Christmas with a Chimera, page 5
“Please,” he said, letting some genuine desperation creep into his voice. She always liked it when he made himself small for her.
Half my size and you can still undo me, he’d told her. She’d liked to quote it back to him, once upon a time. Nobody had undone him like that since. It was a relief. Relationships were easier when they didn’t make you talk about difficult crap. Especially your difficult crap. And yet some part of him, a strange, murky part he didn’t let himself look at very often, missed it. The aftermath, anyway. He had never known himself better than when he was with her—had never felt so close to another person. His relationships since had always been committed to having a good time and not much else. No digging, no calling each other out. Just easy fun until it inevitably fizzled out.
Emma sighed, dragging him back to the present.
“You’re paying,” she told him.
* * *
Arthur rode that high all the way back to the Musgrove Inn after filming shut down for the day.
The lobby was full. A mer looked bored in the corner, and an orc bent down to fix her wheelchair. A gargoyle grabbed his scarf from a coat rack with a scowl.
At the end of it sat a long, empty reception desk.
Arthur rang the bell. A minute later, Luna emerged from the back room. Her hand was locked in a broad man’s shirt, pulling him out into the lobby with a playful grin. The man was watching her with eyes so dark Arthur almost felt he was intruding. He was obviously the husband—even if he didn’t stink like an alpha werewolf, him bending in to nuzzle her neck was proof enough.
Her eyebrows shot up as she noticed Arthur standing at the counter. “Arthur! What are you doing here? We really need to find more people for the reception desk. Oh, this is my husband, Oliver. Ollie, tell him about that movie you liked.”
Oliver shot her a wry look and held out a hand toward Arthur. “Good to meet you. I liked your spy character in Mane Suspect.”
“That was a fun one,” Arthur said cheerily, pumping his hand. “Thanks for getting the inn back up and working again. Bet you guys get more business than the last owners.”
He gestured behind them at the lobby. He’d never actually set foot in the inn when he was growing up, but he’d seen it looking sad and decrepit on Cliff Street as he walked to school. He’d be surprised if they got even a third of their rooms filled at any one time.
“Thanks to Luna,” Oliver agreed. They looked at each other softly, and Arthur was given the repeated impression that he was intruding.
Then Luna tore her gaze away, blinking rapidly. “Right! What can I do for you? Is there something wrong with the cabin?”
“The cabin’s fine. I was wondering if you could help me out with something.” He leaned over the desk. “I’m looking to take a girl out to dinner. But she’s a local, so she already knows every place in town. Any suggestions?”
Luna smirked. “I got you covered.”
SIX
“Well,” Emma said as she opened the door the following night. “At least you’re not wearing sunglasses.”
Arthur beamed at her. He was dressed in a sleek gray suit, the collar unbuttoned to show off the thin fur over his stupidly defined collarbones.
She herded him out onto the ramp, closing the door behind her. “Where are we going?”
“Can’t tell you all my secrets yet.” He reached to place a hand around her waist. She elbowed him away with a scowl and headed toward the street.
“This isn’t a date,” she reminded him, heart pounding from his proximity. “This is dinner. Where you promised to make me want to murder you less. I’m still feeling murdery.”
“Give it time,” he said.
She pushed the gate open and frowned. She couldn’t see any unfamiliar cars parked on the snowy street. She’d half been hoping that he’d brought the limo so she could make fun of it.
He followed her, wings flexing. “I do need to touch you for this next part.”
“Oh, do you? What, are you lifting me gallantly over a puddle? News flash, everything is frozen. So keep your paws—” She cut off with a yelp as he scooped her into his arms, wings flaring out.
He grinned down at her. “Hold on.”
Then he took off, flying higher and higher, clearing the rooftops. Emma gasped as cold air stung her face. Whenever he took her flying in the old days, she’d bury her face in his mane to keep out the chill. Like hell she was going to do that now.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
She spat out a strand of golden mane.
“Go fuck yourself,” she managed. But it came out far too close to a laugh.
