He crouches, shooting me a grin. His attention shifts to the cat when she runs over to inspect what I now see is a box from the Village’s bakery. Hugh holds out his hand for her to sniff, then pets her in long, even strokes. I swear her eyes roll into the back of her head in sheer bliss. Can’t say I blame her.
“Aye, I said ‘fiddlesticks’.” Hugh gives the cat one last pat before scooping up the box and rising. He takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. “When you work with kids, you learn quickly to watch your language. Sometimes things burst out, so I’ve trained myself with creative alternatives.”
As soon as we sit down, the cat jumps up on the arm of the couch. She walks across my lap and stops with her front paws on Hugh’s leg, as if trying to decide which one of us to sit on.
“Fiddlesticks,” I say.
Hugh gives a dry chuckle. “I’m glad I amuse you so.”
“Fiddlesticks?” I say again, this time to the cat. Her ears flick. She stares at me for a minute before moving fully into my lap, resting her paws on my chest the way she did that first night. “Hugh, I’d like you to meet Fiddlesticks.”
“You’re naming herFiddlesticks?” he asks, incredulous. At my nod, he cocks his head and studies the cat. “Suits her. And having her seems to suit you.”
“It does. Believe me, no one’s more surprised by that fact than I am.” I look at Fiddlesticks; she gives a slow blink, then closes her eyes. Turning my attention back to Hugh, I incline my chin toward the bakery box. “What’d you bring me?”
He lifts the lid and my nose is greeted with the rich scents of cinnamon, ginger, and sugary goodness. “I got a variety,” he says. “The baker was experimenting with gingerbread flavors and came up with a cupcake.” He angles the box so I can see the cupcake, slathered in thick frosting with a mini gingerbread person on top. The box also holds a cinnamon roll and a couple of cookies shaped like reindeer.
“Wanna split the cupcake?” I ask. Hugh nods and peels off the paper. He breaks a piece off and brings it close to my mouth. I’ve never been all that comfortable with guys feeding me, but his fingers are already covered in icing, which means I’d get sticky if I took it myself. I’m not sure Fiddlesticks would be too pleased with said sticky fingers in her fur.
“I figured this would be easier than attempting the whole cupcake,” he says, eyes on my mouth. “I wouldn’t want to smush the frosting all over your face.”
I open my mouth and Hugh gently feeds me the bite of cupcake. My lips brush his fingers. A thrill zings through me when he licks those same fingers, cleaning the icing off. Okay, so I guess there’s something to be said for letting a guy feed you occasionally. It shouldn’t have been a sexy gesture, and yet the air is suddenly charged. Hugh’s gaze returns to my lips as I chew and swallow mindlessly, only vaguely aware of the gingerbread flavor.
“You have a little something…” Hugh points to my mouth. He leans toward me, his breath warm on my face as he lingers for a moment before pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. “Sweet,” he says in a quiet, rumbly voice before his lips capture mine.
Fiddlesticks makes a disgruntled sound and slides down my lap. She doesn’t go far, because her weight shifts and settles on my knees. My awareness of her, along with everything else fades as I’m consumed by Hugh—his scent, his taste, the warmth of his body, the slow slide of his tongue over mine. Good god the man knows how to kiss.
His fingers have just found their way under the hem of my shirt when the sound of keys in the lock jolts me back to reality. The door swings open and Celia’s gaze settles on us. I expect her to glance away quickly like she usually does when she finds Hugh and me together, but she seems frozen, her wide eyes taking in the scene before her.
Hugh clears his throat and eases into an upright position. It seems to break whatever spell Celia is under. I have a second to see the twist to her lips before she turns to close and lock the door. She kicks her boots off haphazardly, letting them remain where they land, then sheds her coat and jams it on the coat rack. I inhale deeply, knowing a snide remark is imminent in three…two…one…
“Isn’t this cozy?” She whirls around, waving a hand in our direction. Her eyes narrow when she sees Fiddlesticks on my lap. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, so I’ll just go to bed and leave you to it.” She snatches her purse from where she dropped it on the floor and flees to her room.
