Restrained Box Set: Boston Doms Books 1-4, page 35
“I’m not needed after three.”
I can’t concentrate. My gaze keeps finding the clock, but the minutes crawl by. I shouldn’t be this nervous—or excited—that I can’t work.
Especially not since those two messages from the unknown Boston number were Elizabeth Bennett. By some small miracle, she still wants me to design her rings, and I’ve started and abandoned a dozen different sketches so far.
None of them feel right, and I hope the appointment to see her tomorrow will provide some inspiration. Getting to know her, even a little, can only help, but I’m nervous I’ll make a fool out of myself once more.
A few minutes before three, I shrug into my coat and pull a knit cap over my hair. I’ve done my best to cover up the dark stain smudging my cheek, jaw, and neck, and spent too long giving myself a smoky eye—two even.
Working at home, I rarely take the time to put on makeup. But now, as I carefully navigate the snowy sidewalks, I feel pretty, and I vow to make an effort a bit more often.
The city sparkles this time of year, both from the lights winding around every lamppost and the snow falling gently around me. A flake lands on my nose, and I tip my head up, smiling. Snow is rare in Greece, and despite my penchant for skidding on the ice, I fall in love with this city all over again
every winter.
Fifteen minutes later, the ice rink at Boston Common beckons. Milos waits along the rail, and when he sees me, his eyes light up. I smile, the flutter in my belly an unfamiliar sensation, and quicken my steps.
“I worried you would not come.” He offers me his elbow, and as I wrap my hand around his arm, I catch a whiff of his aftershave. Summers along the Aegean, the salty spray, and a hint of spice.
Why does he have to smell so good?
We stop at the hot chocolate vendor, and Milos insists on paying. With steaming cups of rich drinking chocolate clutched in our gloved hands, we huddle at the viewing platform and watch the skaters spin by. Milos breaks the silence. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
Against the frigid winter air, my cheeks flame. I pause to sip my drink, trying to figure out what to say. He’s so sincere, and I can’t let him flounder in the storm I caused. “I last spoke to my family ten years ago. Everyone’s happier that way. I don’t embarrass them, and they don’t make me feel like I’m a failure.”
He doesn’t respond, and I hate awkward silences, so my mouth refuses to shut up, even as my brain screams at me to change the subject. “I was born on Easter. That alone would have been enough to start the rumors. But the summer I turned thirteen, I discovered red highlights in my hair.” I tick the strikes against me off on my fingers. “Gray eyes, red hair, born on a Holy Day, and cursed with this?” I pull back my hair to reveal the discolored skin along my cheek. “My father wanted to run for Speaker, and I hated him with the passion of a teenager rebelling against her parents. So I played up the part. I’d sneak out and knock on doors at night; I stained my hands red more than once. My parents forbade me from attending any political events, but that made things worse. The papers went after my father for hiding his vrykolakas child away from society. So he dragged me to the state dinner, even though he knew I wasn’t feeling well. I had a seizure and knocked over a precious sculpture. I can’t be trusted around anything delicate—or so my parents told me. A few months later, my father shipped me off to my aunt in California.” I clench my teeth, the anger and hurt welling inside me as my father’s words echo in my head.
Milos looks away, and the uncomfortable set of his shoulders should stop my verbal vomiting, but I can’t seem to rein it in. “Aunt Olivia’s funeral brought my mother to the States, but she barely said two words to me. I made
sure those bridges were burned beyond repair in college.”
“You’ve never gone home?” He peers at me, a set of lashes any woman would envy framing his eyes. Up close, his dark brown irises hold hints of golden caramel, and I want to lose myself in their depths.
“No.” I can’t say more. I miss Oia too much. I dream of her sparkling waters, her fresh air, and her deep cobalt skies. And the food. My God, the food. My stomach registers a vague protest even now, and the bite of rosemary, cinnamon, and nutmeg from my mother’s cooking tickles my tongue.
As he rests his hand on my forearm, I allow myself one more moment to wallow. And then I shove regret, hurt, and loneliness away and force a smile.
