Love is a journey. Carry a map.
—Paige
Lucas gave up trying to stay away from her. Partly because his willpower was weaker than a single strand of thread, and partly because Eva wasn’t someone who valued emotional distance or personal space. She was like the puppy they’d rescued. Affectionate, trusting and tactile.
He went back to work, and for the next few days submerged himself in his fictional world and his characters. They occupied his mind to such an extent that the real world faded to nothing. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was the best book he’d written to date. Now, finally, he almost had something he was excited to show to the world.
Beyond the windows of his study the sun shone, touching the snow-covered trees with dazzling flecks of silver, as if someone had decorated the park in glitter especially for the festive season. People rushed about in the streets, keen to finish Christmas shopping. Lucas saw none of it. He wrote and rewrote, editing ruthlessly, tightening the story, deepening the characters, polishing the prose. Night merged with day and he worked such long stretches that occasionally when he glanced up and saw that it was dark again he realized he’d missed almost all of the daylight hours.
If it hadn’t been for Eva, he would have starved or died of dehydration, but she appeared by his side at regular intervals, bearing nutritious treats that barely required him to remove his hands from the keyboard. Tiny bite-size quiches made with crisp buttery pastry and garlic-infused slivers of exotic mushrooms, crostini with roasted peppers and goat cheese, a light-as-air mousse made from smoked salmon and cream. Each piece was a feast of melting flavor, designed to be eaten in one mouthful, but without a compromise on taste and quality. Sampling her food, he had no trouble understanding how Urban Genie’s success had grown so rapidly. Eva had an innate sense of what food would perfectly complement the occasion, whether that occasion was a glamorous wedding, or an author who didn’t have time to look up from his manuscript.
Apart from those moments where she brought him food and drink, she was careful not to disturb him, although occasionally he heard her on the phone talking to Paige and Frankie, or singing in the kitchen as she cooked.
They always ate dinner together, but afterward he often worked late into the night. It was during one of his late-night work sessions that he heard her screams.
He was out of his chair in an instant, heart pounding, his tension magnified by the fact that he’d been reading over a scary scene.
He pushed open the bedroom door. The bedside light was on and he saw Eva sitting up in bed, her hair soft and tangled, her eyes wide.
“Eva? What the hell is wrong?” He looked around the room, expecting to see masked raiders, but instead there was just Eva, shivering. “What happened?”
For a moment she didn’t answer and then she pulled the covers up under her chin. “Can you put the light on?”
“The light is on.”
“I mean the main light. I want more light.” Her teeth were chattering and he flicked on all the lights in the room and strode to the bed.
“What happened?”
She looked white and shaken. “Bad dream.”
“You had a nightmare?” He settled on the bed next to her and pulled her into the curve of his arms. “What about?”
“I was in the kitchen, and I was cooking for a bunch of people, and— On second thought, I don’t want to talk about it.”
He glanced at the nightstand. “You read one of my books?”
“I thought it was the polite thing to do. Big mistake. You’re good at what you do, but what you do isn’t for me. Don’t be offended.”
Far from being offended, he was touched. “I can’t believe you read my book.”
“I wanted to know more about your writing. Now I wish I didn’t.”
Smiling, he tightened his grip on her. “It’s fiction, sweetheart.”
“I know, but it’s also scarily real. I don’t mind books about zombies and aliens because I don’t bump into many of those in Bloomingdale’s, but the guy in your book was charming and I don’t know if I would have spotted that he was a killer.”
“You have excellent radar, remember? You would have detected that something wasn’t right.”
“I might not. I’m not programmed to be suspicious.”
“I love that about you.” He wished he hadn’t used the word love, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She rubbed her fingers over her brow. “I’m seriously spooked. Don’t you spook yourself when you write it?”
“Sometimes, that’s when I know that what I’m writing is good.”
“Do you have to write with the lights on?”
He smiled. “No. I prefer to be in the dark. Scarier that way.”
“Do you ever read happy fiction where the characters are still alive at the end?”
“Not often.”
She shivered and glanced toward her phone. “What time is it?”
“Three in the morning. I was writing. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Sorry I disturbed you. You’d better go back to work.”
“I was thinking it was time to go to bed.” He stood up, stripped off his clothes and slid under the covers with her, drawing her into his arms again.
“Can we leave the light on?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. If there’s a serial killer in the room, I want to see him.”
* * *
Two days later Eva walked into his office and put a parcel down on his desk. “Merry Christmas.”
“You bought me a gift? That’s sweet of you, but you shouldn’t have. There’s nothing I need.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. Open it.”
He turned back to the package and slid his finger under the paper, releasing the tape. “It’s a book.”
“Not just any book.”
The paper fell away and he picked up the book and turned it over. “Pride and Prejudice.” He looked up at her. “You bought me Jane Austen?”
“You need to discover another side of reading. Relationships don’t all end in death and misery. The story is emotionally complex and, most important, it has a happy ending. I’m trying to show you that not all fiction has to end with all the characters sliced into tiny pieces, or with broken hearts. There are other options.”
He put the book down. “Eva—” His tone was patient. “I write about crime.”
“I know! Your book gave me screaming nightmares.” She was still embarrassed about that, but had decided there was no point in pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She didn’t want to be scared in her reading. “Thanks to you, I’m never going to be able to sleep with the light off again and I’m probably not going to be able to take a cab anywhere.”
“It’s crime fiction. People die.”
“But why can’t they just be injured and then cured by a kind, caring doctor?”
He looked amused. “Because then the book wouldn’t be about a serial killer.”
“He could meet someone kind and fall in love—”
“Eva,” he interrupted her gently. “Don’t read what I write. Then it won’t upset you.”
“But maybe if you wrote happier fiction, you might not have such dark, twisted thoughts about love. You could start with a short story where no one dies.” She looked at him hopefully and he sat back in his chair and shook his head.
“So if this is a Christmas gift, I guess I need to give some thought to yours.”
“There’s nothing I need.”
“You haven’t written a letter to Santa?”
“I wrote my letter to Santa months ago. I asked for sex— from a hot guy, not from Santa—and he delivered. And there is no point in me writing again because since I wrote my last letter I’ve been a bad, bad girl.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “What does Santa do to very bad girls?”
“I don’t know, but I can tell you what I do with very bad girls.” He stood up and pulled her against him.
She curled her fingers into his shirt, determined to say what had been on her mind all day. “Lucas?”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
His mouth hovered close to hers. “What did I say?”
“That I should go to the assisted living community and that you’d come with me. Did you mean it?” He eased away.
“Of course I meant it.”
“Sometimes people say things they don’t mean. And this is a pretty big deal. You’d be giving up a whole afternoon and I know you’re busy and it’s important you get your book done.”
“This is more important.” He threaded his fingers through hers. “You’d like to go?”
“Yes, although part of me is scared I’ll make a fool of myself. I haven’t been back there since I lost Grams. What if I start howling?”
“Then I’ll sing loudly to cover the noise. Christmas carols.”
“You hate festive music.” She smiled, wondering how he always managed to make her feel better. “Be serious.”
“I am being serious.” He squeezed her hand. “No one is going to judge you, Ev. If you cry, you cry. I hope you don’t because I don’t like seeing you upset, but no one will blame you. And if it feels like too much and you need to leave, then we’ll make some excuse. Leave it with me. You’re talking to the guy who is an expert at avoiding social events.”
“But you’re willing to do this for me.” She stared down at their linked hands, suddenly choked by emotion. “Why?”
“Because I’m hoping you’ll be grateful and have sex with me.”
“Not an answer.”
“Because I know how hard it is.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “And because I care about you.”
“You’ll end up signing books.”
“I can live with that.”