3. Claire
Claire
I wake up in the honeymoon suite on Christmas morning, and for about three seconds, I let myself pretend last night meant something.
Merry Christmas to me.
Garth is already dressed in slacks and a button-down. His hair is damp, combed back, and he looks ready for a board meeting. On Christmas morning.
"Morning," he says without looking at me.
That's it. Not "how did you sleep?" Not "about last night."
My chest tightens.
"Morning," I manage.
He's on his phone, scrolling emails, his face set in that familiar cold mask. Like last night never happened. Like he didn't tell me about Lena, like I didn't almost cry talking about my dad.
Like we didn't almost have a moment.
I get out of bed and grab my clothes, locking myself in the bathroom. In the mirror, I look exactly how I feel—wrecked. My hair is a disaster, my eyes are puffy, and I have pillow creases on my face.
I shower quickly, trying not to cry. When I come out, there's room service with coffee and pastries. Garth's at the table by the window, laptop open.
Working. On Christmas morning.
"Coffee's there," he says without looking up. "Got you a latte."
Exactly how I like it. Perfect.
Of course it's perfect. He remembers everything. He just doesn't care.
I sit on the edge of the bed, as far from him as I can get in this stupid romantic room. The rose petals are still on the floor where I swept them off last night, red against white carpet like blood on snow.
Silence. Just his typing and, faintly, someone playing "O Holy Night" on the hotel piano downstairs.
More typing. More silence. More pretending everything's fine when nothing is fine.
I can't do this. I can't sit here and act normal when my chest feels like it's caving in.
"I need to send the Hartwell contracts," I say, pulling out my laptop.
"Already did it."
I freeze. "What?"
"This morning. Sent them at six." He's still not looking at me.
"That's my job."
"You were asleep."
Something hot and sharp lodges in my throat. "Right. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you by actually doing my job."
"That's not what I—"
"What was last night?" The question bursts out before I can stop it.
His fingers stop moving. The silence stretches.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." I stand up, coffee forgotten. "You told me about your wife. I told you about my dad. We stood at that window and you almost—" I stop, because I don't even know what he almost did. Almost said something real? Almost treated me like a person?
"We were both tired," he says flatly. "It's been a stressful twenty-four hours."
"That's bullshit."
Now he looks up, and there's a warning in his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. That's complete bullshit and you know it."
"Claire—"
"No." I'm shaking now, fourteen months of swallowing everything finally rising up. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to have this—this moment with me, this real conversation, and then pretend it meant nothing."
"It's not appropriate."
"Appropriate?" I actually laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged. "You want to talk about appropriate? Fine. Let's talk about how you make me work eighty-hour weeks. How you email me at 11 PM on Sundays. How you expect me to cancel plans, skip holidays, basically arrange my entire life around you."
"That's your job."
"No, that's me being pathetic!" My voice cracks. "That's me hoping that if I'm just good enough, just useful enough, you'll finally see me as something other than—than a convenience!"
He stands now, and I can see anger flashing in his grey eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then explain it to me. Explain why you're so—" I'm gesturing wildly now, "—so hot and cold. Why you almost say something and then shut down. Why last night you looked at me like I actually mattered and now you won't even make eye contact!"
"Because it's not that simple!"
"Then make it simple!" I'm shouting now. "Just tell me the truth! Do you hate me? Is that it? Do I annoy you so much that you can barely stand to be in the same room as me?"
"I don't hate you!" He's shouting too, and something is finally cracking in that controlled facade.
"Then what is it?!"
"I'm in love with you!"
The words explode into the space between us.
I freeze. He freezes. We're both breathing hard, staring at each other.
"What?"
"I'm in love with you." He says it quieter but no less intense, and he looks almost angry about it.
"I have been for months. Every single day you walk into my office and I have to pretend I don't want to lock the door and put you on my desk.
I have to be cold and distant because if I'm not, I'll do something we can't take back. "
I can't breathe. "You're… you're in love with me?"
"Yes. And it's completely inappropriate. You work for me. You're eighteen years younger than me. You should be with someone your own age, someone who isn't—" He stops, jaw tight.
"Someone who isn't what?"
"Someone who isn't fucked up." His voice is rough. "Someone who can actually give you a normal relationship instead of—this. Instead of a forty-two-year-old widower who doesn't know how to do anything except work and push people away."
My heart is hammering. "What if I don't want normal?" I take a step toward him. "I've been in love with you since month three. Maybe earlier. I stay late because I want to be near you. I rearrange my life around you because I'd rather have scraps of your attention than nothing at all."
"Claire."
"So yeah, I'm pathetic. But at least I'm honest about it." I'm standing right in front of him now. "What's your excuse?"
His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. "My excuse is that I'm trying to do the right thing."
"By lying to both of us?"
"By not taking advantage—"
"What if I want you to?" My heart is in my throat. "What if I'm asking you to?" I'm so close now I can see my reflection in his grey eyes. "I'm not a child. I'm not confused. I know exactly what I want. Do you?"
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. I can see the war happening behind his eyes—control fighting desire, logic fighting feeling.
"Yes," he says roughly. "I know exactly what I want."
He closes the distance between us and kisses me.
It's not gentle. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth is hot and demanding on mine. I grab his shirt and kiss him back just as hard, fourteen months of wanting finally breaking free.
We stumble backward and I hit the door with a thud. He pins me there with his body, one hand still in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
I bite his lower lip and he makes this sound that goes straight through me. His hips press against mine and I can feel how hard he is already.