“I’m at a disadvantage. You’ve read my Wikipedia page. But I don’t know anything about you. Well, other than your employer.”
His gaze shifts to the skaters twirling around the rink, and his shoulders hunch slightly. “You remember the problems Mr. Fairhaven and Elizabeth had last year?” He takes a sip of his drink and then blows out a slow breath, the steam mixing with that from the hot chocolate.
“Yes. He got shot, right? Something about embezzlement with Elizabeth’s former firm?” The whole city obsessed over Alexander’s health, and then some dust-up with his brother threatened to steal the headlines, but I don’t remember much about the elder Fairhaven’s problems.
“Two entitled, greedy, and despicable men wanted her…out of the way.
Mr. Fairhaven called my employer to request trustworthy bodyguards for her.
The men who tried to hurt Elizabeth are gone now—one dead, one in jail, but they requested I stay on.” Hints of sadness and anger color his words, and I search my memory for reports of the attack. I vaguely remember another man
—a fellow bodyguard? —dying.
“Is she still in danger?” A pang of concern twists my stomach, quickly soothed by his assurances that he’s employed only as a precaution now. He doesn’t speak of the other man, and I don’t want to pry into a painful memory, so I shift the subject. “What led you to become a bodyguard?”
“I come from a small neighborhood in Athens—Kallithea—and my family struggled to get by. Three sisters, a brother, my parents, grandparents , all living under one roof. The military provided me all I needed. Food, shelter, training, and a way to ease the burden on my parents. When my service ended, I tried to get a job in construction, but the economy… I was down to my last hundred euros when my former commanding officer called
and offered me a job in the States. He paid well—enough for me to send money home. Mr. Fairhaven pays better. I can help my parents live comfortably now, and my sisters and brother as well.”
Mesmerized by his voice and the way his lips move when he speaks, I don’t notice that I’m shivering in the light flurries until Milos presses closer.
When his arm drapes over my shoulders, I snuggle against his side. There’s something instinctual about clinging to a larger man, and I feel safe and protected, despite barely knowing him. “Want to head somewhere warm?” I say as I peek up at him. “If you don’t have to go back yet.”
“I have all night.” His smile alone could probably stave off the cold, but his words send a thrill racing along my spine.
Nerves flutter—though I wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date. But Milos does something to my insides I can’t resist. As we exit Boston Common, I wonder just how cut he is under his sweater, and fantasies take hold. Paying no attention to my steps, I stumble over an errant cobble. Milos catches me before I fall and now I know what his arms feel like around me.
How much better would they feel if we were naked?
“Careful,” he whispers before he dips his head and presses a hesitant kiss to my lips. I don’t resist, and as he pulls away, the heat in his gaze banishes the last of the icy tingles from my toes.
We don’t speak of the kiss as we wind our way through the crowds at Quincy Market and down an alley. The flight of stairs is narrow and long, but when we emerge at the top, the secret bar I discovered four years ago beckons—three fireplaces and cozy little booths dotted along the windows that look out over the sparkling lights of downtown. We’re early enough for my favorite table where I can tuck myself into a corner, warmed by the fire with the entire city spread out below me. Milos slides into the booth, looks to me with uncertainty in his gaze, and when I smile, scoots close enough for me to rest my hand on his thigh.
Once we have hot toddies and a plate of bacon-wrapped dates in front of us, he takes my hand and runs his thumb over my ring. “Your work is beautiful. You do this as a career? Or—?”
“I quit my full-time job last year to focus more on my jewelry. I have a nice contract with one of the vendors in the market, and I do well online.
When I need to supplement my income, I take on some short research contracts with the Department of Urban Forestry. I studied to be a data analyst.” Pride swells as I remember the day I gave my notice at the
Northwest Financial Group. No one believed I could make a go of selling jewelry, but I’ve done pretty well. “I also spend a couple of afternoons a week doing elder care. Mostly cooking and picking up prescriptions, that sort of thing.”
