And God, themouthon this man. Gideon coaches me through two orgasms, delivering a soliloquy of praise, requests, commands, and fantasies. I’m trembling and sweaty by the time he comes, pumping his fist faster before spilling over his hand and onto the floor.
The reckless abandon on his face, the tightening of his muscles, the way his eyes never leave mine—it’s super sexy but also fills me with an aching tenderness.
This doesn’t just feel like a holiday hookup.
And maybe it never did.
That thought elicits a different sort of trembling as Gideon cleans himself off and joins me on the bed. Draping himself over me, he nuzzles his face into my hair.
“So soft,” he murmurs. “So pretty.” He twines the curls around his fingers one by one.
I close my eyes, and instead of worrying about tomorrow, I let myself enjoy his warm weight on me and the delicate tugs on my scalp.
Gideon has apologized repeatedly for every bad thing he ever said about my hair, which is why I now feel comfortable enough to let him see it in its natural state—and he’sobsessed. Still, I’m planning to flat-iron it before we go to the Bronx for the New York Botanical Garden’s Holiday Train Show, and I’d rather do that at home with my full collection of hair products. So after I nudge him off me, we take a shower—with one more quickie for the road—and head to my apartment.
I’m coming out of the bedroom with my hair sleek and smooth, like a Latina Morticia Addams, when I hear Gideon’s voice. At first I think he’s talking to Archie, but he sounds angry, and it takes a few seconds to realize he’s speaking French.
“No, Mom.Je te l’ai dit, je ne vais pas à Paris pour Christmas.”
I freeze. He’s talking to his mother. And even my basic French can decipher his statement.
I told you, I’m not going to Paris for Christmas.
My stomach lurches. On that first night we spent together, he told me his mother was in France and that she’d be coming back to New York on Christmas Eve.
Apparently, something changed.
And he didn’t tell me.
I play hopscotch over the creaky floorboards as I tiptoe toward the kitchen, where Gideon is unpacking the sushi we ordered for lunch. The phone is pressed between his ear and his shoulder, and Archie is winding around his ankles, meowing for food. Gideon continues to argue with his mother in French.
Why wouldn’t he go? Could it be ... for me?
The thought makes me cold. I’m torn between selfishly wanting him to stay and a pang of grief. He still has one parent left, and she’s grieving, too; he should spend the holidays with her.
He breaks off mid-sentence and lets out a frustrated huff. I suspect his mom hung up.
He doesn’t know I’m here, and I take a moment to watch him. He sets the phone down and braces his hands on the kitchen counter. His head falls forward and his shoulders hunch like he’s carrying the weight of the world.
Or maybe just the weight of his own world. His mother ... and me. Opposing responsibilities.
The last thing I ever wanted was to be a burden.
“Go to France.” I speak quietly, but he still jolts. When he spins around, his expression is a mixture of alarm and guilt. He stares at me for a beat.
“You speak French.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “I took it for three years in high school.”
“Shit.” He sags against the counter. “I forgot.”
It was one of the few classes we didn’t share. Since both of my parents spoke Spanish and I’m semifluent, I’d taken French. Gideon had taken Spanish, although I forgot it was becausehe’sfluent in French.
“Gideon, you have to go.” He shakes his head, but I barrel on before he can argue with me. “The list is just a silly thing we made up. I’ll be fine.”
He scowls at me. “It’s not silly.”
“Well, it doesn’t constitute a binding contract. You’re perfectly free to end it early.”