His grin widened. He held her tighter, wings sturdy and powerful as he flew them toward the mountains. She stared up at them as they worked. She’d assumed that his wings would be frail and useless after so long in LA with everyone driving him around. She should’ve known he would take his wing workouts seriously; not even a life of luxury would stop him from going flying in the mornings.
She didn’t dare glance down. She’d learned her lesson in high school after looking down during a romantic Valentine’s Day fly and nearly throttling him as she realized she was, in fact, afraid of heights. A fact that he laughed heartily at when they got back to the ground.
You had nothing to worry about, he’d told her. I have you.
She tightened her grip, forcing the unwelcome memory out. He didn’t have her. Not anymore. He just…wasn’t letting her fall. These old emotions had no right to come crawling back, some long-lost echo of how she used to feel in his arms, warm and comforted and safe even at the highest heights.
He landed halfway up the mountain, his shoes sinking into the snow. “Here we are.”
Emma twisted. He was taking her toward a fancy log cabin.
“There’s no way that was the only way up,” she protested, squirming out of his arms.
“There’s a path,” he agreed. “This was faster.”
“Oh, faster. Sure.” She grimaced at her boots. They were too short, snow leaking through her jeans. She had assumed she’d be dealing with the ankle-length snow around town, which had been cleared entirely around the main streets. She hadn’t been expecting to go up on a mountain.
He pulled the sliding glass door open. “After you.”
She glowered at him and stepped inside, shaking her boots off as messily as she could.
He stepped in after her, giving her an appreciative look. “You look nice.”
“I do not,” she retorted, heading down the hall. She hadn’t even done her hair, her pixie cut sticking out even crazier than usual thanks to the unexpected flying trip up the mountain. “You look like a jackass.”
He followed her, tugging at his collar. “I’m not even wearing a tie!”
“It’s your face. Where’s dinner? My lunch was…” She stopped.
The living room was irritatingly gorgeous. Lush dark carpet and plants hanging from the ceiling. A fireplace smoldered in the corner. But that wasn’t what drew her eye—it was the view. The rear wall was made of glass, and the town of Claw Haven splayed out underneath them.
“Beautiful,” Arthur said.
She jumped. He was closer than she thought. She spun around to see him lingering behind her, looking out at the tiny, glittering town with a strange look in his eyes. Almost like longing. Then he blinked, and the look was replaced by his loathsome charm as he gazed down at her.
“Best seat in the house,” he informed her. “Luna set it up for me. They built the cabin last year, and I’m the first one to stay in it.”
“Lucky you,” Emma said dryly. But she couldn’t keep a stubborn hint of awe out of her voice. She hadn’t seen the town from up above since…shit. Since the last time that he flew her up the mountain. He used to take her up here sometimes in the summer for picnics. She’d never seen it in the dark before. It really was beautiful—a small, gleaming jewel in the darkness.
Arthur cleared his throat. “So! You were talking about dinner? It’s in the kitchen.”
She snorted, following him. “Oh, god. Don’t tell me you cooked.”
“I wouldn’t subject you to that,” he said. “You know Heath Astarot? He owns the bakery now.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yeah, and it turns out he isn’t just good at baking.”
“Yeah. He’s also good at bitching.” Emma’s laugh was cut short when Arthur pulled a tray out of the oven—two steaming bowls of risotto, with a warm loaf cut into thick, fluffy slices.
“I hope you still like mushroom risotto,” Arthur said, carrying the tray back toward the living room. “I told him to make it extra creamy.”
There were peas dotted alongside the mushrooms. Emma wondered if he’d asked for that, as well. Silky risotto with peas and mushrooms, a pat of butter melted in the middle—just the way she liked it.
Arthur paused at the doorway. “Are you coming?”
“What?” Emma swallowed around a mortifyingly thick throat. “Yeah. Coming.”
