Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,180

pain. “I don’t even know,” she says, blinking at the snow-caked firs in front of us. “I just feel a bad vibe I guess. Also, boyfriend trouble.” She blows a trail of smoke out. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

“Is it just me, or is smoking lonely? Inherently lonely. And bumming one off someone, what is that? Here, have some cancer.” She grins. My chest throbs a little as her brown eyes thaw me.

“No, you’re right,” I offer her. “It’s kind of lonely.”

I exhale a cloud of smoke, and the girl blows her own stream toward mine. The gray smoke mixes. “There.” She smiles.

My drunk brain makes a note: learn more about her. Anything, I scribble desperately on the dry board of my mind. My throat is tight. My lungs ache. Want.

I turn toward her, noticing her beautiful, bare throat. She draws her shoulders up toward her ears. I want to put my arm around her. I don’t want to scare her, though. Invade her space.

She smiles at me, a little smile that’s just for smiling’s sake. For me. A fucking gift.

“I bet your boyfriend is an asshole,” I hear myself say.

She laughs. “Why?”

“Assholes always get the good ones.” I give her a sloppy smile as my head buzzes. “All the nice guys know.”

“Are you a nice guy?”

“No, snowflake.” I throw my cig down and cover it with my boot. Then I take my scarf off. I drape it around her neck, our eyes holding like magnets as I lean away. “Stay warm.”

I press my lips together so I don’t say more, and go inside.

GWENNA

December 11, 2015

I used to like December. Years ago, it was my favorite month. I loved Christmas. Reindeer. Crackling fires. Snow. I adored the evergreens, the way your breath in cold air makes that little cloudy puff. I thought the winter sky, a sheet of black with burning white pinholes, was simply magical.

I used to have almost an entire drawer of holiday socks. I’d start wearing them before Thanksgiving. I still try. I try to like the holidays. I put out Christmas early most years. Decorate a tree.

But in my dreams, I see that black sky, with its fever-black white stars, and I am haunted by the moaning coming from a place I can’t see. I can sometimes feel the weight of the ambulance crunching snow beneath its tires, the way a large vehicle shifts and slips on fresh powder.

My last memory before the accident is of Jamie and me on the plane to Colorado. We shared a Rudolph fleece as the plane started landing. I remember how the round window was icy-cold. I remember getting in the car that came to pick us up: a black Tahoe with chilled wine in the backseat. I think maybe I remember the Madisons’ sprawling wood chateau, with its wrap-around porch, sharp, high ceilings, and three levels of art, alcoves, faux fur rugs, and plush armchairs. The huge stone fence around the place. But my neurologist tells me that’s from other visits. Previous years. Because of my brain injury, I don’t remember anything beyond a snippet of our laughter and the wine in the SUV.

I think about the wine as Barrett and I take communion. This is our second week coming to church together. He suggested it last week, thinking maybe it would help with my nightmares.

“Are you a churchgoer?” I asked him.

“No. I always liked the chaplain with our unit, though.”

“Perfect,” I teased.

But—it really is. Now on Sunday mornings, I get to see Bear in a suit. He takes communion with me even though he knows I don’t care if he does, and I think he honestly likes the priest. It’s…funny. Funny strange. But nice.

Back in our pew, he leans his arm against my shoulder and plays with one of my pigtails as the priest clears away the chalice and paton and the Eucharistic ministers stack the kneeler cushions at the altar. I think about the wine again. Do I remember what kind it was? Probably Sauvignon Blanc, one of the only wines both Jamie and I like. Her mom would have known that. Would have stashed it in the car for us.

I try to think about the drive. What did the roads look like? I can’t remember.

Soon we’re standing up, singing the recessional hymn , then filing out with everyone else during the organist’s vigorous postlude. Barrett and Father Ryan exchange words as we leave the church. I’m glad they seem to get along.

By the time we get into his