Chapter 7
STERLING
“Where were you on Thanksgiving?” Weston, my brother, asks. “You skipped it again.”
I hate holidays, I don’t remind him.
I’m not a traditional guy. Mom said I rebel against society’s rules and traditions just for the hell of it. But that’s not true. I don’t give a flying fuck about what people want.
I’m my own person. It was the way my parents raised me. Let Sterling figure out his own shit. We’re too busy with other things. Since then, I’ve lived by my own rules.
My parents didn’t realize what they did until it was too late. Bless their hearts. They both died proud of my brother and disappointed in me.
Even when we never agreed about how I lived my life, I loved Mom dearly. She was clueless where I was concerned, but still a nice person. Her priorities never made sense to me.
If she was still among us, she’d be calling me upset because I skipped Thanksgiving. She’d also remind me Christmas is just around the corner. How she’d expect me to go to mass with her. She’d be sending daily reminders to put aside my work because I have to spend some time with the family.
This year I have some plans. Not for Christmas but for the month of December. Well, I hope the brunette from the hotel will agree to spend the next month with me. Beautiful Juniper Spearman. My desire to be with her won over the logic to stay away.
I tried.
The morning after, as I gathered the information from the woman who wanted to lease the house in Viking Lane, I figured out it was the same person. I decided not to meet her.
We said no names, no numbers—only one night. I even threw in a fucking month free to make it up to her. I should let things be and leave her alone.
But, fuck, she’s so fucking hot, adorable, and … I can’t stop thinking about her. The best way to spend the holidays is by keeping her company.
Or leaving for Paris and not come back until you forget her. Who will miss you?
The only family I have left is my brother, Wes. He and I are best friends. It’s because he knows me well enough that he shouldn’t be asking about Thanksgiving.
But here he is, in my studio, about to lecture me.
I’m thirty-seven, dude. Too old to give me shit because I didn’t pick up the phone.
I put down the clay with a sigh and ask, “What’s happening?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Abby doesn’t want to say anything, but she wants you to spend Christmas with us.”
Hmm, interesting. Why is he doing this? I look at him and there it is. That frown says everything. He’s doing something he doesn’t want to but has to. The man would do anything for his wife. Even nag me.
“Look, Wes—”
“Hear me out,” he interrupts. “It’s the first year without Mom.”
I glare at him. Mom died two years ago, and I never spend the holidays with them—or anyone.
“Lance is turning four on the thirtieth,” he explains. “And wouldn’t it be nice to spend some time with your favorite nephew—on his birthday?”
“My only nephew,” I correct and sigh. “I’ll be there for his birthday, but can I think about Christmas? I have a ton of work before my next exhibit. You know, it’s in Paris, in February. I could babysit the nephew while the two of you sneak away.”
“Just think about them, not me.”
I nod once but don’t respond.
He’s using his wife and son who I adore with all my heart. Still, holidays are on my top list of why bother? I never enjoyed them while growing up. My parents always organized charity dinners or some stuffy party to celebrate them.
“Here, Abby and Lance made this for you.”
I pull out the box and it’s an Advent calendar. At the end of the year it marks Lance’s birthday.
Low blow, Abigail, low blow.
It’s colorful and from an artist’s perspective, I appreciate the details added by Lance’s tiny hands. The boy has talent and I adore him. We can spend hours coloring outside the lines to his mother’s dismay.
“Thank you,” I say, sounding cheerful. One wrong move and he’s going to start lecturing me about my age and how I should think about my future.
Art is all that matters to me.
My near future is a different story. If I can wiggle my way into June Spearman’s life for just a few days, I can call this the best holiday season. Still, she’s only going to be a brief distraction.
There’s nothing more important to me than being in my studio creating new pieces. My next exhibit. I’m married to my work. The only thing that’s worth celebrating is when I finish a piece and I’m satisfied with my creation.
Finding a partner and creating a family is at the bottom of my priorities. Actually, it’s the last thing I want to have in my present or my future.
Love is too complicated.
Women are pieces of art. Beautiful, interesting, and with soul. It’s not only about their outer beauty but what they actually represent when the artist was making them.
The essence of their being.
One has to learn to appreciate them. Love them. If we can’t, we have to let them go. There’s someone out there who’ll know their worth and cherish them.
Commitment and love are hard. There are two kinds of men. The ones who can recognize the worth of a woman and cherish them forever; and guys like me. We’re the appetizer. The prelude before someone who deserves them comes along and sweeps them off their feet—like they deserve.
No one believes me but it’s true. I tried it once. Be the man who stepped in and tried the courting, flowers, chocolates, and big gestures included.
It didn’t work. Fuck, I was told in many words I was a worthless person who wouldn’t do much with my life. Kara wasn’t much different from my parents.
From a young age, I learned to charm the fuck out of a woman, give them an unforgettable night and move on to the next art project.
Except, Juniper Spearman makes me want to stay for seconds and I’m going to do my best to convince her that we can have a few more nights together.
Now, Wes, he’s the perfect guy. Dreamy with all those fucking qualities women love. He lives and breathes for his wife. I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to. I love change. Why would I want to entertain the notion of something permanent?
I could care less about others. I’m in a continuous state of change. I love chaos.
“Just think about it, okay?” he says, taking the wrapping.
I tap my temple. “You got it, Wes.”
He opens his mouth and closes it. “I know it’s been a shitty couple of years but … we miss the old you.”
“The last time I checked, I haven’t gone anywhere. It’s me, just … different.”
“It’s okay to miss her. To grieve,” he says and gives me a hug before he leaves.
Miss her? I don’t miss Mom the way he does. Linda was a different mother to each of us. She always insisted her foster children needed her more than I did because I had everything. I was born an Ahern.
Being an Ahern isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. The Ahern DNA will die with me. It’s worthless.