Page 12 of Decked By The Grumpy Golem
My cheeks burn with mortification. Does he know? Can he tell that every single one of my fictional heroes is him, just dressed up in different professions and time periods? The stoneworker who builds the heroine's dream house. The blacksmith who forges her a sword. The construction worker who renovates her bakery. All of them wear Gideon’s face in my mind.
And all of them do the one thing Gideon didn’t do for me. They run after the heroine. They make things right. They fight for their happily ever after.
I don't dare ask what he thinks of them. I can't handle that conversation right now.
"Why do you care?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, edged with all the hurt I've been carrying for so long. "Why do youcare about me now, about my books, about anything? You made it pretty clear how you felt when you disappeared without a word."
Gideon's jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he's going to shut down again.
Instead, he says quietly, "I care about you, Lulu. I never stopped caring."
"Then why?" The word breaks on a sob I didn't see coming. "Why did you leave me like that, without a single word? I woke up that morning thinking—" I stop myself before I can say something truly humiliating. Like how I woke up thinking we'd spend the rest of our lives together. Like how I'd already started planning our future in my head.
Then I realized he was gone.
"I had my reasons," he says, but there's pain in his voice that mirrors my own.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you."
Frustration floods through me, hot and desperate. "That's bullshit, Gideon. You don't get to show up in my life again and act all mysterious and wounded. If you had reasons, then tell me what they were. I think I deserve that much."
He turns to face me, and the intensity in his gray eyes makes my breath catch. "You want to know why?"
"Yes."
Instead of answering, he sets his cocoa aside and reaches for me. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen, and then he's leaning closer.
"Gideon," I whisper, but it comes out like a plea instead of a protest. “I need to know.”
He kisses me.
The contact is soft at first, tentative, like he's asking permission. But when I don't pull away, when I make this small, helpless sound against his mouth, something breaks open between us. His other hand slides into my hair, and the kiss turns fierce, desperate, pulling me back into a place I thought I'd lost forever.
I kiss him back without thinking, my hands fisting in the front of his jacket. He tastes like chocolate and winter air, with a slight mineral taste that I’ve been chasing for what feels like forever. His full lips are hard and soft at the same time, pressing against mine, achingly familiar even after all these years. He kisses me like it’s the first time, like I’m the beginning and the end. Like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire universe.
He kisses me like he kissed me thousands of times in my mind, on the pages of my books. Like he kissed me once upon a time.
Heat floods through me despite the cold, and for a moment I'm eighteen again, dizzy with want and the impossible belief that this—us—could last forever.
Then reality slams into me like a freight train.
No. I’m not doing this to myself again.
I shove him away, breathing hard, my pulse racing like I've just run a marathon.
"No," I gasp, scrambling to my feet. "No, we are not doing this."
Gideon reaches for me, his face stricken. "Lucia."
"Don't." I back away from the bench, from him. "Just don't."
I turn and walk quickly toward the rink where I call the girls, still skating happily, my legs shaky and unsteady. Behind me, I can hear him calling my name, but I don't look back.
"Leave me alone, Gideon," I throw over my shoulder, my voice breaking on his name.
By the time I fetch the girls, buckle them in their booster seats, and sit down behind the wheel, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. I sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and trying to catch my breath.