"Garth—" I gasp when his mouth moves to my neck.
"Shut up." He's pulling my sweater up, over my head, and I barely get my arms up in time. It hits the floor and then his hands are on me, sliding up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra.
I'm working on his shirt buttons but my hands are shaking and he's kissing me again and I can't think. I give up and just yank, and buttons scatter across the floor.
"Expensive shirt," he mutters against my mouth.
"Bill me."
He chuckles and then his shirt is off and oh my God. I knew he worked out but this is—I run my hands over his chest, his abs, feeling muscle under warm skin.
His hands slide around to unhook my bra and I freeze for just a second. Every insecurity I've ever had rushes in—too soft, too much, not enough—but then he's looking at me and there's nothing cold in his eyes now.
Just heat.
"Claire." My name sounds different in his voice. Raw.
Then his mouth is on my breast and I stop thinking entirely. His tongue circles my nipple and I arch into him, my hands fisting in his hair. He moves to the other breast, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, and the dual sensation makes me gasp.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my skin.
"You," I breathe. "I want you."
"Be specific." His teeth graze my nipple and I whimper. "Tell me."
"I want—" My brain is short-circuiting. "I want you inside me. Please."
His hands slide down to work on my jeans, and I'm trying to help but I'm shaking too hard. He gets them open and shoves them down along with my underwear in one movement.
And then I'm naked and he's still got his slacks on and that feels obscene somehow. Hot.
I reach for his belt but he catches my hands, pins them above my head with one of his.
"Garth—"
His other hand slides between my legs and I forget how to speak. He's not gentle, not tentative. His fingers find exactly where I need them and I'm already so wet it's embarrassing.
"Fuck," he breathes against my neck. "You're—"
He doesn't finish the thought, just works me with his fingers until I'm gasping, squirming, getting close way too fast. When he slides two fingers inside me, his thumb still circling, I actually cry out.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching my face. "Let me hear you."
I'm too far gone to be self-conscious. My hips are moving with his hand, chasing it, and when he curls his fingers just right I shatter.
I come hard, clenching around his fingers. He works me through it, gentler now, until I'm boneless against the door.
Before I can move he's lifting me. I wrap my legs around his waist automatically and he carries me the few steps, both of us falling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.
Garrett, my freaking sexy, silver fox boss , hovers over me for just a second, looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He kisses me deep and thorough while working off the rest of his clothes. When he finally settles between my thighs, we're both shaking.
He's big and I'm tight and it's almost too much but not quite enough. He goes slow, watching my face, giving me time.
"Okay?" His voice is strained. He fucks me slow at first, each thrust deliberate, and oh God, the angle is perfect. I wrap my legs around him, changing it slightly.
"More," I gasp. "Harder."
"No." He keeps the pace slow, torturous. "Want to feel every inch of you."
I whimper in frustration, trying to move my hips faster, but he pins them down with his hands. "Be patient."
"I don't want to be patient. You've made me wait fourteen months."
He almost smiles. "Fair point."
Then he pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in hard, and oh—
"Yes," I moan. "Like that."
He sets a rhythm that's hard and deep and exactly what I need. Every thrust hits that spot inside me, and I'm climbing again already, wound tight.
"Touch yourself," he tells me, his voice commanding.
"What?"
"Touch yourself. I want to feel you come on my cock."
The words combined with his tone makes me clench around him. I slide my hand between us, finding my clit, and the added sensation is almost too much.
"That's it," he groans, picking up the pace. "Fuck, Claire, you feel—"
He doesn't finish, just drives into me harder, and I'm right there, right on the edge—
"Garth," I gasp. "I'm going to—"
"Do it. Come for me."
And I do. I come even harder than before, my whole body going tight, pleasure crashing through me in waves. I feel him lose his rhythm, feel him thrust deep one more time, and then he's coming too, groaning my name into my neck.
We collapse together; he's heavy on top of me but I don't want him to move. Not yet.
"Jesus," I finally breathe.
"Yeah."
He carefully pulls out and rolls to his side, immediately pulling me against his chest. I go willingly, tucking myself into his warmth.
"Incredible." He kisses the top of my head. "You're incredible."
I look up at him. He's smiling and it transforms his whole face. This is Garth without his armor, without his walls, and he's beautiful.
"I can't believe you thought I hated you," he says softly.
"You're very convincing."
"I'm an idiot."
"You're my idiot." The words slip out before I can stop them. "I mean—if you want to be. I don't want to assume—"
He kisses me quiet. I always talk too much, and being kissed turns out to be an excellent way to make me stop rambling. "I want to be. I want to be yours." His arms tighten around me. "If you'll have me."
"Are you kidding? I've been yours for fourteen months."
He pulls me closer, and I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. Outside, snow is still falling, blanketing everything in Christmas white. Inside, everything has changed.
"I'm terrified," he admits quietly.
"Of what?"
"Of fucking this up. Of not being what you need. Of losing you." His voice is raw. "I've spent five years alone because it was easier than risking my heart again. And now you're here and I'm terrified because what if I don't remember how to do this? What if I let you down?"
I tilt my head up to look at him. "Then we'll figure it out. Together. That's what relationships are, right? Two people figuring it out as they go?"
"I don't want to hurt you."
"Then don't." I touch his face. "Love me. That's all I need."
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see something settle in his expression. A decision made.
"I can do that," he says. "I already do."
And lying there in his arms, naked and satisfied and finally, finally his, I believe him.