She followed him back into the living room, sitting on her knees at the coffee table across from him. He kept talking as he pulled the oven mitts off and set up the cutlery, but Emma couldn’t stop staring at the damn risotto, trying to stop her eyes from stinging. What the hell did he think he was doing? What was she doing, agreeing to this?
Arthur ate a spoonful of risotto. “Mmm. That’s wonderful. Try some.”
Emma picked up her spoon and considered throwing it at his nose. She dunked it in the risotto instead, telling herself she could always leave. She’d threaten to walk down the mountain if she had to, and he’d give in and fly her down. She was pretty sure. He liked pissing her off, but he never wanted to really upset her. Not unless he had to, anyway. He hated it when people were mad at him—her especially. Apparently, that still mattered to him.
She took a grudging mouthful of risotto. It was warm and earthy and comforting, and she couldn’t stop herself from letting out an appreciative hum.
“Right?” Arthur said. “Not as good as your mom makes it, but still pretty damn good.”
He ate another spoonful. His tail flicked happily. He looked so relaxed, with his collar open and wings fanning out against the couch behind him. It made Emma think back to one of the first insults she’d ever paid him, back in freshman year. He’d been asking her why she was annoyed with him when everybody else in school loved him. She’d snapped back at him. She couldn’t remember the exact words, but it was something like, You look like the kind of guy who takes “fake it till you make it” too seriously.
He still did. Every genuine emotion got hastily covered up by a picture-perfect smile and a line tailored to suit whatever he thought people wanted to hear. There was nothing true there unless you yanked it back, exposing all those normal insecurities and a deep-seated belief that nobody would like him if he wasn’t on all the time. Charming and charismatic and dreamy 24-7. Was all that still there? Or had he glued that switch down so it never turned off?
She dropped her spoon into her risotto with a clatter. “You can’t impress me, you know.”
Arthur made a questioning noise, his mouth full. There was a smudge of risotto on his furry chin, which Emma refused to find adorable.
“All this,” she said, gesturing at the incredible view, the cabin, and the food. “I know who you are under all this crap.”
Arthur’s ears twitched. He swallowed his risotto, wiping his mouth neatly.
“And who am I?” he asked, shooting her a bright smile like this was an interview, not a tense chat between two exes.
For a second, Emma felt…sad for him. She wrestled it down as soon as it appeared, but she still felt it. She wondered if he let any of his other girlfriends hold him while he cried at the end of Mermaid and Me, or if he’d vented to them after a particularly empty phone call with his parents. If he ever told them about his recurring nightmare of walking through a crowd, shouting and waving his arms, but nobody ever seeing him.
Maybe he did. But she doubted it.
It didn’t matter anyway. The chimera she’d fallen in love with was long gone. He’d left on Christmas Eve a million years ago, and he wasn’t coming back. Even if he was sitting across from her, his gaze getting oddly desperate the longer she didn’t reply.
Emma took a deep breath. “You’re a self-seeking, fame-hungry jackass.”
“Again with the jackass,” Arthur said quietly and sighed. “Look—”
“I’m not finished,” Emma barked. “You’re that same asshole who walked away from your entire life to chase a dream. You knew I’d never come with you, and you did it anyway. It was more important because it involved you. You always come first. Nothing matters more to Arthur Pineclaw than Arthur Pineclaw.”
“Emma—”
“You’re that same guy who never wanted to talk about his feelings, or anyone’s feelings, because feelings are hard and messy and you want things to be easy. Congratulations! You did it! Everything’s easy for you now, Arthur. Including people. Everybody falling over themselves to please you, nobody ever digging deeper. Which is what you always wanted! How does it feel, movie star? Does it feel good? Forming a lot of long-lasting, deep connections in Hollywood? Or is everything all—all bright and breezy and no strings attached, let’s not talk about anything hard, let’s not try to see each other because that’s so much easier.”
She stopped, panting. Her eyes were burning again.
