Winter Miracle Read online

  Hunter walks over slowly, drinking, eyes focused on the TV. “It was nothing. Admin stuff.”

  You’re lying. Still, I try to keep myself level. “That’s it? ‘Admin stuff’?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he replies, still unable to look me in the eye, shoulders tense.

  What are you hiding?

  But I’m too tired to deal with this now. “Alright,” I relent.

  Hunter changes the subject. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the big date?”

  Shit. I’ve forgotten all about it.

  I check my watch, bolting upstairs to change into something a little more refined than boxers.

  Not five minutes later the doorbell rings.

  “Cayden!” shouts Hunter.

  I head down, taking the stairs two at a time and throwing the door wide.

  I’m breathless as it is, but what I see standing there strips the last air from my lungs completely.

  Gone is the Abbotsleigh sweater and Walmart jeans, the folder and notes. Standing there is perfection—a black and red, short-sleeved vintage dress nipped in at the waist and flared out at the hips to show off her legs, nude heels bringing her to eye level with me. And her eyes… smoky and sexy. Jesus. I could stare at them all day, take up handfuls of that chameleon hair and bring my lips to hers, taste her… touch her.

  She holds a small clutch in front of herself, sheepishly.

  “You look…” I begin, but I’m so blown away words seem to have vacated my brain.

  She smiles, little more than a smirk but enough to be genuine. “What? No cheesy lines? No dick jokes?”

  I lean against the doorway. “Come in.”

  I check out her ass on the way through, bundled up tight at the back of her dress. God, I want so bad to take it in my hands, feel the weight of it in them.

  She looks around. “Wow, this is some house.”

  Hunter stands to join us. There’s a sliver of jealousy as he does. He can be suave when he wants, but this one’s mine. “The best Daddy’s money could buy.”

  “I thought you guys would be in a frat house or something.”

  Hunter laughs. “Holding chapter meetings, waiting for the shower, and fist-bumping each other all night while we play soggy biscuit? No thanks. We’ve got our own brotherhood here, close enough to campus without being too close, if you know what I mean.”

  “And a pinball machine, fully stocked fridge, spa, sauna, bowling alley,” I add.

  “Bowling alley?” questions Indy, her face lighting up, her lipstick-laden, cherry lips begging to me to run a finger, or more, across them.

  “Down the back,” I point. “The plantation owner that built this place back in the 1900s put it in, amongst other things. They say he was a slaver.”

  “You’ll still find whips and chains if you look hard enough,” says Hunter.

  “It doesn’t have a red room, does it?” she continues.

  I exchange a look with Hunter. “We haven’t even had our date yet and you’re already asking about red rooms?”

  She gestures at my jersey. “Speaking of which, you’re going to wear that?”

  I look down. “It’s my signature. People know me in this.”

  She smiles a touch too wide for my liking. “Not where we’re going.”

  *

  SDS—The Swing Dance Society.

  The moment we step foot inside the hall I know I’m in trouble. There are maybe ten couples inside, all of whom appear fresh from some strange 1930s time warp complete with prohibition-era clothing and copious hair gel usage. Standing there in my Trojans jersey and jeans I am the absolute dictionary definition of ‘fish out of water.’ Hell, I may as well be on another planet.

  I look down at Indy, who is struggling to contain her laughter. Her dress is making a whole lot more sense now. “You could have told me, you know.”

  She pouts. “And where would be the fun in that?”

  A couple jitterbugs past us, almost tripping when they see me, the lion in their secret den here. In fact, the more I look around, the more I notice I have become the center of attention.

  Great idea, Cay. Let her choose. Sure. ‘Anywhere,’ you said…

  What the fuck have I gotten myself into here? I wouldn’t be caught dead here under normal circumstances with these geeks.

  But when Indy reaches up and takes my hand, it all evaporates. She squeezes. “Well?” she says. “Do you know how to dance?”

