Authors: Carly Alexander

The Eggnog Chronicles (25 page)

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles

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He pressed his face into my shoulder and for a moment I thought I felt his warm mouth opening against my skin. No . . . it couldn't be. I rubbed his back again, and he burrowed in against me like a child. He pressed his face into my chest.

“I've missed you so much,” he whispered against my breast.

I touched the dark curls on his head. “You're going to be okay, honey.”

“I know.” He ran his hands along my waist, burrowing close. The slightest movement sent a twinge of longing through me. I held him sedately, rocked him, as the feeling began to grow. Then I realized its source: he was nuzzling my breast, working it with his tongue through the thin material of my nightgown.

I gasped and pushed him away. “Jonathan! Stop it.”

“I'm sorry. It just seemed right. You're so nurturing, Emma. And you taste good.”

I moved over to the couch, closing my robe around me. “Listen, I've moved on to a healthy relationship. I'm not going to jeopardize that, Jonathan.”

“I understand.” He held up his hands. “I totally get that.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Do you mind if I hang out here awhile? Just 'til I pull myself together.”

I really did mind, but what were the options? Ask him to leave, then endure his tirade on the cold brutality in my soul? Because that was the way Jonathan snapped, the level of his self-absorption. Weighing the trade-offs, I thought it best to let him ride it out here. “You can hang here, but just for a little while,” I said, tacking on a lie for security. “Randy's going to be home later, and you're probably not in the mood to meet him.” I picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. “Right?”

He shook his head, his eyes red from crying. “That lucky bastard.”

A rebuttal formed in my brain, and I longed to blast Jonathan with every point.
You could have been that lucky bastard! You could have had me if you hadn't chased every skirt that walked by when you were on patrol. You and I would be a couple if you hadn't dumped Emma the Banker for Lindsay the Weather Girl.

I looked at my fingernails, ticking off each point to myself, knowing that in the end it was a waste of time to voice my argument. Jonathan had moved on, and so had I. And in the end, I was much better off without him.

T
hat night, after another hour or two spent describing the unfair hand he'd been dealt in the deck of romance and career, Jonathan dozed off on the couch. I plodded off to bed, mildly cursing myself for being such a softy. Fine, let him flake on the couch. I would duck out to the gym in the morning, then bring the doorman up to help me escort Jonathan out and on his wayâthough I doubted he'd be here that long. If there were females to be sniffed and celebrities to hound, Jonathan would not rest long.

I took a tiny sleeping pill, crawled into bed, and called Randy on his cell. As it rang I debated whether or not to tell him about Jonathan, then decided against it. If I were the one thousands of miles away, I'd freak to hear that my guy's ex was staying over. On the other hand, a casual mention once he was back would seem totally innocuous. I decided that a simple “Oh, by the way, the idiotic ex stopped by to pick up his stuff,” would cover it. After a few minutes of yawning into the phone, I wished Randy goodnight and shut off the light. It was at some time during the hours of darkness, in the haze of sleep, that I felt a body beside me. Accustomed to having Randy there, I rolled over and backed against him, glad for the warmth. His hand slid over my hip, caressing my butt, and I sighed and moved deeper into sleep.

Sleep was seductive, so much so that when I felt his hand cup my breast, I wanted to resist him. Sleep was better now.

Then his fingers moved over my nipple, teasing and caressing until it tightened. I felt my body begin to coil as his hand moved to my other breast, then down my belly, smoothing a path down over the ridge of my hip bone to the sensitive crease at the top of my thigh. My nightgown pushed aside, his fingers teased the folds between my legs, dipping into the hollow there, causing me to moan against my will.

Okay, then, sleep could wait. I opened my eyes to shapes and colors I didn't expect: dark curls on the white pillow, angular face.

Jonathan.

“Huh?”

“It's okay, baby,” he whispered.

“No . . .” I stopped his hand, tried to push away but felt weighed down by the blankets. “It's not okay.”

“Emma, Emma . . .” He caught my hand and caressed my arm, kissed my knuckles. “Don't freak. It's just me. You're fine.” His hand spread sensual warmth up my arm, over my shoulder then down to one breast.

I wanted to get away, knew I had to escape, but something held me there. A primal need. Sheer enticement. Sexual desire.

He pressed his lips to mine and I succumbed to his kissing, remembering his technique of the plundering tongue and his taste, the odd tang of that clove-flavored chewing gum he loved. As we kissed and caressed each other, I remembered the way his body fit so well against mine. A simple law of physics. Randy was my mate in all ways, but Jonathan's body fit mine like a plug in an outlet, a clean match. Boy fits girl.