The slamming of her door makes something in me snap. Fiddlesticks must sense it because she scrambles off my lap and ducks under the couch. “That’s it. That. Is fucking.It.” Hugh reaches for my hand as I stand, and I shake him off. “Sorry,” I say quickly, touching his hand where it still hovers between us. “I just need to deal with this.” I’m torn between begging him to stay and asking him to leave; I have a feeling a screaming match is about to ensue, and I’m not sure I want him to see that side of me.
“I’ll be right here if that’s okay,” he says. My relief must be visible because he gives me a small, reassuring smile as he settles back on the cushions. As I walk away, I hear him coaxing Fiddlesticks out from under the couch.
I march down the hall and throw Celia’s door open without bothering to knock. She yelps, tugging her pajama top into place.Oops. “We need to talk.”
She heaves a tired-sounding sigh. “Not now, Ivy. Go be with your lover boy and let me go to bed.”
“Not until you tell me what your problem is.” She rolls her eyes and moves toward me as if she’s going to shoo me from her room. I stand my ground, anchoring my feet and crossing my arms. “I’m sick and tired of you stomping around here, treating me like shit, and going off on me for absolutely no reason. I’ve tried over and over again to get you to open up, to do things with me, or at least to cohabitate peacefully, and you’ll havenoneof it. I’m not leaving here until you tell me why.”
“Why?” Her voice is so loud it startles me into taking a step back. She lets out a bitter laugh, her head swinging back and forth, and her feet picking up a short pacing route around her room. “You don’t even realize how good you have it, do you? Everything is so easy for you. It’salwaysbeen so easy for you. You have a great job, great friends, and now a great guy to top it all off. And here I am—” she stops in the middle of the room and holds out both arms “—here I am, always trying, always struggling, and never able to get my shit together.”
She turns away and starts pacing again. “In a couple more weeks, I’ll be unemployed—again—and I have no idea what I’m going to do. Nobody will hire me. I can’t afford a place of my own, so I’m stuck here. My family has all but abandoned me, and I have no friends. I have no one.”
“Are youkiddingme?” My voice is so shrill it could shatter glass. It catches Celia’s attention, though, because she spins around to stare at me. “How can you say you have no one when you have me? You’vealwayshad me, but you’re too wrapped up in yourself to realize it. All these years, we could have been like sisters. Best friends. But you keep me at arm’s length, push me away, make snide remarks every damn chance you get. You act like you hate me, and yet that doesn’t stop you from expecting me to put my whole life on hold to help you. And what do I get in return? Hostility at every damn turn. I could deal with your complete lack of gratitude if I wasn’t constantly being piled with all your other shit.” I’m out of breath by the time I finish. I suck in air and let my arms drop to my sides, feeling suddenly exhausted.
I give Celia a minute to…I don’t know what. Defend herself? Explain? Apologize? Start yelling again? But she’s angled away from me and won’t meet my eyes. “Okay,” I say at last, shrugging even though she’s not looking at me. “I can’t do this anymore.”
I’m almost out the door when she says my name. It’s so quiet I wonder for a moment if I’ve imagined it. I glance over my shoulder and Celia has turned to face the door. She’s looking at the ground, but I can see tears rolling down her cheeks. Her shoulders are slumped, arms wrapped around herself as if she’s trying to physically hold herself together.
In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never seen Celia cry. She looks so vulnerable, so small, so young. Like the tiniest breeze could knock her over and she’d shatter into a million pieces. Without a word, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around her. Celia jerks slightly, maybe from surprise or maybe from her natural instinct to pull away and not let anyone close. I hold on to her rigid frame until her arms fall limply to her sides and she collapses against me. She lets out a strangled sob, her body shaking as she cries.
My arms stay locked around her, holding her up. I only remember a few instances of my mother holding me like this. God knows my aunt never showed physical affection; I don’t even remember her hugging me when my parents died. Bridget and her mom were the ones who taught me it’s okay to cry, okay to hold and be held when you need it. That sometimes a quiet hug or clinging to someone like your life depends on it can make all the difference. So that’s what I do now for Celia.
After awhile, she lets out a shuddering sigh and eases away from me. Part of me expects her to lash out now. To punish me for seeing her so defenseless. I hold my breath until she motions to the bed and asks if I’ll sit with her.