  I raise my voice to be heard over the music. “Only on a football field. Do you?”

  She stands up on the toes of her heels to speak into my ear, her hot, strawberry breath against my cheek. “My aunty was a dance teacher. I used to sneak into her classes all the time—lindy hop, whip, shag…”

  I smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it’s kind of turning me on.”

  “Here.” She takes me by the hips, a small look of surprise on her face when she realizes I am not easily movable. “You start with both feet in the center, like this.” She shifts into position herself. “Wow. You’re really stiff.”

  I let that one ride, smirking to myself.

  She starts to move. “Now, just take a rocking step backwards, another with a quarter turn to get you back into starting position before you go forward and make a quarter turn to face the right.”

  “Sounds like a play from Coach’s black book,” I muse.

  “It’s easy.” She takes my hands and we begin to move together. “Left, yes… Right, now left again, stepping back.”

  I take pride in my physical ability, but I may as well be walking on the moon here.

  “Feel the music,” she says. “The swing of it.”

  I’m too busy concentrating on the swing of her hips against me, the delicate way her crotch brushes up against my cock whenever we press together.

  I see some of the others trying not to laugh, no doubt as confused as I am how I ended up here tonight.

  We break apart.

  “You know,” says Indy. “We can always go. You can admit defeat.”

  And that’s fucking it. The competitive side of me catches fire. Dad taught us a lot of useless shit, but one thing was always clear: Becketts never admit defeat.

  I stand back and pull my jersey off, tossing it into the corner.

  The room stops, even Indy’s mouth dropping as she takes in my tank top-clad chest. I simply smile back. “Let’s do this shit.”

  *

  I’m a quick learner. I push myself, taking in the steps and starting to link it all together.

  “Focus on my eyes,” says Indy, enjoying my enthusiasm, and it’s not hard. I could stare into them all day, lose myself in their ashen depths.

  An hour in and I’ve got the basics down, enough to assert a little control and take the lead. No one’s more surprised than Indy, but I can see she’s enjoying herself, the initial joke lost, only the fun and humor inherent in the music remaining.

  Hell, I am having fun, and for once it doesn’t involve actual intercourse and the inevitable post-fuck depression that follows.

  The other couples cheer us on, even the guys warming up to me, the tempo of the music increasing and my feet seemingly finding a mind of their own.

  It’s after midnight when we leave, my jersey slung over my shoulder and our hands swinging between us as we walk back through campus to the house.

  “I must say,” I confess. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

  She smiles up, but there’s sadness there. Her hand falls away. “Me too.”

  She stops, facing me, lit only by a street lamp that leaves dark circles under her eyes. “You’re fun, Cayden, maybe even a decent guy once you take away all this college bravado, but I can’t be in a relationship right now.”

  I’m not going to let this go so easily. “I think I’ve at least bought myself another date.”

  She shakes her head, looking down. “You don’t understand. I can’t.”

  I place a finger under her chin
, lift her face back up until there’s life in her eyes once more, the shadows gone. “I’m just going to keep asking.”

  Come on.

  She breaks, smiling. “Fine. One more, but that’s it.”

  “I get to choose the venue this time.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

  “It’s settled then.”

  “But I’m serious,” she warns. “This isn’t going anywhere. I need you to know that.”

  I slide my hands into my pockets. “If you say so.”

  I go to step forward, but she pulls back, looking over to the dormitories. “Good night.”

  I want to kiss her so fucking bad it hurts, but I rein myself under control. Play the long game this time, Cay. It’s the only way. “Good night,” I say, unable to do anything but stand there with my cock about to burst as she’s swallowed up into the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  INDY

  The room I’m in is small, and dark. I run my hands across the wall, stone, but there’s nothing there. There are no doors. There are no windows.

  I smell smoke.

  There’s a tickle in the back of my throat, a warning.

  I slap my hands against the walls, but still no exit materializes.

