"It was gorgeous." His black eyes bored into hers and he moved into her space, only inches from her.
"It's about sacrifice. Unbearable sacrifice for duty." Her voice trembled. Why, she couldn't explain. This moment was vulnerable in a different way. Could he see her, the quiet geeky girl, whom everyone expected to be loud, playing Celtic music alone? Did he have any idea why she, like so many doctors, buried their grief inside?
Gene's lips almost brushed hers, and she shivered. If he kissed her now, it would be a brand on her skin, one she could never escape. "Gene…"
"I promised you a song." Only slightly decreasing the tension, he stepped away and took a fork and a spoon off her counter. Making sure her table had nothing breakable on it, he began to tap rhythmically on the top.
"All right, mistress. Name that tune."
"It's not a waltz. And not a salsa."
"It's narrowed down to about one million other possibilities."
"Jingle Bells?"
"Not even close." He walked up to her and bracketed her with his arms.
"What are you doing?" she whispered because usually he asked permission. The magnetism drawing him toward her now had an almost tangible physical presence.
"I think it would help if I sang. Can I sing to you, mistress?"
Speechless, in awe, she managed to give half of a nod.
"My brothers and I had a band. I was the drummer since I didn’t quit those drum lessons."
This was the most personal informationhe'd ever revealed, and she was frozen in place, scared they'd lose this moment.
He started tapping again on either side of her and began to sing in a surprisingly light tenor voice. She vaguely recognized the song as a very old Sister Hazel song called 'Your Winter.'
His eyes stayed on hers as he sang the bridge. It was harsh, and raw, and beautiful. "If I hurt you, then I hate myself—"
She didn't let him finish because she was kissing him, and he was kissing her back. Makeup was smearing everywhere, but it didn’t matter. Her slip landed on the floor as he picked her up and carried her to her bedroom.
Uncaring she was in nothing except a thong, she reached up for the surprise props she'd bought for him. He let her push his left arm upward while he kissed down her bare shoulder.
Only when she looped it over his wrist did he stop to question her actions.
"Lily, what are you doing?" he exhaled harshly.
"I'm not drinking tonight. Neither did you. I'm not on call this weekend. No blizzards are in the forecast. I don't care how messed my makeup gets tonight. I thought… I thought you'd like to…"
He tugged at the restraint she'd put on his wrist. It was black rope with hearts woven into the twist and ending with a metal heart-shaped loop. The more one pulled, the tighter it got on the wrist. "Lily."
The words fell out of her mouth. He was going to say no again. "I… I don't know how to say this, but are we living some type of weird crazy dream? How much of this is real?"
She’d shown him parts of herself she never shared with anyone else. If this was dream, she needed to wake up.
He skimmed his hands down her face, not appearing to care how he pulled against the restraint. "It's as real as you want it to be."
"No, it's not. You sang to me. You make me want… I don't even know what color your eyes are."
"You don't think they're black?"
"They weren't purple or yellow either. Is any of this real?"
"You never told me you wanted it to be real."
"My whole life I tried to be a good girl, behave myself and think of others first. Pushed away how I felt and hid the girl with the tin whistle. The more I’m with you, I see the part of me I hide. I get to be that person.”
