Chapter 30 – New Year’s Day
CHAPTER 30
MAEVE
NEW YEAR’S DAY
A noise from the street must’ve woken me up because I didn’t remember setting my alarm. Then again, I didn’t remember much. Everything from the night before was a little hazy, like a dream just out of reach from my conscious mind.
I cracked an eye open and groaned out loud when bright sunlight penetrated my retinas. It felt like somebody had dug a sharp blade into the back of my skull, so I quickly closed it again and whimpered in pain. Then, I nestled deeper into the warm blankets, using their snuggly comfort to drown out the intense pain in my banging head.
I breathed deeply and smiled because the scent of my husband seemed to be all around me. His fresh laundry fragrance mixed with warm black pepper and spicy lemon enveloped my soul, and my throat clenched painfully because I missed him so much.
“You okay, babe?” a familiar, deep voice asked.
Shocked, I let out a little scream and opened one eye again before turning my head to see Callum O’Shea lying beside me, wearing just his boxer shorts and a sexy smile.
He was up on one arm, resting his head on his hand, facing me with his chest hair all spread out perfectly across his wide, tanned, gorgeous pecs.
“You’re so cute when you sleep,” he declared. “And you look so peaceful. Your hair spreads out on the pillow like a princess, and you make cute little snorts while you dream.”
“Did you watch me sleeping for long?” I inquired, voice painful and croaky from misuse, or was it overuse?
He dipped his chin in reply. “Been awake for around thirty minutes.”
My heart tingled because I couldn’t quite ascertain if I found that information romantic or creepy. Maybe a bit of both? When my book boyfriends watched their heroines sleep, it seemed wonderful. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so grand when you lay there praying to sweet baby Jesus himself that you hadn’t farted in your sleep while Callum O’Shea looked on.
My eyes fluttered closed again.
Why did this shit always happen to me?
And where the feck was my mother-in-law when I needed her? I could’ve done with her barging in right about now and ushering her son out the door to save me the embarrassment. But oh no, not Maureen O’Shea; she only showed up when wanks were involved.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, confusion filling my tone.
“Don’t ya remember?” he asked.
Again, I thought back to the night before, my forehead furrowing with the effort of actually using my brain. “I remember cider, dancing on a table, Atlas, a mechanical bull, and slapping Jake Gyllenhaal around the face for his part in the “All Too Well” song.” My eyes squinted. “Or was that a dream?”
Callum threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Half and half, I think, wife. Cider, Atlas, and dancing on the table were involved, for sure. Don’t remember Gyllenhall being there, though, and we don’t have a mechanical bull.”
“Shame,” I mumbled. “That part was fun. Maybe you should get one.”
He chuckled. “You were having a lotta fun. Some might say maybe too much.”
I winced.
“Atlas, too,” he went on. “You two were a right pair. He had you bent over a chair at one point, and he was pretending to slap your arse all sexy-like in time to the music. When I tried to get him off ya, you got snippy, told me I was a party pooper, and informed me it was all part of your “Pony” routine.”
My chest filled with horror. “The Ginuwine “Pony” song? Did the DJ play it?”
He folded his lips together to stop himself laughing and nodded. “At your request.”
I felt my cheeks flame, and I mumbled, “Oh.” Then, a thought occurred to me, and the horror in my chest intensified. “Was Sophie okay? I mean, with the whole “Pony” routine and stuff?”
His lips twitched. “Soph hardly noticed. She was too busy strutting across the bartop doing a floorshow with Kennedy, who decided to come out of stripper retirement and show,” he did speech marks with his fingers, “‘all you bitches’ how it’s really done.”
“Oh Jesus,” I whispered, my eyes lifting to meet his. “How much did I have to drink?”
“I cut you off at cider number five.”
“But it only takes me three drinks to pull out my “Pony” moves,” I cried.
“I know, Maeve,” he told me pointedly.
“Is it possible to die of shame?” I asked him in a small voice.
“You did nothing to be ashamed of,” Callum countered. “It was good to see you let your hair down. I was there, and none of the guys would’ve let you do anything too silly.”
“Except for my “Pony” routine,” I snipped.
My husband rolled his lips together again, and a small squeak escaped his throat.
I glanced under the sheet to see I was only wearing the same panties I went out in. “And what’s been going on here?” I demanded. “I’m pretty sure I was wearing more than my knickers when I went out.”
“You had cider all down your top from when you tried to chug that last one down with Atlas before closing time.”
My eyes widened. “Oh shit.”
“That was number five when I cut you off,” he confirmed. “You got more down your front than down your throat. I had to bring you up and make sure you were okay. You begged me to stay for a sleepover. At first, I had every intention of putting you to bed and leaving. But then you thought you’d puke, and I worried you’d throw up in your sleep and choke on your own vomit or something.”
I closed my eyes again, cheeks aflame, and my shoulders sagged. “So, nothing happened?”
