For This Christmas Only Read online

  She pressed into him harder for just a moment, the tree-branch equivalent of her earlier shoulder shoves. “Very funny.”

  The idea that anyone found him funny was amusing to him, so he had a bit of a smile on his lips when she turned her head toward him and said, “Seriously, you—”

  She blinked, a flash of feminine lashes covering a moment of surprise—at what? His smile? Of course he smiled when she was close. With another little catch of her breath, she turned back to the stage to finish her sentence. “You have your moments.”

  No kiss. Not yet. So close, but they were on a fake date. If he made this a real date, she’d kiss him. He was certain of it.

  There was no such thing as a real date with a man who lied about his identity. He was certain of that, too.

  Eli silently cursed. If he wanted to make this a real date, if he wanted her to kiss the real man, he was going to have to take her aside after this show, walk with her out to the dark so nobody would recognize him before he had the chance to tell her himself, and then confess that he’d been lying all evening.

  Surprise. That would be her first emotion, but then what?

  E.L. Taylor was a half billionaire and a half-dozen other things she wasn’t expecting. He wasn’t a loner; he was popular wherever he went. He wasn’t an anonymous guy in a college town; he was a leader in the world of venture capitalism.

  Someone farther down the branch got off, making everyone sway for a moment as the tree adjusted to the lighter weight. Between his thighs, he felt Mallory use the muscles in her backside and legs to hold onto him, not the tree. She trusted him not to fall and take her down with him.

  She was so relaxed around him, a woman with nothing to hide. She knew which was her public persona and which was her private, and she’d shown him both tonight. He respected her self-awareness.

  He wasn’t there yet. He had to force himself to dig deeper than surface-level. He wasn’t popular; he was famous. The people who looked up to him as a leader were the owners of the start-ups Eli had chosen to invest in. He was resented by those he hadn’t helped, feared by those who knew he could buy them, sell them or ruin them at will. He didn’t make friends in his line of work.

  But he was rich. In his experience, being rich made up for a lot of flaws in every aspect of life. He rarely spent any time with his family, but his parents could live in Monte Carlo because of him, and his siblings, who were twenty-one now, had cars and college degrees and trust funds. He’d heard no complaints about his inability to make Thanksgiving dinner this year. Or last year. Or the year before.

  Went it came to girlfriends, being rich was their favorite thing about him. Not being a completely selfish bastard in bed was their second favorite. He couldn’t recall a girlfriend having a third favorite thing about him.

  You’re mildly funny.

  Without money, without sex, Mallory liked him. He didn’t want to lose that, but the truth would come out. E.L. Taylor couldn’t hide on campus for a full semester. She’d see him sooner or later, if only as a face on a poster for the lecture series.

  He hugged Mallory a little tighter. She ought to hear the truth from him, which meant he had to tell her tonight.

  The German dancers began turning their circles in the opposite direction, undoing all their weaving. The maypole’s ribbons unraveled at a steady, rhythmic pace. Eli’s time was running out.

  It would be okay. She was going to be angry that Eli had been a trick, even a test, but then she’d be delighted that Taylor was rich. It was always okay, when one had money.

  Eli studied Mallory’s profile, imagining the way her face would take on that avaricious gleam he was so accustomed to seeing on other faces, the one that let him get away with so much.

  He couldn’t picture it. When he told her the truth tonight, no greedy glint would come to her eye—but she would know he was looking for it. He’d made it clear that her heroine, Cinderella, wanted wealth to solve all her problems.

  He cringed now at the way he’d accused her—accused every little girl, which meant every woman, since they’d all been little girls—of wanting to latch onto Prince Charming for the castles and gowns his money could buy. In Mallory’s version of the story, Prince Charming didn’t have to be rich. It’s having enough respect for yourself to be with people you can trust, she’d said, before he’d made her cry, instead of people who’ll lie to you to keep you where they want you.

  He’d lied from the start to keep her with him, to use her as a light in another dark night. Eli wasn’t her Prince Charming. Choose whichever set of earrings you like wasn’t happiness in her book, but it was all he had to offer. Money, lies, and crippled emotions.

  Over, under, around and around the dancers went, unweaving the ribbons until they finished with a twirl that detached them completely. The maypole stood bare. The people applauded.

  Eli accepted his fate. This date was for one night only. In a few months, he’d leave Masterson and return to his usual life. He’d fly to Manhattan, he’d return to Dallas, he’d take a business trip to Tokyo, but he’d remember this one night and that one pure kiss. He’d wonder where Mallory was and how she was doing.

  And who she was with.

  “Tell me about this friend of yours who’s coming next semester. Is he still in Ohio now?”

  He felt the change in her body, an increase in muscle tension.

  “My friend.” She traced the seam of her jeans with her finger. With his glove. “My friend would be very disappointed in me if he saw me this evening.”

  “I imagine if you were my friend, I wouldn’t be thrilled to have you spending an evening with another man, either. Not even on a fake date.”

  “It’s nothing like that. He’s been my coach.”