“I can't do this,” I told him.

“You can.” He pushed my nightgown aside to suck on one nipple. “And you will. We were always good together, Emma.” He nudged his hips against me, pressed his naked erection to my thigh, turning my resistance to smoke. “We fit together, you and I.”

“In bed,” I said, turning my head away as he grabbed my hips and pulled me down off the pillows. “We were good in bed, but sex is no mystery. Any two people can engage. Oh!”

Already he was between my thighs, his taut groin pressing into me. God help me, I loved the way he felt. I wanted the sex. My body was on fire, just not for this particular man.

“You like that?” He teased, his face inches from mine, his blue eyes shiny and stern. “You want it, don't you?”

“Yes!” I hissed. “But we can't.”

“I think we can,” he said, pushing my legs onto his shoulders to take me with his mouth.

As he nudged me toward orgasm I gave in. Just this once. One short visit to the past. Quick ex-sex.

Once, and then I'd be rid of him forever.

In so many ways, Jonathan was a masterful manipulator, an above-average technician. He worked my body into a frenzy, then rose up to plant his lips on mine.

“I knew you missed me,” he said with a jab of his hips between my legs.

I gasped at the hard stab. “A condom,” I breathed. “You need a condom.”

“Don't have any.”

“Of course,” I said, wanting to stop but unable to slow the rhythm thrumming through us. Jonathan never carried condoms, never took responsibility. Why should that change?

“Don't worry,” he said in a strained voice. “I'll pull out.”

Pull out? Hadn't heard that one since I was sixteen! That was total nonsense, utterly ineffective and I knew it. But at the moment I couldn't let myself care, and I certainly didn't think anything would come of this. Six months of unprotected passion with Randy and I wasn't pregnant yet. What were the chances of that happening in a five-minute fling with Jonathan? Really, I had a high math aptitude, had majored in statistics in college and worked with numbers every day. I knew a thing or two about probability, and what were the odds?

I glance over at the pregnancy test stick and my jaw drops. Apparently, I've hit my one in a million.

I move closer, to the closed toilet seat, and stare at the little pink cross. Oh, yes, there are definitely two lines. Definitely a cross, God help me.

I curse softly. There is my answer, my ticking time bomb. I hold the hot potato with no clue where to toss it.

With a frantic feeling, I snatch up the pregnancy kit, shove it in the plastic bag from the pharmacy, and twist the ends around twenty-five times before throwing it into my side of the vanity.

Okay, then. Time to face the music.

I
move quickly through the hall of the apartment, to the dimly lit room that is now alight with silvery stars of various shapes and sizes glistening over our cerulean ceilingâRandy's rendition of a Christmas sky after some teasing from me. The subdued lighting and vaulting panoramic sky have the desired effect, casting an aura of calm over our supercharged Manhattanite friends. People seem relaxed, their laughter bubbling gently, their conversations various pools of enchantment.

I take a deep breath, catching a wave of cinnamon and orange from the wassail Randy left heating in the kitchen. Such a perfect party . . . all that's lacking is the hostess with the most-ess news.
Don't you look great! So glad you could make it. Have a glass of eggnog, and, by the way, did you hear I got knocked up by my ex? Isn't it ironic how whatever can go wrong, will?

“It's about time you made an appearance,” Jane says, stealing up beside me in her smartly tailored striped silk shirt adorned with a fake fur shawl. “Randy's been giving you credit all over the place for the Starry Night decor. You've really got that man hoodwinked.”

“You think so?” The words stick in my throat as I think of the ultimate and obvious deception: passing this baby off as his.

Jane squeezes my arm. “Emma Dee, you look like you just saw a ghost.”

I take a deep breath, remind myself that this room is full of people I like, people Randy and I invited. That alone should calm me, if I can just get the taste of guilt out of my mouth.

“I like the blue ceiling,” Jane says. “It reminds me a little of the way Mom decorated the place. She went for the big, bold colors.”

My apartment used to belong to the Conners. When it was time to sell, neither Jane nor Ricki wanted the place, but they were happy to pass it into my hands, assuring me that any ghosts from the past had long been laid to rest. It might seem odd to buy your best friend's childhood home, but in a market where the perfect place keeps getting snatched from under your feet by faster, higher bidders, I felt lucky to have secured this apartment.

“Great eggnog,” Jane says. “Marty wants to know your recipe, and he considers himself a grog afficionado.”