“No,” he assured me. “Nothing happened.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood, giving his ass a scratch through his shorts.
It should’ve been a turnoff, but it wasn’t. Even though my head pounded and I felt like I needed to sleep for a week, my husband scratching his tight, muscular little arse was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen, along with the perfect placement of his chest hair.
And his eyes.
And his dick.
He had a really nice back, too. It was like something from a men’s cologne advertisement.
Callum hopped around the room while he pulled his jeans on and slipped his shirt from the night before over his shoulders. “I’ll go now, seeing as you’re okay.”
“Thanks for making sure I didn’t choke to death on my own vomit,” I murmured, wishing he wasn’t such a lying eejit. I needed coffee, but I couldn’t face getting out of bed. If we weren’t on the outs, I could lay under the sheets all day and boss him around.
But alas, it wasn’t to be.
Callum’s fingers went to his shirt, and he did the buttons up one by one while his stare hit mine and held. “Come out to dinner with me.”
I opened my mouth to automatically say no, but nothing came out. Instead, I cleared my throat. “Let me think about it.”
A huge smile stretched across his face. “Okay.”
“It wasn’t a yes,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” he concurred. “I know.” He stretched his arms out. “Hug goodbye?”
“Don’t push your luck,” I grumbled.
His hands dropped to his side, and he chuckled. “Let me know about dinner.”
My heart softened. “I’ll call you later.”
“Miss you, baby,” Callum breathed. “So fucking much.”
My throat heated at his words. I nodded, and finally, I threw him a bone. “I miss you too.”
His face softened. After a pause, he threw me a chin lift and disappeared through the door. I heard the door bang, then silence.
I dropped down onto my back and sighed when a memory floated through my head from the night before.
I’d walked into the bar and seen Callum making a beeline straight for the blonde woman, and immediately, my belly tightened painfully.
Before I knew it, I’d moved to stand behind him so I could eavesdrop and managed to work out pretty quickly that she was an old flame of his.
I’d never been jealous in my life, but heat swept through my veins like wildfire until I heard Callum tell the woman he was married. At that moment, the relief I felt was so palpable that my shoulders slumped with it. The second he saw me, he explained who Beth was, which was a step forward from Saskia because even though our marriage was on the rocks, he was honest about Beth.
A part of me had died without Callum, but I also knew that taking a time-out was necessary.
What he did wasn’t acceptable. I wasn’t a commodity, and neither was our marriage. Maureen had shed some light on the relationship he had with Lorcan, and it gave me a lot of insight into Callum’s state of mind. I understood how his da’s actions must have affected how open he was, and also how confused he must have been in his grief, but it still didn’t give him a pass. He needed to show me he’d learned his lesson before I could even think of trusting him again.
After sending him the clear message that I needed things to change, I had to stick to my guns and make sure he was willing and able to do just that, or what was the point of going through all this heartache? If Callum couldn’t be honest about the important things, I’d have to leave, and a clean break would be best.
My cell phone began to buzz loudly, indicating I had a call.
Turning my head toward the nightstand, I grabbed it to see who was calling and winced slightly. I clicked the answer button and put it straight onto loudspeaker, murmuring, “Hey, Sophie. I’m sorry if I offended you or Atlas last night.”
“Oh my God,” she screeched. “Are you crazy? I’ve never laughed so much in my life .”
Something loosened in my chest. “Thank God. My “Pony” routine can get a bit racy.”
“The only time Atlas ever danced with me was at our wedding,” she informed me. “So seeing him up with you having such a good time was a joy. Kennedy and I were on our knees, laughing so hard at him, yelling, ‘Giddy up, Toots,’ that she peed herself. Breaker had to take her home and get her in the shower.”
I laughed. “Poor Ned.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Delicate,” I admitted. “I’m not a big drinker.”
“Atlas is still in bed, nursing a hangover. I’m going to Abe and Iris’s for breakfast and to collect the girls so he can sleep for a while. I just wanted to check in with you.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I said, touched by her thoughtfulness.
“Tomorrow, Tristan’s salon at ten,” she told me. “He’s getting the coffee and lemon heaven bars.” Her voice lowered. “We all want the gossip about what happened when Callum carried you upstairs.”
My eyes rounded. “He carried me up?”
She let out a short laugh. “More or less.”
“Sweet Jesus,” I mumbled, chewing my bottom lip.
We said our goodbyes, and I clicked to end the call before sitting up and turning my upper body toward my nightstand. Then, as I placed my cell on it, I noticed a package wrapped in pretty silver and blue paper and an envelope with my name scrawled across the front.
Cocking my head, I picked it up, feeling the weight of it in my hand. Then, carefully, I unwrapped the paper, gasping when I saw the beautiful treasure inside.
Two exquisite cream leather-bound early-edition volumes of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, one of my favorite books ever.
