Holiday Serenade, The by Ava Miles Read Free Book Online Page A

son—something about him had just called to her…
    When he came back from a run all sweaty and manly during one visit, nothing could have stopped her from finally taking what she wanted. Thankfully, he’d been of the same mind.
    Deep down, she’d sensed his interest in her over the years, but had disregarded it.
    Until that moment.
    “What are you thinking about?” he asked, resting his elbows on the blue granite kitchen island.
    “Nothing,” she said, hoping her cheeks hadn’t turned red.
    “You’re thinking about how it used to be between us, aren’t you? Hard not to, I suppose. I think about it all the time, and most days, it doesn’t feel so great.”
    Suddenly it was like a chicken bone had gotten stuck in her throat. She coughed to clear whatever that was.
    “We should celebrate,” he continued. “You finally came to my house alone, even if you did it with the intention of chewing me out.”
    She stuffed her hands behind her because wringing them was making her wrists ache. “You shouldn’t have stipulated that I couldn’t be involved with the party, Rhett. It’s disrespectful to me, and sends the wrong message to the staff. What in the heavens are they going to think?” The last thing she wanted was people to talk about her.
    “Personally, I don’t care, but since I knew it would upset you, I simply told Karen–whatever–her–name–is that I want you to enjoy the party because you’re a family friend. She understood. Leave it at that.”
    Men thought everything was so simple sometimes. She almost wished she lived in their universe. “Rhett, is this party my present? Because if it is—”
    Bent over at the waist with his elbows on the kitchen island, his pose beyond relaxed, he looked downright sexy. He was studying her intently. Like usual.
    “Abigail, a party with fifty other guests is hardly a present. Please give me a little more credit.”
    The tea kettle’s sharp whistle shot across the kitchen. Unlike most people who would dart forward to stop the sound, Rhett took his time, uncurling from the counter with an ease she envied. He never rushed anything. Even this thing between them. She hadn’t expected him to hold out this long.
    “Aren’t you getting tired of living here, Rhett?” she decided to ask.
    “Nope. I love being close to you.”
    He pulled out a tin decorated with white and gold crisscrosses with a peach patch on the front. She’d know it anywhere.
    “You just happen to have Caffè Florian?” she asked.
    “Venetian Rose. It’s your favorite brand,” he responded with the flick of a hand. “Just because you haven’t come over here, doesn’t mean I haven’t prepared. I also have the Venice kind with jasmine, since I know you prefer green tea at breakfast.”
    On the few occasions when Mac had been out of town for business and Dustin occupied with a strategically–arranged sleepover, Rhett had flown in for the night from Vegas, his former residence. They would make love from pretty much the moment he shut the door and backed her into the wall. In the morning, they’d make breakfast together, since he was always starving after the hours of sex play. She’d brew her tea and make him a dark roast coffee. Then they’d sip their beverages, read the newspaper, and eat the pancakes or omelets they’d cooked together. It had been eerily domestic.
    “I started drinking the Florian Darjeeling,” he informed her. “Asia got me hooked on tea. Not a lot of coffee out that way.”
    Tea seemed too tame for Rhett, too delicate. But he poured two cups of the rose petal tea for them all the same.
    “You’re having some?”
    His shrug almost seemed like an afterthought. “If I can’t taste you…”
    Thank God she wasn’t holding her cup, or she would have burned her hand six ways to Sunday. “Don’t talk like that. It isn’t proper.”
    “Well, don’t you sound like Scarlett O’Hara right now?” He chuckled, the sound as dark as the loose tea he’d used.