Cara Colter - Postcards At Christmas

What a fatheaded ass. “You are adorable, Luce, and thoroughly charming. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

She put one of those flying hands to her heart. “Oh, Dami. See? That’s how you are. Not only have you treated me like someone who matters from the first time I met you. Not only did you come to my rescue and fly me to Manhattan when I’d almost given up on ever getting there. Somehow you just instantly, always, say the exact thing that I need to hear.”

He made another stab at finding out where all this was going. “So you came to me for advice, then?” He reached for his coffee cup.

And Lucy said, “No. Not advice. Sex.”

He set the cup down sharply. “Say again?”

“Dami, it’s so simple. I want you to have sex with me. I want you to be my first.”

Damien found himself experiencing the strangest sensation of complete unreality. “Dearest Luce. Did you just ask me to be your lover?”

She nodded, her shining brown head bouncing up and down as though on a spring. “Oh, yes. Please. I like you, Dami. I truly do. And when I think of having sex with you, it doesn’t seem like it would be too awful—and you are so experienced. I really do need someone who can help me be more sophisticated and you just happen to be about the most sophisticated person I know. And as for having sex with you, well, you seem like you would know what you were doing and I...” The words ran out.

He started to speak but fell silent when she moaned.

And then she let out a cry and put her hands to her cheeks as though in an effort to cool her fierce blush. “Oh, God. You should see your face. This is not going well, is it?”

“Luce, I—”

Before he could say more, she shoved back her chair and leaped to her feet. “Seriously. I don’t know what I was thinking. This is a bad idea. A really stupid, utterly inane idea. And now you’re going to think I’m such a complete child, a total dork...”

He got up. “No, I do not think you’re a child. Truly, it’s all right. It’s...”

But she didn’t stay to hear the rest. She whirled and bolted for the door.

“Luce!” Dami went after her and managed to catch up with her halfway down the hall to his private foyer. He grabbed her hand. “Wait.”

She moaned again and tried to pull away. “Let me go.”

He held on. “Please. Don’t become so worked up. I promise you, you’re neither a child nor a dork. And I’m quite flattered.”

There was yet another moan. “Oh, no, you’re not.”

He lifted the hand he’d captured and kissed it lightly. Then he wrapped his other hand around their joined ones. “Listen to me.”

A little whine escaped her.

“Tell me you’re listening,” he coaxed.

“What?” She sagged against the hallway wall, between two handsome nature prints he’d bought at one of his sister Rhia’s charity art auctions. “All right. Yes, I’m listening.”

“I am flattered.” He tried a hint of a smile and watched her soft lips quiver in reluctant response. “Really, Luce, you are so unpredictable. You know, I find I never know what you might do or say next. But at the same time, at heart you are so wonderfully direct, so honest.”

“Direct and honest,” she grumbled, but at least she’d stopped trying to make him let go of her hand. “Ugh. So I’m a good person, but I’m not especially exciting—that’s what you’re saying.”

“No, that is not what I’m saying.”

“Yes, it is.”

He moved in a fraction closer, keeping their joined hands between them, connecting them. The scent of soap and cherries was a little stronger now, sweet and tart and so very...clean. “Don’t forget. I said you are unpredictable, too. That makes you exciting.”

“No....”

“Yes. It does, I promise you. And may I add that you are also like a breath of fresh air, both bracing and sweet.” He watched her flushed face and thought how very much he liked her, how he’d liked her from the first time he met her, at her brother’s Carpinteria estate when she’d dragged him to her sewing room and showed him several of her creations, after which she’d plunked her portfolio down on the cutting table and started flipping through the pages, chattering nonstop about her ambitions as a fashion designer.

Now she gazed at him through big eyes full of hope and trust. “Oh, you do know how to dish out the compliments.”

“It’s easy when I’m only telling the absolute truth.”

“Oh, right. Sure you are.”

He turned his mouth down at the corners in a mimic of sadness. “Luce. You wound me.”

She started to giggle—and then she blinked. “Wait a minute.”

“Yes?”

“Are you telling me that, um, you will?”

Ouch. Leave it to Lucy to cut right to the heart of the matter.

The thing was, he wanted to tell her yes, that he would be her lover. He truly did. But he was no more a seducer of virgins than Brandon of the butterscotch eyes. He absolutely did find her attractive, but in the way one finds a child attractive, because she was pure and honest, innocent and sweet yet also funny and surprising and perceptive, too. Not to mention splendidly talented. However, he couldn’t quite make himself think of her as a grown woman, as an eligible female he might take to his bed.

She was watching him suspiciously. “Long silence. I’m taking that for a no.”

Above all, he did not want to hurt her. “You truly are lovely, Luce. Your shining seal-brown hair, those enormous eyes that tip up so playfully at the corners. That one dimple in your left cheek that’s deeper than the one on the right when you smile....”

“You’re an absolute genius at making me feel good-looking.”

“Because you are good-looking.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” she accused. “I’m thinking that’s not a good sign.”

The solution came to him. “Tell you what.”

For that he got an eye roll. “Stalling. That’s what you’re doing, right?”

“Well, yes. I suppose that I am.”

“Oh, I knew it.” She wrinkled her cute nose at him. But at least she no longer seemed on the verge of shedding more tears.

He qualified, “However, I am stalling in a good way.”

“Ha.” She made another attempt to free her hand from his hold.

He didn’t let go. “Listen. Please.”

“Fine, fine.” She tipped her head from side to side, her words a singsong. “Go ahead.”

“We’ll take things a bit slower.”

That brought a frown to crease her smooth brow. “Slower than what?”

“You’re here for the holiday weekend.”

“I am, yes.”

“We’ll spend the time—or much of it, anyway—in each other’s company.”

“You mean like we’re dating?”

“Yes. As though we were dating.”

“Oh, Dami. I may be naive, but I’m so on to you. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to let me down easy.”

She had it right, but he had no intention of admitting that. “Come to the kitchen.” He tugged on her hand again. “We can finish our coffee....” He expected her to require more coaxing and encouragements before she’d agree to sit at the table again and discuss the situation frankly.

But as she so often did, she surprised him. She said, “Yes. All right.” And she followed him back the way they had come.

* * *

In the kitchen, Lucy reclaimed her seat at the table and Dami refreshed their coffee cups before settling opposite her again.

Lucy watched him. He really was so nice to look at, in his sexy black robe and all, with that slice of sculpted chest on view, with his thick dark hair and his eyes that sometimes seemed the darkest brown and then, in certain lights, a green so deep it was almost black. So different from Brandon, who was clean-cut and outdoorsy with a handsome, open sort of face. Dami exuded power and ease, a hint of danger and strangely, humor and tenderness, too. They called him the Player Prince. Everyone said he’d been with more women than her big brother, Noah. Which was seriously saying something.