.” I take a sip. A slight burn continues all the way down, warming me from the inside.
“You still need help with your tree?”
“Um, yes. I could use Maisey’s talent. Our house looks . . .” I gaze at the flickering flames. “We haven’t done Christmas for years.” The last phrase is almost a whisper.
“You have the power to change that, you know.”
I know.
“I guess.”
“Cel—”
“I should get home.”
I hand him the empty glass with a soft “thank you.” He simply nods, rooted to the spot, a glass in each hand as I head for the front door.
When I reach the door, I hesitate, plucking my bag from the floor where I left it.
“Stop.” The word is gravel and a little harsh.
I still like a deer in headlights, softening as he closes in. His sandalwood and spice hems me in by the door. My back hits it as my gaze is once again trained to his lips. He studies my face, a hand sliding across my cheek and into my hair. “Fuck, CC.”
I huff out a strained breath.
My chest plummets with a fiery inhale with the electricity that sparks and travels through me with his touch.
“I really want to kiss you,” he rasps.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he waits for a response.
“We can’t . . .”