Chapter 29 Ember
Ember
The house looks like it’s been dusted in candlelight and old-world magic.
Every sconce glows, and every chandelier is dimmed to gold.
Pine boughs and twinkling fairy lights wrap the banisters and fireplace mantels.
The grand salon has been transformed.
A quartet plays softly in the corner: strings and piano, French jazz giving way to a more elegant classical set.
The floor has been cleared for dancing, and small round tables with white linen and vintage votives dot the perimeter.
It’s not stuffy—nothing Mama does ever is. It’s cozy and elegant, like a page from Architectural Digest’s NYE edition.
I’m feeling particularly good and festive tonight.
My gown is navy velvet, off-the-shoulder, with a high slit and a low back. Freja did my hair in soft waves, and my grandmother’s sapphire earrings hang from my ears.
For once, I feel beautiful—more than just pretty, more than simply passable.
I twirl in front of the wall of mirrors in the salon, laughing at my reflection.
I’m wearing flats; I’m not dancing in heels, and I intend to dance the night away with my man.
I push my glasses up my nose with a sort of glee that Ransom is here, he’s mine—it’s so many dreams come true. We may or may not last—but this time we have a better chance than we ever did.
Papa is in a three-piece tux with a wine-colored bow tie. He raises his glass and gives a dramatic bow when he sees me.
Mama, radiant in deep emerald silk, kisses both my cheeks, and whispers, “You look like my heart walking around.”
Aunt Tanya is channeling Desperado energy—crimson lace clinging to her like a scandal, a feathered headpiece so enormous it deserves its own zip code. She struts across the living room like she’s about to pull a pistol from her garter. She has a garter. It’s showing through the thigh slit.
Uncle Bob—sorry, Roberto (he insists)—is in a black tux with an undone bow tie and the swagger of someone who’s watched Antonio Banderas’s bar fight scene one too many times.
“Elena, mi amor, tonight we burn down the town,” Uncle Bob says in a terrible Spanish accent. “We are the Desperados!”
“More like Desperate-dos,” I tease.
Ransom looks like sin wrapped in a midnight blue tuxedo. His dark hair is slicked back, his jaw clean-shaven, and the bruise from Aksel’s fist has faded to a light shadow.
Seriously! The man is delicious, and I am hoping that tonight I can unwrap him. The idea makes me hot and bothered.
He looks at me as he adjusts the cuffs of his white shirt.
Can he see I’m aroused?
He dips his face close to mine. “You’re beautiful, Sweet Em.”
I almost whimper when his lips brush against my cheek, soft, seductive. We’ve been in the foreplay phase for days and…I want him with a desperation I haven’t felt before.
The quartet plays the theme music from Desperado.
Ransom strums an imaginary guitar and murmurs in my ear, “You could be my Salma tonight, if you wanted.”
I arch a brow. “Only if you have a ponytail and learn to somersault while shooting.”
“Give me a week and two espresso shots.”
He’s charming. He’s funny. He’s cute. I’ve always been gone for him, but now, secure in the knowledge of his feelings, of how we’re starting a new journey, together, I feel light-headed in the best possible way.
Anika spins in a pink tulle dress. Thomas races by with his suspenders flapping.
Latika is wearing golden Chanel. She shimmers every time she moves.
Freja is glittering in a deep burgundy gown. She hugs me. “You look beautiful,” she says, eyes scanning me.
“You clean up nice, too,” I joke.
The party flows around us—Ransom and me.
Everyone is eating, laughing, and dancing.
There’s a buffet set up with foie gras, oysters, small savory pastries, and tiny ramekins of soupe à l’oignon.
Uncle Bob lifts his glass often and shouts, “To Roberto!”
The music shifts. A slow Strauss waltz begins.
Ransom holds out his hand. “Dance with me, Sweet Em.”
I lay my hand on his, feeling the eroticism and the undeniable rightness of the now.
He leads me to the dance floor, hand at the small of my back, the other is warm as it curls around mine. We begin to move. It’s seamless—like we’ve always done this.
I can feel every inch of him. The heat of his hand. The measured rhythm of his breath. The way his eyes never quite leave mine.
“Em,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“I want to fuck you.”
I gasp at how raw he sounds.
I clear my throat and let out a shaky chuckle. “I guess…I guess that would be alright.”
He bursts out laughing. “Ember Rousseau, you’re precious.” And then he dips me, holding my gaze. “And you’re mine.”
The music swells. We turn in a slow circle.
“It’s time,” Mama yells, and everyone starts the countdown.
Ten.
There’s a space held open between us with trembling possibility. “I want to be alone with you,” I breathe.
Nine.
His eyes heat. “Now?”
“Now.”
Eight.
He pulls back slightly, searching my eyes.
He sees my cocky grin and is amused by it.
He grabs my hand and we run.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
We make it to my room. The door slams shut behind us.
Four.
He holds my face in his hands.
Three.
“I love you, Em.”
Two.
“I love you, too, Ransom.”
One.
His lips crash against mine.
Outside, fireworks bloom.
Midnight.
The beginning of a New Year.