  I scream, but no sound leaves my mouth. The tickle has become a burn, sandpaper against the delicate honeycomb of my lungs.

  “Help!” I scream silently, unable to see, unable to breathe.

  I kick, heaving my body against the wall hopelessly, knowing with certainty this is where I will meet my end.

  And then it comes.

  The fire.

  It starts to fan across the ceiling. The room is suddenly illuminated, the flames spreading and the smoke growing into a thick fog.

  I stop and watch, have to admire the way it webs and moves across the ceiling as if alive, a fiery specter pulled from the deep.

  My legs start to burn, the stench of searing flesh rising.

  There is no use screaming any more.

  “Indy,” comes a voice through the fog.

  The realization is almost comforting now.

  I’m going to die.

  “Indy.”

  Sleep.

  “Indy!”

  My eyes snap open to find Naomi looming over me. She has me by the shoulders.

  I breathe in deeply, taking in as much precious air as I can, my heart still pounding against my rib cage.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod, still thinking I’m in the room with no doors and no windows, but I’m not. I’m in my bed at Abbotsleigh. I’m safe.

  Naomi moves off to the sink, turning on the tap and returning with my Wonder Woman mug. I take it, my hands still shaking from the dream.

  She sits on my bed. I dimly notice her grey pajama shorts and top. They are way too boring for a college student.

  “You gave me a hell of a fright,” she says. “I thought you were having a seizure.”

  “I wish.”

  “Is it something you want to talk about?”

  I shake my head, holding the mug with both hands to keep it steady. I take a sip of water and I swear I can still taste ash in my mouth. “I’ll be fine, honestly.”

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t want you to mistake me for an old ex and go stabbing me in my sleep or something.”

  “Don’t worry,” I smile. “I only murder roommates I don’t like.”

  She gives a nervous laugh.

  “Too dark?”

  She nods. “Yeah, I prefer my humor a little more Supernatural than Dexter, if you know what I’m saying.”

  I smile into the mug. “I do.”

  “How was date night, by the way? Did your jock make a fool of himself as hoped?

  I smile again at the thought of Cayden at the Swing Dance Society. Not that I was going to let on, but he was actually getting pretty competent at the end there, a regular Fred Astaire—with guns, like, eight abs, and tattoos. All the tattoos. Poor Aunty Val, rest her soul, would be reaching for her panic button if I brought a guy like that home. He looks like he belongs in a state penitentiary, not swanning around as a law student-cum-football hero.

  I promised myself I would start fresh here, try and leave New York behind, but jumping into a relationship with someone like Cayden has ‘bad move’ written all over it. The guy is clearly a womanizer. I shouldn’t fall for his cheap tricks. I’m smarter than that.

  But were they cheap? He could have left, but he tried… for you.

  And when that jersey came off… Dayum. I’m betting there wasn’t a dry set of panties in the house, myself included.

  And he could be yours.

  But for how long? How long would it take before I’m cast aside, nothing more than another ‘score,’ another touchdown?

  Screw that.

  “It was… interesting,” I finish.

  Naomi seems curious. “He wasn’t what you expected?”

  “No, not really.”

  “One-liners?”

  “Not this time.”

  “No ‘Your bone structure is giving my bone structure,’ or ‘I’m all out of raisins, how about a date?’”

  “I met a guy who could lick his eyebrows once,” I add.

  “Wow.”

  “Not as sexy as it sounds.”

  “So, are you going to go out with Sir Jock-A-Lot again?”

  “His name’s Cayden.”

  Naomi reels back. “He has a name. This is serious.”

  “I did promise him another date, on his terms this time.”

  “Sounds dangerous. He’s probably going to take you sky-diving or something.”

  “Naked.” I smile.

  “Just make sure you don’t get knocked out by his wind sock.”

  We both laugh at that.

  Naomi places her hand on my shoulder. “Be careful, okay. I know you’re acting like a badass, but I bet there’s a gooey, delicate center in there somewhere.”