“A drink,” I say. “That's what I need.” I leave Jane and spin toward the kitchen, already in motion as I realize I shouldn't consume any alcohol now. While no one is looking I mix a fake candy-cane cosmoâjust cranberry juice and seltzer in a cosmo glassâthen rejoin Jane, who's now mixing it up with Marty and a cluster of workers from the bank branch I'm assigned to. Bank policy shuns administrators like me mingling with nonexecutive track employees, but I figure my private life is my own business, and I can barely tolerate the stuffed shirt executives. So I invited the tellers, including our head teller, Thai Ng.

“There she is! There Miss Emma!” Thai says, wiggling out of the bank group to embrace me. “Air kiss!” she calls cheerfully.

“And sporting a candy-cane cosmo,” Jane says wryly. “Brave soul.”

I toast the bank crowd. “So glad you could make it.”

A handful of tellers have shown up, including our trainee, Manuel Alvarez. “I love your apartment, Emma,” Manuel says politely. “I've never seen such decorations. It's like a museum!”

“Too much!” Thai agrees. “Your boyfriend have talent, for sure. Way over the limit.”

“You mean over the top,” I suggest, gazing up at the comforting stars.

“Whatever! He golden,” Thai says emphatically. I'm not sure how long ago she emigrated from Vietnam, but her English is still choppy and singsongy, and I doubt it will ever improve much. Her voice always strikes me as friendly and chatty, and her banking skills are impeccable. So far Thai has been the only glimmer of life in my entire eighteen-month training program.

“Randy told us he's designing the set for a new show,” another teller named Astrid chimes in. Management is down on her for multiple piercings and a fiery red henna dye-job, but since she confided that she plays bass in a rock band at night, I've taken a liking to her and have tried to give her a later schedule whenever possible. “He says it's sort of a downtown
Phantom?”

“Right,” I say, giving the synopsis: “Society's rejected emerge from the underworld to a city of light.”

“Is that why I heard him talking about designing sewer caps?” Jane added. “Charming.”

Thai throws up her hands. “Beautiful! Dat's beautiful! And Randy say you inspire the stars.” She gestures to our ceiling. “A Christmas sky! He really love Emma.”

“What did I say?” Jane nudges me. “You've got him wrapped around your little finger.”

“It's just that I was telling Randy about a Christmas tradition in our family. My father always had a working telescope, and when we were kids he bundled us up on Christmas night and pointed us up to the sky. There's something magical about a Christmas sky, so dense with stars. Dad used to say that we could still spot the star that guided the Three Wise Men.” I glance nervously at Jane, expecting her to jump all over that, but she's just listening. “It probably sounds sentimental.”

“Not really,” Astrid picks up. “If you know anything about astrology, there's a connection between the alignment of the planets and the birth of Christ. Whether or not you believe he was a savior, there were definitely cosmic forces at work two thousand years ago.”

“Really?” Jane squints at Astrid, clearly intrigued. “And do you know much about astrology? I'm an Aries with Pisces rising, but I never knew what the hell that meant . . .”

As the stream of conversation splits into various tangents, I think I might just survive this party, this gathering of good and earnest people. The party, yes. The pregnancy? I'm not so sure.

Jane's sister, Ricki, arrives fashionably late with her new boyfriend, the retired engineer turned surfer dude. Ben is shaggier then I expected, and yet sophisticated in such a kind way, handing me a bottle of wine and telling me he hopes I like reds because this one got high marks in
Wine Spectator.
He gets drinks for my friends from the bank, helps Marty ice down more champagne, and immediately hits it off with Randy as they discuss constellation patterns and trajectories of light.

I pull back from the conversation and wonder about the strange language among menâsome menâwho speak of cars and sciences and plumbing as if those topics were childhood friends.

Ricki joins me, her cheeks a giddy pink, as she digs a fork into pasta salad, her eyes on Ben. “He's amazing isn't he?”

“Not at all what I was expecting. Not engineery. And his hair is so cute. I like that silver.”

“I like him so much, sometimes I think my heart's just gonna up and pop,” Ricki says, her mouth crumpling in a silly grin.

“Do you like him?” I tease, “Or do you like-like-like him?”

She sighs. “Don't get me started. You don't know how close I came to making a huge mistake with Nate.”

“We all make mistakes,” I say, thinking of my predicament but veering off it quickly. “How's the shop coming? Jane says you're having some trouble with the books.”

“The shop is great. Business is booming, but my bookkeeper moved to Atlanta and I haven't been able to balance the books ever since.”

“Want me to take a look at them?”