  Sure, it isn’t. He’d bet her coach saw it differently. Eli took a moment to brush her hair behind her shoulder as if it had been caught between them. Then he put his arm back around her with a silent F-U to the guy in Ohio. Eat your heart out, friend. Tonight, for these hours, she’s mine.

  “He’s very adamant that you should never put all your faults and doubts on display.”

  Eli shrugged, unimpressed. “That’s nothing more than the code of the male locker room. Everyone pretends they’ll win the game that day, even in the middle of a losing season.”

  She turned abruptly in his arms. “Ha. I caught you. That’s just faking it until you make it. You’ve done it, too.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her, but it was hard to be supercilious in the face of her playful enthusiasm. “I said that was the code of the male locker room. I didn’t say I lived by it.”

  “He does. I do, too, but I pretty much broke that rule five minutes after I met you. I don’t know what it was about sitting on that hay bale behind you—”

  “Leaning on top of my head.”

  He hadn’t stopped her, because it hadn’t felt bad, and not entirely unfamiliar—in a flash, he realized why. The sensation had been similar to carrying his little sister in a piggyback ride. He’d forgotten all about that, until this second. When he was a teenager and they were little children, his brother and sister had climbed all over him like he was their jungle gym.

  “—staring at the bonfire. I guess staring at the fire is more likely to make you think deep thoughts than staring at these guys doing this slap-yourself dance. This is the silliest-looking dance, you have to admit. I couldn’t cry about anything right now if I wanted to.”

  He was aware she was laughing, but the images in his head were too vivid to ignore. His brother, his sister, piggyback rides... Old memories he’d buried so deep, he’d forgotten them. A black lake, a fiery explosion... New memories he wanted to bury deep, but couldn’t.

  “I shouldn’t joke about that, should I?” Mallory sounded subdued.

  Eli had to pull himself back to the conversation. Mallory had turned toward him more fully. There
was a little wrinkle between her eyebrows as she waited for him to answer her.

  “Joke about crying?” he asked, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. You had to deal with a pretty big crying episode, and you were very kind. I think I cried so hard because I’ve haven’t cried for two years, not since my friend explained all the ramifications of losing your composure like that.”

  Eli’s sister used to lose it every time he had to return to college. He’d pull out of the drive as a little eight-year-old girl wept for him, and he’d feel like a monster for making her wail. He’d stopped coming home as often after his freshman year, only visiting on the big weekends like Thanksgiving, just so he wouldn’t make her cry more times than necessary. To this day, he preferred anger to tears. Tonight, he’d tried to get Mallory to rant and rave at him, rather than cry.

  He never cried. He hadn’t even cried with relief when he’d gotten out of the plane wreck alive. He’d held Mallory to his chest tonight, though, as she’d cried hard enough for the two of them. Maybe he’d felt calm when she’d regained her calm because he’d finally stuck it out long enough to see that crying wasn’t as frightening as he’d thought for so long. How could he have been so damned afraid of tears?

  Man up. Big boys don’t cry. Never let them see that they’ve gotten to you, son.

  Of course, that was it.

  It angered him that Mallory’s friend was making her afraid to cry, too.

  “For two years, you haven’t let yourself cry?” he asked.

  “I used to lose it over every little thing. Christmas movies. Greeting card commercials. The frustration of trying to get medical records sent to the right hospital.”

  “One of those things is not like the others.”

  “I know. But that was before I, um, I met my friend. I decided not to let myself cry about anything, ever. If I won’t cry at lost-pet posters, then I won’t cry when I’m under pressure to present an important paper at work, someday. I just stopped crying, cold turkey.”

  “That sounds wrong. What kind of friend prohibits another friend from crying at all for two years?”

  “That was my idea. His was not to cry in front of anybody.”

  If Eli had the chance to go back and hug his eight-year-old sister before he got in his car and returned to college, he’d stand in the driveway and hold her until her tears dried up and she could wave instead of wail. He would have felt better during his drive back to Masterson for having done so. Instead, to avoid feeling bad, he’d avoided coming home to someone who’d wanted a piggyback ride.

  That had been the wrong decision, and only now did he see how steep the cost had been. He looked into Mallory’s eyes as the loss hit him.

  Bye-bye, Eli.

  Then he breathed again and cupped the side of her face in his palm. “I don’t think this friend’s advice is good for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “He sounds like an idiot.”

  Chapter Nine

  Never make the same mistake twice.

  —How to Taylor Your Business Plan

  by E.L. Taylor

  “He’s not an idiot.”

  Mallory pulled away from Eli’s hand with an angry jerk. This was her birthday fantasy. She was not going to let him ruin it by insulting yet another hero. He’d been right about Cinderella, but E.L. Taylor was different.

  Eli persisted. “Your friend doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “How can you say that? I told you the whole story. He taught me everything, so that I could navigate my family dynamics and get something productive done.”

  Eli lowered the empty hand that had been cupping her face. “Is it possible he’s being manipulative with your emotions by telling you not to react, not to cry?”

  “No. It’s not.”

  He’s E.L. Taylor, okay? Not an idiot. Also, he’s too busy making millions to bother manipulating me.