  “I’m not a Milky Way.”

  She glances down. “Come on. You’re wearing My Little Pony PJs.”

  I glance down at myself. “I thought they were cute.”

  Naomi shifts to her side of the room. “And I rest my case. Goodnight, Pinkie Pie.”

  I slip under the covers. “Goodnight, Twilight Sparkle.”

  “No more nightmares, okay?”

  “I promise,” I say, falling asleep to an entirely different kind of dream.

  *

  My head is bursting with commercial law overload. It’s far from titillating, but I remind myself I’m here to become a lawyer, not be entertained.

  That said, I was hoping to see Cayden, strange as that sounds, but he wasn’t in the lecture. I text him to ask if we’re still on for tonight, hoping I’m not coming across too eager.

  Like it matters. Nothing serious, remember?

  He texts back AT TRAINING with an enthusiastic emoji and a time. I’m just thankful it isn’t a dick pic.

  Are you, though?

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit intrigued. I’ve only been privy to two penises in my entire life, and neither was exactly ‘fulfilling.’ In fact, my first time was entirely unsexy, complete with the smell of McDonalds in the back seat of a Chevy Nova and way too many ‘I can’t find it’s for my liking. I mean, seriously, what do you want me to do? Draw you a map? It’s not my butthole and I’m certainly not turned on when you start fucking my bellybutton.

  Something makes me think Cayden Beckett wouldn’t require a map.

  He probably wrote the book on female anatomy.

  I squeeze my thighs together a touch harder, sort of smirking to myself at these taboo thoughts. I would love to get off. Question is, is the fallout worth it? The scarlet letter on my forehead?

  Quite unknowingly, I find myself drifting towards Troy after my lecture, what I’ve learned is the unofficial title of the college stadium, the home of the mighty Trojans.

  There’s no security at the gate. I simply wa
lk right on in, reaching the end of the tunnel and pulling back into the shade, my eyes watching the players on the field.

  At first all I see is a bunch of padded-up guys, but I soon pick up on Number One—Cayden.

  The ball goes long and he jets backwards. I’m talking the Caucasian Usain Bolt, running with so much speed I’m sure the grass is going to catch fire.

  He turns and catapults into the air, catching the ball against his chest and cradling it back to the ground, already poised to take off again.

  Okay. So you’re kind of impressive in your natural element.

  The Coach, a balding man in a fire-engine red jacket, yells on from the sidelines, shaking his clipboard at the players.

  They take off their helmets, many falling to the grass in exhaustion.

  It’s hot out, and humid—real southern weather. The name ‘Troy’ seems entirely fitting for this kind of weather.

  Wait ’til you see Cayden’s Trojan horse…

  While I’m busy chastising my inner dirty man, I see another player bump into Cayden from the side, Number Two. I note the hair, the build. It’s Hunter, the second brother.

  I did a little research after Naomi left this morning. There are four Beckett brothers in total, but only three are here at Abbotsleigh, the same university their father attended. I have to assume their good genes come from their mother’s side, because their father isn’t the prettiest tool in the shed. He might be a partner of one of the country’s biggest law firms, a regular of the New York social pages, but a handsome man he is not.

  I watch Cayden and Hunter making their way to the sidelines laughing and joking.

  I wonder if they’re talking about me, if Cayden’s already laying out the next stage of Operation Assault Her Pants.

  You’re going to need more than a Trojan horse for that, my friend, no matter how big it is.

  “Nice.”

  I almost jump clear out of my skin.

  Naomi rests her chin on my shoulder, watching the field. “Number One. That’s him, right?”

  “Yes,” I reply, short.

  “He’s cute… in a Tom Hardy-Jamie Dornan kind of way.”

  “He is,” I remark, too busy ogling him from our hiding place here.

  “Cayden!” shouts Naomi.

  He looks in our direction.

  I pull back into the tunnel, mortified, push Naomi away. “You did not just do that.”