“Would you? I hate to pile more work on you.”

“Bookkeeping is therapy for me. A far cry from work these days, believe me. Drop the books by some night and I'll take a look.”

“And for that you'll have my undying gratitude . . . and my firstborn.” Ricki holds her salad aside to hug me.
No, thanks, got my fill of baby right now,
I want to say.

“And I can't wait for Easthampton. Marty's place is supposed to be charming.” Jane's boyfriend has invited us to his Hamptons house, a quiet place in a wooded section of eastern Long Island. “You've been there, right?”

“Last summer,” I say. “And it's very cozy. Looking forward to it, though Randy and I can't spend the whole week there. We'll both be working until Christmas Eve.”

“Isn't it ironic that none of us is single this year? Our sad singles dinner has blossomed into a couples thing.”

“Who are you calling âsad' singles?” I say, patting her back. I always liked Ricki, but I came to adore her when she bolstered her sister during the thyroid crisis last year.

“It's going to be a great Christmas,” Ricki says. “We'll figure out who's bringing what. I'm a better cook than Jane, but I'm planning to use her apartment to do some baking. Did she tell you Ben and I are staying at the Waldorf?”

“Nice?”

A wicked grin crosses her face. “Decadent.”

Randy summons me from across the roomâI feel the electric current between us, his warm eyes loving me from a distance. How will I tell this man I've betrayed him?

“Kerry was admiring your Christmas sky,” Randy tells me.

“It's fabulous.” Kerry glances up from an open book of photographsâpictures from the last production he worked on with Randy. He cocks one pierced eyebrow. “I've just got tacky red lights up at my place.”

“Early bordello,” Sheryl tells him. “Fits with the theme of your decor.”

“I'm looking for another place,” Kerry says defensively.

“You should come to Brooklyn,” says Gil, also from the set design crew. “Park Slope is the new center of the universe.”

As Randy slips one arm around my waist, I feel relieved to have my two bedroom co-op on the Upper West Side. The second bedroom with the computer and Randy's easels will make a great nursery. I shiver slightly as he kisses my neck.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Just tired. The rush of preparty adrenaline has worn off.”
And guilt is very tiring,
I think. It's exhausting.

I am glad when the theater gang heads downstairs, planning to have dinner at Casa Mexicana, two doors down. They are the last guests to go, my bank friends having hurried off to be with family and friends for dinner, and Ricki and Jane having gone to burrow into warm pillows with their mates. Randy tells the crew that we might meet them in a bit, but I know it's just a friendly send-off; better to leave the possibility of the night open.

When the door closes, his eyes encompass me. “Have we paid our social dues for the season?”

I pick up two pillaged platters and bring them into the kitchen. “Did you see Ricki's gift?”

“Why do people feel compelled to bring gifts?” he calls from the living room.

“Tradition.” I go to the dining room table and unveil a potted evergreen decorated in tiny gold and blue stars.

“Whoa.” He seems startled. “Nice.”

“She's a Christmas fiend.”

“It shows.” He turns the tree, then tugs on my hand. “Saves me from having to go and cut one down in Central Park.”

I laugh as he pulls me onto the sofa. “You can't do that.”

“But we need a tree. Got to have a tree. It's tradition.” He nuzzles my cheek with his nose, then kisses me.

It steals my breath away, and I remember the electric charge between us, so achingly familiar yet brand new. Our hands study the familiar maps of each other's body as we begin to make love. I let my mind tumble into him wholeheartedly, then feel a lash from the whip of guilt.

Is this right? Is it somehow wrong to make love with Randy now that I know I'm pregnant with another man's child? Our relationship has always been honest, and I'm a terrible liar. Should I tell him about Jonathan?

No. The truth would only hurt Randy. He probably wouldn't leave me over it, but it would throw useless muck into our clear, sweet relationship. I won't tell him . . . at least, not now.

I let the dark feelings go as I kiss Randy and rake his hair back and gently hook my fingers into the pale peach shell of his ear, settling onto the fleshy lobe, a sensitive region. He has already found the muscle in the side of my neck, my hot spot, and his lips press a massage there that lifts me into a place beyond this sofa, beyond this planet.

As our clothes drop to the floor and our bare skin melds I am reminded that we complete each other. Soul, skin, and spirit merge in a magical way, far surpassing the mechanical sexual exchange I'd experienced with Jonathan and every other previous boyfriend.

“I love you,” he whispers.

I tell him I love him as I open myself to him and vow to guard and protect our sacred love. For now, I must protect him from the harsher truths.

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles

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