  Eli was dying to say something else, she could tell. He even opened his mouth, thought better of it and closed it.

  The crowd broke into applause. The dancers took their bows. The couple beside them on the branch left, probably unwilling to let Mallory and Eli’s quietly tense exchange dampen their festive evening.

  Eli sounded sincere. “I’m concerned, but I don’t want to randomly criticize anyone’s hero. Cinderella taught me not to, earlier. It occurs to me that this guy might be your real-life Prince Charming. In that case, your fake boyfriend is jealous, and you should take his words with a grain of salt.”

  “Oh. That’s a very sweet thing to say.” Mallory realized she’d touched her fingertips to her heart, like she was a Disney princess. Goodness gracious.

  “Somebody’s been hitting me over the head with an oilcan all night. I’m glad to know it’s working.”

  That was so charming. She ought to answer a sweet comment like that with a sweet kiss. The gap left by that missing kiss felt awkward to her.

  Eli tapped her knee. “So, is he your real boyfriend? You so sagely pointed out that if you’d had a real boyfriend here, you wouldn’t have needed a fake one. That doesn’t mean you don’t have a real boyfriend somewhere else. Like in Ohio.”

  “I sincerely doubt he’d ever be interested in me that way.”

  He’s E.L. Taylor. Also, he’s too busy making millions to bother dating an in-home caregiver from Ohio.

  She was really embarrassed now for having been too embarrassed at the beginning of the night to admit that she thought of a business book as her best friend.

  “He’s lucky to have someone who jumps to his defense so quickly,” Eli said.

  She was stuck with her little white lie now. “I defend him because he does mean a lot to me, but not the way you’re thinking. His advice pulled me through a really dark time in my life. I might have stayed stuck forever, reliving my past in my head over and over. He showed me that I had to forget about all the years I’d wasted up to that point.”

  “That doesn’t sound right, either. Don’t cry? Forget about your life prior to meeting him?”

  “Not forget. That was my word, not his.” She reached up to wriggle her ski cap into place a little, as if that would get her brain working. She was making Eli more concerned. A concerned man was not going to think about her as a desirable woman. If she was going to break her rule and enjoy a hot kiss with this fake boyfriend, she wanted to make it a good one. A kiss of lust, not pity.

  She slid off his lap and the tree branch. She stood and faced him, their eyes on a level, so he could see that she was telling the truth. Mostly. He wasn’t going to think sexy thoughts about her if she revealed that she loved a book.

  She began with the basics. “Never look back.”

  Eli looked at her sharply.

  “That’s what he actually said. Not ‘forget about the past.’”

  Eli came as close to rolling his eyes as a fierce man could. “That is the most overused, trite advice out there.”

  She glared at him. “I’m trying not to jump to his defense, but you don’t have to make it so difficult with your eye-rolling and your insults.”

  Eli didn’t so much as blink for a beat, but then that tenth of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Touché.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, but it wasn’t a negative gesture. He was giving her all of his attention, anchoring himself in place to listen until she was done, and that was a very, very sexy thing for a man to do.

  “I thought his advice was wrong, too. Not just ‘never look back,’ but all of it. He couldn’t possibly know what it was like to be me. But I had nothing to lose at that point, so I tried to do things the way he recommended.”

  She turned her hands palm-up and shrugged. “It worked. I used to daydream about how wonderful my senior year would have been at twenty-one, but
the more I wished I could have already graduated, the more likely it was that I would never graduate. Once I stopped looking back at the goals I hadn’t met, I had nowhere else to direct all my energy, except toward the goals I wanted to meet in the future. It worked. Here I am.”

  Her explanation must have been better this time. Eli’s scowl hadn’t returned, although his smile had faded. Poor man, so grim.

  “That was an excellent explanation of a frequently meaningless phrase,” he said. “You should write a book.”

  “Ha. No.” She laced her fingers together, gloved and bare. “I’m pretty sure it’s already been written.”

  “When we sat on the hay bales, you said you aren’t as happy as you thought you’d be, now that you’d gotten what you wanted.”

  The man didn’t forget a thing she said. Sexy.

  “That’s what I planned to think about tonight, all by myself at the Yule log. Then Kappa Lambda and some wet sand and a stolen mitten and this growly statue that turned out to be an interesting man kind of distracted me, but I think I found my answer tonight, anyway.”

  She stepped closer, standing in between his knees, and placed her hands on his crossed forearms. Bodies—his was so steady, so solid. She’d been touching him all night, wanting to remind herself how to touch a body that didn’t need her to fix it.

  “I think the reason I’m not happy is because I’m constantly looking forward. The moment I started this semester, I started looking forward to the next semester. When I think about next semester, I’m planning how I’ll manage to speak to the right people and get the right things approved, so I can move to the next goal after graduation. Looking forward is more productive than looking back, so it might be the best way to have a successful career, but it’s not ever going to bring me happiness.”

  “What will?” His voice was a low, delicious rumble. They were standing so close that he didn’t need to speak loudly at all. It was a heady feeling, being welcome in his personal space.