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“I must still be asleep,” Timoney said after a moment, searching his face and seeing nothing but granite and reluctance. “And I don’t mind telling you, I’ve had this dream before. Many times. So I can tell you what I’ve often told myself when I’ve woken up to find your proposals little more than wishful thinking.” She had to clear her throat then. “You don’t actually want to marry me. And martyrdom doesn’t suit you at all.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “I am many things, but I have never been a martyr.”
“Then why pretend you want to marry me?” The words felt wrenched from her.
Because she still wished she could...just say yes. Come what may.
His gaze grew darker than the night around them. “If that is what it will take, then that is what I will do.”
Timoney gazed at him for a long while, until it seemed to her that she was only hurting herself that way. She turned her head then, taking in the sweet stretch of sleepy London, here in the dark before dawn on this Christmas Day that she had expected to go very, very differently.
And later, maybe, she would explore all the ways that this moment, in many ways, had hurt her more than anything that had gone before. But she needed to make it through, first.
Somehow, she had to survive this, too.
She sighed, though she wanted to sob. She stood straighter, when she wanted nothing more than to collapse into a ball on the ground.
“I appreciate the offer,” Timoney made herself say, though everything in her was a riot of a sharp, bright anguish. She wanted nothing more than to snatch her words back. Then answer differently. Just jump straight in, because surely, whatever happened, it would be worth it—she would have him in some way and that had to be better than not having him. But instead, she made herself keep going. She made herself do the hard thing. “But no.”
He gazed down at her, a thunderous expression taking over from the bleakness. And that was better. More familiar, anyway. Because at least she recognized his arrogance.
“No?” he repeated, incredulous.
“No,” Timoney said, more firmly. “I am not going to marry you, Crete.”
The incredulity on his face became a scowl. “Why the hell not?”
And she couldn’t keep track of the things she felt any longer. Because she felt too many things at once. Still the urge to sob, holding all the smashed broken pieces of her heart in her hands. But also, possibly, she felt the urge to laugh, too.
Because someday, surely, she would find all of this funny. This man, who no one saidnoto, clearly. The look of imperious astonishment on his face, as if he’d never heard the word before.
She supposed it was possible he hadn’t. Not really. Not since he was a child.
“We’ve never talked about Christmas,” she said quietly, her gaze still on the city streets far, far below. But she made herself turn then, to look at him. “I’m going to guess by the singular lack of anything even remotely festive in this apartment of yours that you don’t care for the holiday.”
“I don’t like holidays.” His scowl deepened. “Particularly Christmas. The only thing worse than festivities are forced festivities. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Timoney, but the whole of England appears to slide into a minced pie stupor come fall, and little sense can be had from anyone until the new year. It is tiresome.”
She found herself smiling again. Not happily, perhaps, but still. It was a smile. “It’s very easy to get caught up in all the trappings. Minced pies, for example. Festive decorations, the race for perfect gifts, carols and fizzy drinks.”
“Do you require that I present you with gifts?” he demanded. “Perhaps you have forgotten who I am. Have an island. A fortune or two, if you wish it. It means nothing to me.”
Timoney shook her head and held the blanket closer. “It’s not about the trappings. I know you don’t understand Christmas, and maybe you never will. When my parents were alive it was my favorite day of the year. And not because we exchanged gifts, but because we were all together and everything was as it should be. A fire in the grate. Happy songs in the air. Terrible jumpers and a proper home-cooked meal. Just us. Justlove, Crete. All the rest we could take or leave, as long as there was love.”
His jaw seemed more like steel than the railing he gripped. “Simply name the meal you wish to be served and I will make it happen.”
As she supposed she should have known he would. He could buy her anything she claimed she wanted. He could send a text and buy out restaurants all over this city, even forcing them to open for him today. If he wished, he could do almost anything.
Almost. “I thought that with Julian it wouldn’t matter, because I already felt so numb, so what was little more self-harm? But you saved me from that. And I’m grateful, I am. But now I understand far better than I ever could have before that Christmas, marriage, it’s all the same, really.” She shook her head, trying to keep her emotions at bay, because she couldn’t quite believe that she was doing this. “It’s not about what you canbuy, Crete. It’s about what youfeel.”
“Timoney—” he began, looking thunderous again.
“It’s light and it’s hope, Crete.” Her voice cracked. That was how urgent this felt to her. “And you think those things are the enemy.”
“I do not. Necessarily.”
“You do.” She didn’t address thenecessarily. She didn’t have to. She could see it written all over his face, all his rationalizations and qualifications, and none of that mattered as much as what she was about to say. “You do, Crete. And because you do, that means eventually—inevitably—you’ll think I’m the enemy, too.”
And Timoney realized that some part of her was waiting for him to refute what she’d said...when he didn’t.