“Are you certain you’re real?” he asks, and the awe in his voice makes me blush.
I shrug. “Spending time with the older women reminds me of my giagiá. ”
I stop short of telling him the job makes me feel like I still have a family.
“They treat me like a granddaughter, asking about my day, telling me stories of lost loves, offering me advice.” And pat my arm as they warn me not to wait too long to marry, or quiz me about my mostly non-existent love life.
“Your giagiá is gone?” Milos twines our fingers, and the tender touch, along with the sympathy in his eyes, almost spurs me to be honest with him, but first dates that delve into long-held family grudges? Awkward.
“Not…exactly. But I don’t speak to her anymore.” I change the subject, asking him to tell me about his sisters, and he does so with gusto. They’re both married now, and he has three nieces and a nephew under the age of four. “I miss them.” The faraway look in his eyes matches the emptiness in my soul.
“Do you see them often?”
“No. Mr. Fairhaven is fair. Generous with vacation time. He paid for me to spend a week in Greece last fall, and when Elizabeth had her appendix out in May and recovered at home for two weeks, he helped me bring my youngest sister to Boston. Even invited her over for dinner once Elizabeth could entertain. But we are a close family, and Skype does not let me walk the vineyards with my father or help my mother with her laundry. I’m happy here—please don’t misunderstand. But being half a world away is hard.”
“When will you see them again?” Longing for my own family flares, deep and agonizing, but I try not to let my feelings show.
His eyes light up, and his smile dazzles in the restaurant’s lights. “Three weeks. My parents, my sister Isadore, and her two daughters will spend Christmas here. Between my holiday bonus and my savings, we arranged the trip. I cannot wait to show Alesia and Dori the Boston Christmas tree. I have three full days off to spend with them.”
A piece of my heart twists painfully as I think of my brother. Darian would love Boston—at least, the Darian I knew. I think of him every day, but during the holidays, my thoughts turn more often to what I’ve lost. He’s
twenty-four now. Old enough to have children of his own. Milos takes my hand, concern darkening his eyes. “Elora, did I say something wrong?”
I force a smile and wrack my brain for an acceptable response—one that doesn’t turn our evening sour—until I see one of the wait staff bring over a plate of warm cookies for the table next to us. “No, not at all. Just thinking about holiday traditions. What’s your favorite kind of Christmas cookie?”
Two hours later, we’re stuffed full of tapas, and we’ve nursed our hot toddies long past the point they could even be called lukewarm. Milos insists on paying, and I reluctantly let him, then allow him to help me with my coat.
I don’t want this night to end, both because he’s easy to look at and has the voice of an angel and because I don’t think starting anything with him is a good idea. I’m not what he needs. Or he’s not what I need. Every time he speaks of his parents or his sisters, his eyes soften, the love he has for his family shining through. And I’ll never set foot in Greece again. My sorrow and anger at my family’s betrayal threatens to overshadow this wonderful man at my side.
He asked me out because he thinks I’m someone I’m not. Or he did before my confessions tonight. I disappeared from public life, yes. But no one knew the extent of the rift that fractured my family. To most, I’m the misunderstood Greek daughter who just happens to live in Boston. But to my family, I’m the outcast—the one no one speaks of in polite company but whispers about behind closed doors. I accept my role—most of the time—
and I’m happy with my life here, even if I ache for my mother’s embrace, my father’s approval, my brother’s raucous humor.
Milos walks me to the T station, and before I disappear down the steps, he slides a hand around my back and guides me against him. His other hand brushes my hair away from my face—from the deformity I hide from the world, and I pull away so that my hair falls back over my cheek again.
“Don’t.”
“Elora, you’re beautiful. You don’t have to hide from me.” His words
sound so sincere, and when he cups my neck, preventing me from withdrawing further, I let him. “I want to see you again.” His lips find mine, and I taste the last of the whiskey, a hint of the flourless chocolate cake we shared while talking about my college roommate’s hatred of all things peppermint. When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open to him, and as he invades the walls I’ve carefully crafted around my heart, I’m too slow to protest. One date and I want more. Much more. Melting in his arms, I try to commit everything about this moment to memory. The din of the crowds around us, the smell of chestnuts roasting a dozen feet away, and the feel of his fingers against my skin.