Slowly, I turned the front cover of the first volume, staring down at the publisher and date. My breath caught in my throat when I saw 1895 and the embossing of a London Publishing Company, J.M. Dent and Co. The smell of old parchment paper wafted up to meet me, and I smiled at the musty, earthy fragrance I’d missed so much.
Carefully, I turned the page to see the title and author, then an illustration of a woman dressed in Regency clothing seated at a table, looking away from a man who leaned toward her imploringly. My gaze flicked to the words at the bottom of the page, telling us of the scene the image depicted.
Mr. Collins proposes.
My heart did a backflip, and I laughed out loud.
How awesome!
The wheels in my brain began to turn again, and I placed the books gently on the sheets and covered them in order to protect them. Then I reached for the accompanying envelope, carefully opening it from the top.
Inside was a plain white card. I pulled it out, and an entirely different scent, but one just as familiar, wafted up to greet me.
Fresh laundry, black pepper, and lemon.
Across it were words written in my husband’s cursive, impatient scrawl:
You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.
At that moment, reading a timeless, beautiful quote from a timeless, beautiful story about love, loss, and yearning, my heart exploded.
With just a simply scrawled line from one of the most exquisite books in existence, I knew deep in my body and soul that Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy may have been the first (albeit fictional) man I’d ever loved, but Callum Fergal O’Shea would undoubtedly be the last.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books,” Tristan declared, looking around the living room of the apartment, where a vast collection of first editions and rare box sets covered most of the surfaces. “Callum O’Shea must be broke because I’ve looked up some of these collections on auction sites, and that one alone,” he jerked his thumb toward my new special edition, Illumicrate, signed box set of the Bridgerton series, “recently sold for just over a thousand dollars.”
My gaze swept to the signed first edition of The Notebook and then to the sprayed-edged hardback, signed Empyrean series and I couldn’t help grinning like a loony. “I better step up my cider game then. He’ll need the money.”
Tristan chuckled.
I twisted my lips and cocked my head questioningly. “Are you sure I look okay?”
His eyes went soft. “You look lovely, but you’ve got your fairy godfather slash hair genius to primp and tease, so you’ve got an advantage.” He wandered over to the coffee table and touched the ancient sleeve of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bront?. “What was the quote that went with this one?”
My heart fluttered. I didn’t need to check. I knew every quote to every book or set of books Callum had sent me since that first Jane Austen illustrated edition appeared on my nightstand the month before. My eyes drifted to Tristan’s, and I murmured, “Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”
His eyebrow cocked. “Hmm.” His hand moved to another book, a signed first edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence. “What about this one?”
In a hushed tone, I relayed the note I’d received just that day, “But, especially in love, only counterfeit emotions exist nowadays. We have all been taught to mistrust everybody emotionally, from parents downwards, or upwards. Don’t trust anybody with your real emotions: if you’ve got any: that is the slogan of today. Trust them with your money, even, but never your feelings. They are bound to trample on them.”
Tears welled in my eyes because I felt every word of it. Each note my husband wrote me seemed to fit us and our situation, but that one dug deeper because, after everything Maureen told me about Callum’s childhood, it seemed he was trying to explain his state of mind.
It was my husband’s way of finally baring his soul to me.
It was beautiful.
It was real.
It spoke to my heart on every level, so after evading his daily requests for weeks, I’d finally agreed to let Callum take me on a date. He was due to pick me up any minute, and we were going to Giovanni’s, the local Italian restaurant.
My stomach was filled with jumping beans, and my heart filled with butterflies. Who would’ve thought I’d be so nervous about going on a date with my own husband?
There was so much riding on tonight because I missed Callum so much. We’d taken to spending time talking on the phone, and most days, he came into the distillery with a coffee or a lemon heaven bar for me. Receiving a new book had become a daily occurrence, and I’d found myself looking forward to seeing where one would appear and when.
They turned up everywhere. The apartment, the distillery, a couple I found at Maureen’s house. One had been left by the bath, which had been filled with hot water and bubbles, and a book and note were even left at the salon for me. Callum was obviously getting all my friends and family involved in making it special, too, and it meant everything. But what meant the most were the handwritten passages he compared with us and everything we’d been through.
Those lovingly scribbled words written with so much thought and care made my heart beat faster for my husband, but I still made him wait. I didn’t want to jump back into our marriage until I was certain Callum had learned from what happened before.
I’d given my heart to him once and he didn’t take care of it, so I needed to trust him implicitly if I ever handed it over again. I loved Callum O’Shea and always would, regardless of whether we were together or not, but I’d learned since I’d been in Hambleton that if I wanted our marriage to work, I needed to love myself more, and he needed to do the same.
How could we be truly open and look for love and happiness in each other if we didn’t possess those things for ourselves? I was so tied up in my husband that I couldn’t see straight, so our time apart had helped me gain some much-needed clarity.
I just prayed it had done the same for him.