Page 102 of Holiday Star
I’m held captive by the view, my face pressed up against the window. My hands splay across its surface as if I could grab hold of the beauty I see. We go by old brick buildings and new glass ones, too. We fly over grassy parks with splashing fountains and then to the East River.
The sun is setting, sinking low over the water. The stone of the Brooklyn Bridge catches one last flash of golden sunlight before fading into deep purple-black shadows.
The natural light of day has been replaced by the colorful nighttime lights of the city, which twinkle like the Christmas tree I decorated with Jenny and Caleb many months ago. It’s gorgeous, this shimmering tapestry I now call home.
The joy bubbling in me overflows. I face Caleb. “It’s so incredibly beautiful,” I tell him, breathless, my smile wide.
He’s been staring at me rather than out the window, watching me the whole time.
Our eyes lock onto each other.
“Fuck,” Caleb says thickly. “That smile. I missed that fucking smile. Those lips.” He blows out a frustrated sigh and shoves his hands through his hair. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive me? Because it’s torture sitting next to you and not being able to kiss you. I’m trying to be patient. I swear I am, but dammit, I need to put my hands on you.”
My stomach clenches low and tight, desire and fear warring in my gut. “I’m not sure, Caleb. Maybe we’re better off as friends?” I don’t believe a word that’s coming out of my mouth.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” he grits out.
Guess he doesn’t believe it either.
“You’re mine, Gwen. It’s as inevitable as that sun going down and rising back up again tomorrow.” His jaw clenches. Once. Twice.
My eyes flick to the pilot, who’s kept his head forward through this entire exchange. “Shh,” I tell Caleb. “He’ll hear you.”
Caleb’s voice gets even louder. “I don’t give a fuck who hears me. I’ll shout it out to the whole damn city if I need to. I love you, and I want you back.Now.”
Love. He said love.
Caleb rips his headphones off and throws them to the floor. He reaches over and takes my headset off as well. “What do you say?”
My lips are already falling open, barely able to murmur, “Yes,” before he’s all around me. His lips crush against mine. A man starving, deprived for far too long. His tongue is in my mouth, his hands are in my hair, his upper body straining against his seatbelt in an effort to reach me.
I’m breathless, gasping softly, giddy with each touch. Unlocking my seatbelt, I move to encircle my arms around the back of his neck. I scoot closer, practically climbing into his lap.
The helicopter banks, rises, and dips. Its propeller whirs on. I don’t care if we fall out of the sky and into the river right now.
I’m already drowning in Caleb, in the sensation of his mouth, his hands, his body.
It feels amazing to touch him again.
It feels like coming home.
67
Now that we’ve started kissing again, we can’t stop. On the limo ride to dinner, we kiss in the back seat. Soft kisses that build to hard, promising more for later. Caleb has pulled out all the stops. Making this the most romantic, the mostfancy, date in the world.
In the elevator up to the restaurant my song plays through the speakers. I break off our kiss to listen, tilting my ear toward the sound, my hands resting on Caleb’s broad shoulders.
The song,mysong, is a hit. Since it was released, it’s been steadily climbing the pop charts. The version he recorded is faster, more beat-laden, than the one he sung in my bedroom and on the stage when he returned to me, but it still has that mournful note of longing stitched through each verse.
I point to speakers in the ceiling as the elevator dings its way along, rising through hundreds of floors. “Oh, look,” I tell Caleb, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s my favorite song.”
This earns me another kiss.
“What’s the name of this restaurant we’re going to?” I ask once we break apart. He’s been cagey about where we’re eating all night.
“It’s called the Adelaide. One of my friends owns it. He’s the chef.”
“Wow. I’ve read about this place. It’s impossible to get a reservation. You really are being fancy,” I tease.
