Page 52 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
“Still interested in a run tomorrow?” he asks softly. “I thought we could go to Long Sands Beach.”
With the way I wish I could kiss Owen right now, I need to stay away from him. But sunrise on the beach. Running. The sound of the surf. I promised myself that I would have the best holiday break. Going on a run with Owen would definitely help me reach that goal.
Besides, after this week, I won’t see him often, if at all, and I want to soak up as much of his friendship as I can.
“What time?” I ask.
“Six-thirty? It’s about a fifteen-minute drive.”
“Okay. Good night, Owen.”
“Good night, Layla.”
Neither of us move. I chance a glance up, and find his focus on my lips. He seems closer than he was before. Is he leaning forward? I want to do the same and burrow into his warmth.
It takes more strength than it should to open my door and walk through.
“Layla, can I get your phone number?” he whispers. “For logistical purposes. It’s easier than pounding morse code on our shared wall.”
“Sure.” I recite my number, and he types it into his phone.
Only then do I force myself to shut the door on that beautiful chest. I go through my bedtime routine in a daze. My brain won’t stop comparing Owen and Spencer; the one I want to date and the one I need to marry. Why can’t it be the same person?
I ignore the flutter of guilt I feel about what I wanted to happen outside my door. Nothing did happen. Nothing will happen.
It makes me wonder if I should invite Spencer on ourrun tomorrow morning. I don’t bother. He’ll say no. At least I hope so, which is why I don’t ask.
For the secondnight in a row, I can’t sleep. It’s Owen’s fault. He’s planting doubts in my resolve to marry Spencer.
I know from past experience that when my brain is buzzing, lying in bed doesn’t help my thoughts slow. A change of scenery for a half hour does. A trip outside to the deck to enjoy the sound of ocean waves might do the trick. This time, I dress appropriately for the weather before venturing downstairs. I go through the breakfast room doors and make sure they’re unlocked before I shut myself outside. See, I’m teachable.
I walk to the railing. The light from the moon offers a view of the ocean. It’s quiet but for the sound of rolling waves. I snuggle deeper into my new wool coat and tug my knitted hat further down so it covers my ears.
“Are you having trouble sleeping?”
I jump at the voice behind me. My heart beats erratically in my chest as I turn and see Rheta on one of the patio chairs, her feet propped up on a second one.
“Sorry to startle you,” she says, but there is a laugh hidden in her voice. “It’s a beautiful night.”
Concern for her health is my first thought. “Should you be out here when you’re still recovering from the flu?”
“The cold air is good for me,” she says. “My husband hated the cold, but I thrive in weather like this. I come out here most nights. It helps me sleep. Would you like to sit with me for a few minutes before I turn in?”
I’m afraid I might get an inquisition about my relationship with Spencer, but feel like I can’t turn her down without appearing rude. I sit on the edge of the deck chair beside her.
I wait for the questioning to start, but it doesn’t happen. We listen to the waves. A plane flies overhead. The cold nips at my nose and cheeks. We might stay out here silently for hours, if only because neither of us will find the words to say goodnight. My body relaxes in the silence.
“I love York,” Rheta says eventually. “Charles and I were married in Augusta, about ninety minutes from here. My parents gave us a house down the coast a few miles as a wedding gift, and I naively believed we’d live there permanently. Charles thought of York as a vacation town and never cared for the house, so he built this.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s where I felt most at home during our marriage. I hate New York and the noise and busyness of the city. Charles was kind enough to give me a few Christmases here when our children were young, and of course summers, but I always wanted to stay.”
With all the doubts Owen’s churned up inside of me, I have to know how she and her husband got along for sixty years. From what little Spencer told me the night he proposed, their relationship is a lot like ours: one based on circumstance, not love.
“Spencer told me you hardly knew your husband before you married. Was it an arranged marriage?”
“In a sense. We only met a few times before our vows, but I was smitten the moment I met Charles. If I hadn’twanted to marry him, my father wouldn’t have forced me, though it was the match he wanted.”