Arthur stared down at his risotto. She’d expected him to look surprised. And he did, for a moment. But only for a moment. His wings flexed behind him self-consciously. There was a terrible second where she was sure he would shoot her with a cocky grin, the way he did at the very start of their relationship before they knew each other well.
But he didn’t. There was the faintest twitch as if he was considering it. But then he just looked at her. No smile, no bullshit.
Emma shivered. His eyes were golden and warm and far too piercing. She’d forgotten how spellbinding he could be when he dropped those goddamn walls and focused entirely on her.
“And I know who you are,” he said, his voice devastatingly soft. “Under all this.”
“Under what?”
He nodded at her—arms crossed tight over her chest, her face twisted in a scowl.
“You’re still the same sweet, passionate girl who uses anger to hide how much she cares,” he said quietly. “The same girl who needs to unwind with Cool Whip and Casablanca after a long day. Who takes care of what’s hers and fights for…for what she cares about.”
Something brushed Emma’s leg. She jumped, looking down to see his tail trailing over her knee. The scales were neat and shiny, just like always. He kept them pristine, just like his wings. She used to rub oil into his feathers and clip his scales. He probably got the help to do that now.
That gleaming tail curled around her thigh.
“You really should just come out and say it plain,” he said. “I know you haven’t been getting what you need.”
Emma’s cheeks heated. She wanted to think it was from indignation, but she knew better—it was the same old reason she got flustered when he got close. Like he was doing right now, his breath minty and warm as he leaned over the table.
“The hell do you know about my needs?” she asked, distantly impressed by how unaffected she sounded. Like there wasn’t heat pooling between her legs. Like she wasn’t pouring every ounce of willpower into not staring at his mouth.
Arthur smiled, soft and small and knowing. His right wing ducked down, feathers brushing her hot cheek.
Emma shivered. It was useless pretending she didn’t. He could probably smell how wet she was, the keen-nosed bastard.
He grinned, all those sharp teeth on full display. “Want me to show you?”
SEVEN
Arthur waited, his breath frozen in his chest.
It was entirely possible he had misread this. He hoped he hadn’t. But twelve years was a long time, and she was still staring at him. Maybe she would throw the risotto in his face. Both bowls, for good measure. Grind the bread to crumbs in his mane and storm out into the snow and make him run out after her and argue until she let him fly her down the mountain.
She lunged, jarring the table so hard that risotto splattered over the tablecloth he’d found in the linen closet. Arthur barely noticed, too occupied with her hands tangling in his shirt, her mouth a blazing pressure against his. He’d forgotten what kissing her was like when she was angry at him, when he successfully taunted her into leaping on him instead of cussing him out. It was glorious. He huffed a laugh against her lips.
She immediately pulled back, glaring. “What? Is this funny to you?”
“No,” he replied. “I just—”
Missed you. He clamped his jaw shut before he could say it. He’d started this to stop all the sincerity, not keep it going. To stop his stomach from doing that nervous squirming that had rarely happened since he left Claw Haven. And, he was starting to realize as she dug her fingers into his mane and pulled him back in, so he could make her smile.
He loved making her smile. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until he felt it against his lips. He’d dedicated most of his high school career to making her smile. Once or twice, he’d had the ludicrous thought that he was put on this earth to make Emma Curt smile.
He pulled her into his lap, sliding his hands up her smooth back. She smelled like coffee beans and, inexplicably, the same deodorant she’d worn in high school. Berry Blast. He nuzzled her neck, breathing in the scent he’d once known as much as his own.
“This isn’t…” Emma paused, moaning as he pressed a careful bite to her collarbone. “This isn’t a date.”
“Never,” he agreed. He rocked up against her, letting her feel his growing erection.
Her mouth dropped open, her face going hazy with desperation. She tried to cover it up, but it was too late. A low growl built in his chest, oddly possessive. She really hadn’t been getting what she needed. He knew the town wasn’t full of the best and brightest, but these idiots were really letting her go unsatisfied like this? What was Claw Haven coming to? And just when he’d been grudgingly starting to admit it wasn’t all bad.
