Page 8 of A Crush at Christmas
WESTON
Ihave no idea how long I’ve slept, but when I open my eyes, sunshine is streaming through the window and the rain battering the tin roof has eased to a steady trickle.
My hip twinges as I roll onto my side—the effects of sleeping on the floor of the pantry using linen tablecloths as a mattress—to find Emery gone.
Not that she’s gone far. I can hear her humming in the kitchen and the tantalising aroma of something savoury baking tempts me to go find her. But I need a few minutes to compose myself, to figure out what I’m going to say, other than ‘move in with me.’
Crazy, because I’ve had sensational sex before, so it’s not our physical connection that has me bamboozled. No, it’s what came afterwards: the talking well into the night as the storm raged around us, the cuddling, the intimacy.
In one night, I shared more of myself with Emery than I have with anyone else, and a bond like that is worth exploring.
Though I’m not an idiot. Tom will go mental when he hears I’m dating his sister. He’s heard about my sexual exploits over the years—the pilot’s equivalent of a girl in every port—and we’ve laughed about it.
I have a strong inkling Tom will not be laughing this time.
But Emery is worth it, and I won’t hurt her.
After dressing, I slip out of the pantry in time to see her place a quiche on the bench and I salivate, though that might be from her bending to close the oven door. She straightens and slips off the mitts, a small smile playing about her mouth. Smug. Satisfied.
I know the feeling.
“Good morning,” I say, and my chest tightens as she lights up at the sound of my greeting.
“It’s a glorious morning,” she says, with a wide grin, but not making a move towards me. “I just got a call from a caterer in Melbourne who’s offered me a job. She does exclusive events only, so I’ll be creating the fancy finger food I love, and the pay is double what I’m making now.”
She does a cute little jig. “Finally, the break I’ve been waiting for.”
“That’s great,” I say, dying a little on the inside. “Congratulations.”
She must hear something in my voice because the excitement in her eyes dims.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, knowing I’ll have to give her a snippet of truth because I’m thirty-five and tired of putting my needs last.
“Actually, I’m thinking about staying in Brisbane, as my permanent home base. Ditch the international flights, do a few local runs, maybe instruct, and I thought we could date.”
“Aww, that’s sweet, but I don’t expect anything after sex, so you’re off the hook.” She winks. “I won’t tell Tom if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Sex.
She labels the incredible night we shared as just sex.
I should be relieved. Instead, my chest aches with a familiar emptiness. I’m hollow, numb, an idiot.
When she quirks an eyebrow at my continued silence, I mutter, “Right,” and spin away before she sees the devastation I’m struggling to hide.
“Weston? Is everything okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I need to accept that this is my life. Everyone I remotely care about leaves. At least this time, it’s sooner rather than later, which is probably better in the long run.
“Weston.” She lays a hand on my shoulder, and I grit my teeth against the urge to yell ‘Didn’t last night mean anything to you? Am I imagining our connection?’
“Hey.” She slips in front of me, her brow wrinkled with concern. “Talk to me.”
I stare into her beautiful eyes and can’t formulate the words to make her understand.
So I do what I’ve done my whole life because it’s a learned response from what others do to me.
