“Maybe there’s too much light, too many people, the voices, the thoughts, the sounds, but he won’t come here tonight. Maybe he’s just burrowed in, waiting for the year to pass, but he won’t come tonight. I wish you wouldn’t worry.”
“Being vigilant isn’t the same as worrying.”
“You worry. It shows.”
Instinctively, she reached up to rub her fingers between her eyebrows where she knew a line could form. And made him smile.
“You’re perfectly beautiful. That never changes. It’s in your eyes, the worry.”
“If you say he won’t come tonight, I’ll stop worrying. I like this room especially.” She ran her hand over the back of a wide chair in chocolate leather. “It’s for the quiet, and a reward.”
“A reward?”
“When work’s done, it’s for settling down in a good chair like this with a book and the fire. With rain pattering down, or the wind blowing, or the moon rising up. A glass of whiskey, a cup of tea—what’s your pleasure—and a dog at your feet.”
She did a turn, holding out a hand. “All these books to choose from. A good warm color for the walls—you did well there—with all the dark wood to set it off.”
She angled her head when he gave her a half smile. “What?”
“I built it with you in mind. You always used to say, when we were building our dream castle, how it had to have a library with a fire and big chairs, with windows the rain could drip down or the sun could creep through. It should have glass doors leading out to a garden so on a bright day you’d step out, and find a spot outside to read.”
“I remember.” And saw it now. He’d made one of her imaginings come to life.
“And there should be a room for music,” Fin added. “There would be music throughout the house, but a room just for it where we’d have a piano and all the rest. The children could take their lessons there.”
He glanced back. “It’s just over there.”
“Yes, I know. I saw it. It’s lovely.”
“There was part of me thought if I built it, if I kept you in mind, you’d come. But you didn’t.”
So clear now that she let herself see, the house was what they’d dreamed of making together.
“I’m here now.”
“You’re here now. What does that mean for us?”
God, her heart was too full of him, here in this room he’d conjured out of dreams.
“I tell myself what it can’t be. That’s so clear, so rational. I can’t see what it can or might.”
“Can you say what you want?”
“What I want is what can’t be, and that’s harder than it was, as I’ve come to believe that’s through no fault of yours or my own. It was easier when I could blame you or myself. I could build a wall with the blame, and keep it shored up with the distance when you spent only a few days or few weeks here before you went off again.”
“I want you. Everything else comes behind that.”
“I know.” She let out a breath. “I know. We should go back. You shouldn’t be so long away from your guests.”
But neither of them moved.
She heard the shouting, the rise of voices, the countdown. Behind her, the mantel clock began to strike.
“It’s going onto midnight.”
Only seconds, she thought, between what was and what is. And from there what would be. She took a step toward him. Then took another.
Would she have walked by him? she asked herself when he pulled her to him. No. No, not this time. At least this one time.
Instead she linked her arms around his neck, looked into his eyes. And on the stroke of midnight met his lips with hers.
Light snapped between them, an electric jolt that shocked the blood, slammed into the heart. Then shimmered into an endlessly longed-for warmth.
Oh, to feel like this, to finally feel like this again. To finally have her body, her heart, her spirit united in that longing, that warmth, that singular wild joy.
His lips on her lips, his breath with her breath, his heart on her heart. And all the sorrow blown away as if it never was.
He’d thought once what he felt for her was all, was beyond what anyone could feel. But he’d been wrong. This, after all the years without her, was more.
The scent of her filling him, the taste of her undoing him. She gave as she once had, everything in a simple kiss. Sweetness and strength, power