Kathleen O'Reilly - Midnight Resolutions

“You’re going to make me, aren’t you?” he said, affectionate resignation in his voice. It was why she liked him so much. He never asked anything of her, never told her what to say or what to wear, all she had to do was sit prettily at his side and listen. Piece of cake.

“Make you? Me?” She fluttered her lashes and he laughed.

“You can say all the heartless jokes you want, but I’m on to you.”

“Do you always get your way?”

“Yes. You should have figured that out by now.”

She waited, fingers crossed under the table, until finally he nodded, and she remembered to breathe. “I’ll do it.”

Rose was so excited she nearly kissed him, except for the hot hunger that still lingered on her lips. She wanted to keep that taste there, just for a little longer.

“You’re sure? I mean, if you really don’t want to…”

“You’d let me off the hook that easily?”

“Not really, but I’m trying to show some pretense of sensitivity. Humor me, here.” Because she owed him, she endured three more blow-by-blow surgical descriptions without even a visible quiver of nausea.

Before he moved to number four, he glanced down at his watch. “It’s late. You look tired.”

A secret peek at her watch said it was nearly one, and all Rose wanted to do was go home and fall into bed. Alone.

She’d had exactly zero lovers. When you were groomed for matrimony as a blood sport, virginity was highly prized, right up there with a clean complexion and a coming-out dress. Her parents hadn’t had the money for white satin and richelieu lace, so the Hildebrandes had over-compensated with endless lectures on virtue and a lifetime supply of Neutrogena. Rose—being a bright girl and not one to rebel—had taken the hint.

Now she yawned, not exactly faked. “I’m exhausted, and with your day—honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

“Good drugs,” he answered with an easy laugh.

And the stamina of a camel. Mentally, she slapped herself, feeling tired, punchy, and the bubbles in her blood were starting to die down. A master of efficiency, he helped her into her coat, always the gentleman, and she took a last sweep of the patrons in the lobby. Everything was so beautiful here, the polished marble, the gleaming silver, the people with their gentle laughter and placid faces. The six years of charm school had been so similar to this. Every day, the candle-glow lights and high-gloss perfection had been a safe haven for her, a few peaceful hours away from home. There, here, Rose had survived and thrived, grown hard and strong.

Her chin lifted, perfectly parallel to the ground, and she pivoted smoothly, slow and elegant, and the entire room watched her leave.

As they made their way out the doors, her heel caught on the step and when her foot moved on the shoe stayed behind. Remy—happy, smiling, gloriously rich Remy—swooped down and brandished it with a romantic flourish. “You did this on purpose?” he asked, as if she could be that clever.

He bent down, dark hair gleaming in the light, and placed the shoe on her foot. It should have been enchanting.

“Do you believe in fairy tales, Remy?” she asked curiously. If you lived within the invulnerability of the castle walls, did the myth of ever-after seem a big con on the rest of the world?

“Do you think this night is magic?” he countered, rising to his feet, and she saw a flash of something in his eyes. Something that she’d seen when she kissed the stranger. Hope. On New Year’s, everyone wanted to believe.

“I think people deserve one night of magic,” she answered, almost the truth.

It was his cue, his moment, and Remy was not stupid. He leaned closer and took her mouth, and Rose was too determined to pull back. Remy was a lot more viable than a fairy tale. He was everything she’d worked for, and his kiss was every bit as accomplished as it should be. So where was the triumph? No triumph, only the persistent taste of a hot hunger that even a fourth-generation Sinclair couldn’t ease.

Patiently she waited for the thrill of victory, the absoluteness of her control. Perhaps she hadn’t won the war, but this battle belonged to her. So why did she feel the same as before, the same as yesterday, the same as she’d felt all her life—

Numb.

As his hand moved purposefully toward her waist, Rose realized the hot hunger wasn’t going to return. It couldn’t be forced, it couldn’t be tricked.

Damn.

Deliberately, her hand covered his, and she raised her head, gave him her nicest smile—a pretend smile designed to make people believe she had a heart.

“I can’t.”

“Too quick?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him, regret in her voice. “I’m sorry, Remy.” And she was, disappointed in herself, in her trickster mind. Sometimes she saw monsters where there were none, and sometimes she felt nothing when she should be pulsing with life.

“Soon,” she promised. “I’m still not there, yet.”

Remy thought her heart was involved elsewhere, that Rose was pining for a man who was desperately unworthy of her affections. A failed love affair had been Sylvia’s idea, but Rose had approved because it solved a lot more problems than it created.

“I can wait,” he said gallantly, not wanting to imagine a woman would be stupid enough to turn him down forever. Someday, Rose wouldn’t turn him down, but not tonight.

“Can I see you home?”

“I’ll manage. It’s not far.” Another big fat lie.

He took her hand, as if she were a princess, and kissed it once. If she were being honest with herself, she’d stop playing this game and get on with the life that she had planned. Instead, she stood there watching him go, a worried smile on her face.

After Remy had left, Rose hoofed it on aching feet to the number six train, which would take her to the Bronx. The Bronx was home, but not for too much longer. Rose had big goals for her life. She was grown, a woman fully formed, and stronger than her parents had ever guessed that Little Mary Poofster could be.

Rose wouldn’t live on false hopes and broken dreams. She didn’t have to worry about whether fairy tales or magic truly existed because they didn’t; all she had to do was foster the illusion. Rose had long ago mastered the art of the illusion. Money was security, money was real, money made you invulnerable to whatever the Fates chose to throw your way.

After she got off at her stop, she walked past the pet store boxed between the bodega and the OTB site. It was an odd place for animals, and she liked to stand outside the glass, watching the puppies from a safe distance.

The puppies always fascinated her, confined to a small pen that they didn’t seem to mind. Five tiny black fur balls with twinkling brown eyes that saw only the best in the world. They always looked carefree and content and safe behind that store window. The Hildebrandes never had a pet. Not even a fish. And Rose hadn’t missed them. Dogs were smelly and loud and dirty and could rip a hole in pink satin, quick as you could say boo.

But she liked watching from behind the window, and she wondered what they thought while they played behind the pane. Sometimes she’d put her hand on the glass and leave it there, waiting to see if they’d come to her, but they never did. Animals didn’t like her, knowing things that people never would.

Tonight, there were no puppies, only a big black monster dog with huge jaws, but tired eyes. He was curled up on the hay, with absolutely no faith that tonight was the start of something new. Lazily he opened an eye, squinted at her, and Rose squinted back. She placed her hand to the window, because from behind the glass, there was nothing he could do to her.

The dog growled.