Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Molly dug through the cardboard box Caleb had hauled from the closet in the hall and produced yet another crocheted snowflake.
She settled it amongst the Christmas tree’s sparse branches and avoided eye contact with Caleb, just as she’d done since breakfast. There’d been a moment while he was cooking when he’d looked at her and she saw something that looked an awful lot like regret flash behind his eyes.
Not that it mattered. With any luck, they’d be back on the road by the following morning and they could forget all about the temporary insanity that had gripped them the night before—insanity to think it was a good idea to cross that line with Caleb.
Insanity to think you can forget it.
Who was she kidding? She knew she’d never forget it.
Just like she’d never forget the disappointment of waking up alone, or the shock of finding him in the morning beaming with pride at this scraggly tree, his hair sleep tousled, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—the sluttiest accessory any man could wear.
And that damn collar. It shouldn’t make him hotter, but she didn’t make the rules, and it absolutely did, even if it was the symbol of his vow to not do the very thing they’d done the night before.
But if Caleb wanted to pretend nothing happened, then that’s what they would do. Even if he had gone out into the snow and chopped down a Christmas tree for her… It was probably for the best anyway.
“How did you even know where to look for Christmas ornaments?” she asked, determined to keep their conversation PG-rated.
“I took a leap of faith,” he said. “Those aren’t the only decorations in the closet. There’s a whole box of leprechaun hats and shamrocks. And one that must be for bachelorette parties.”
“Why? What’s in that box?”
He hesitated, a burst of pink blooming across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Inflatable penises. So many inflatable penises.”
She laughed, the sound pouring out of her at his beleaguered sigh. “Please tell me there were penis straws too.”
“I didn’t look.”
“I bet you anything there are penis straws.”
He pressed his lips together like he was trying not to laugh, then turned on his heel and marched into the hall.
Molly continued gingerly hanging ornaments from the tree as she listened to him shuffling through boxes in the hall closet.
A moment later, he returned, a shiny pink plastic penis straw sticking out of one corner of his mouth.
He grinned around the straw. “You would have won that bet.”
She threw her head back and laughed. The joy of seeing Caleb like this—playful and warm and free—was almost overwhelming. His eyes locked on her, tracing the curve of her cheek. And was that a twinkle in his eye?
Come on, God. First the glasses and now a twinkle? You’re not playing fair.
“What do I get for winning?”
“I didn’t actually take the bet, so I’m pretty sure we both win.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. What do you get for winning?”
“This,” he said, tossing aside the penis straw and handing her another ornament. “You, happy.”
“Isn’t that something I get?”
He shrugged. “Like I said. We both win.” She turned her attention to the snowman ornament, focusing too intently on making sure it hung just right amongst the branches.
It was easier when they were joking, laughing, like they’d done so many times before.
Until it wasn’t. Until the light shifted, highlighting the fullness of his bottom lip, the strong line of his nose, and suddenly she wasn’t sure how she was going to get through another twenty-four hours without touching him again.
His heat at her back raised goosebumps at the nape of her neck.
He didn’t touch her, but she felt him all the same, like the space between two magnets, an invisible, tangible thing.
He reached past her shoulder and hung another glass ball on the tree, moving closer, the space between them shrinking infinitesimally, but enough that she sensed it.
His voice was low when he spoke, all the earlier mirth drained away and replaced with something else. Nerves maybe. Hesitation. “I like making you happy.”
She felt his words everywhere, the sandpaper rasp of them across her skin so sweet she wanted more.
Molly straightened the snowman again, not that it needed it, and slowly turned towards him, though she kept her gaze on her own hands as she fidgeted with her fingers.
Maybe it would be easier if they talked about it, if they looked this thing between them straight in the eyes instead of catching glimmers of what it might be.
“You already make me happy, Caleb. Last night... even if it can never happen again... I am happy.”
He took another step towards her, his eyes dark and his brow furrowed as he studied her. Each inch he moved closer felt more ominous and more right than the last. If she extended her pinky, she’d be touching him. God, how she wanted to touch him.
“You don’t look happy.”
“I can be happy and sad at the same time. I contain multitudes.”
He reached up and moved a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips linger on the back of her neck. Her skin sparked in its wake. “Why are you sad?”
She swallowed around the lump forming in her throat. “Because now I know how it could be, and I need to forget.”
“I don’t want you to forget.” The roughness of his voice scratched at her skin. “I won’t forget.”
She blinked up at him, his hazel eyes so earnest. Had she misunderstood his hesitance? “Last night, I had the best dream,” she said softly.
“Me too.” His voice was too deep, too ragged, and it invited her to drown in it.
“I wish I was still dreaming.”
He dug his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up to him as she rested her hands on his chest. He was glorious like this. Open and intriguing, and yet somehow hard, determined. Like he’d cradle her and keep her warm even as he broke her heart.
She didn’t want to ask the question twisting in her gut, but she had to. “What about your vows?”
“I’ve already broken my vows. I break them every time I look at you. Every time I think about you,” he said, gravel in every word.
Her chest ached at the tortured scrape of his confession, and yet it also sent that fizzy feeling racing through her blood. Like possibility. Like the calm before immeasurable pleasure. She swallowed, wetting her lips, and a strange sort of power pulsed within her when he clocked the movement.
He skated his lips over her temples, her eyelids. “Maybe this whole place is a dream.”
Her fists bunched in the fabric of his shirt, holding him close, confirming for herself he was real.
“We could have another day,” she breathed.
“Just until we go home.” The thought sent off a riot of protests in her gut even as it turned her insides to fire, a mass of longing and need so potent nothing else mattered.
“I have nothing to offer you, Molly.” Each word was more tormented than the last, as though this were truly the darkest of his confessions. “My life is not my own. Not yet. I want to give you everything, but—”
“I know.”
She was all too aware there was no future for them, that every moment they spent even entertaining the idea of more was madness. But knowing didn’t stop her from wanting him, even if it could only be a few stolen moments.
He backed her up, the scraggly Christmas tree shaking in its stand as she made contact with the wall. With one hand planted on the wall by her head, he ghosted the other over her curves, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch her yet. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“I know.”
He gripped her hip and tugged her away from the wall, pulling her pelvis against his own before he slowly pressed them back against the wall again, his hips chasing hers. “It’s a sin.”
“I’m not a good Catholic anyway.”
“Then I’ll pray for us both.” He nuzzled against her throat, dragging his lips up the long line of her neck to behind her ear. “Tell me to stop, Molly.”
“No.” She tugged him closer and tilted her head to give him better access to her throat. If he stopped now, she’d combust on the spot.
A low, menacing sound rumbled in Caleb’s chest as he drew her earlobe between his teeth, nipping at the sensitive skin. “Tell. Me. To. Stop.”
She hooked her index finger over the top of his collar and tugged the piece of white plastic free. It fell to the floor at their feet. “I don’t want you to stop, Father.”