“Can I take you to dinner on Saturday?” His breathless words shouldn’t fill me with sadness. I should agree, smile, and kiss him back for all I’m worth. But that wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I step out of his arms, pull my coat tightly around my body, and angle my purse in front of me like a shield.
Milos, I wish I could say yes. I haven’t had a night like this in ages. But I’m not who you think I am. I’m not the woman you need. I’m sorry. I’ve never wanted to be someone else as badly as I do right now. Those are the words running through my head. I even rehearsed them on the walk from the bar. But before I can say his name, I’m nodding, and the relief that brightens his smile banishes my fears down to the deep recesses of my heart to be saved for a time when I can’t still taste him on my lips.
3
Elora
T he cab drops me off at the Fairhaven house at two the next day.
I gawk a little on my way up the steps, the pristine white columns wrapped in garland, candles burning in every window. If the inside doesn’t smell like Christmas cookies, I’ll eat my hat.
Elizabeth greets me at the door, stress apparent in her tousled hair and lack of makeup. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come with me.” She takes my arm and pulls me through a lavish foyer and into a formal living room. Yep.
Christmas cookies. Two leather sofas face one another in front of a roaring fireplace flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a small backyard.
Alexander Fairhaven lounges on one of the couches, a mug of coffee in his hand, crisp white shirt open at the collar. When he sees me, he uncrosses his long legs and rises. As he holds out his hand, I can’t help but stare. He’s every bit as handsome as he appears in the papers, but a charisma infuses his entire being that photos can’t convey. “Miss Kalivas, a pleasure to meet you.”
“Elora, please.”
“Elizabeth showed me photos of your work, Elora. Are you certain you have the time to complete our rings before New Year’s Eve?”
“Oh yes.” I take a seat when he gestures to the opposite couch. “If we can settle on the basic design in the next two weeks, we’ll be fine. I don’t take on a lot of commissions over the holidays; you and Elizabeth will have my full
attention.”
Elizabeth fidgets next to him until Alexander rests his hand over hers.
“Elizabeth prefers I not meddle too much in the wedding plans. Something about my tendency to choose the most lavish or expensive option…”
“We do not need Neil Lane designing our rings,” she says with a frown.
“Nor do we need Mario Batali catering the whole affair.”
“Elizabeth, Mario’s a friend. And you are rather fond of his lasagna.” He chuckles and lifts Elizabeth’s hand to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a kiss as he closes his eyes. This is love if I’ve ever seen it, and though I’ve spent exactly five minutes with them, there’s no question that Alexander adores her. “I’ll leave you if you don’t need me.”
“Go take over a small country.” Elizabeth pushes him away without malice, and she grins as he stands, not letting go of her hand until the last minute.
“Oh, wait.” I fumble for my bag and withdraw my sizing kit. “I need to know what size you are.”
“Neil measured me as a ten.”
“That may be, and I feel like an idiot for saying this, but I always do my own sizing. I have to check three different width bands. Without a finalized design, I don’t know how wide your band will be, and each fit differently. Sit and relax your fingers?”
He obliges, and after a few minutes, we settle on a small range of sizes depending on what Elizabeth chooses for a design. “You’re free now.” I can’t believe I’m teasing Alexander Fairhaven.
“Samuel will bring in some coffee. It was a pleasure meeting you, Elora.”
He heads for the hall, and I wonder how Elizabeth has gotten used to having staff. From what I’ve read about her, she had next to nothing when she and Alexander started dating, even though she runs a very successful accounting firm now with clients like the Red Sox. Her big score this year, the Boston Pops, made the front page of the financial section.
Once we’re alone, Elizabeth skirts the table between us and takes a seat next to me. “So, what do we do next?”
