Chapter 8

Zoe was stunned that Gael had taken the effort to care for her. In her haze, she recalled him lifting her from the airport lobby floor and placing her on the benches. Next thing she remembered was in the back seat of a vehicle. She had been too weak to protest, and now she awoke in a warm bed.

She eased herself from the bed and stood. Still weak from whatever she had come down with, she inhaled a deep breath and headed to the bathroom. Once there, she looked around at the pink bath, sink, and floral wallpaper.

“Gosh, how pink!” she chortled with a shudder.

If there was anything Zoe hated, it was getting a cold. She hated the stuffiness in her head, the constant sneezing and blowing the nose. The remnant of a fever was weakness. Was this some twenty-four-hour bug? What was it? How suddenly did this thing come on?

No, she’d started sneezing when she left the salon, but she never thought much of it. When she returned to the hotel, she was out of sorts but thought she was just tired.

She showered and toweled herself before returning to the room. She cracked the bathroom door and peeked into the room to make sure Gael hadn’t yet returned. She was dressed in jeans and T-shirt by the time he knocked the door.

“I’m decent,” she told him as he pushed the door.

He poked his head through. “Come, let’s go Unicorn.”

“Aren’t you going to carry me?”

“Don’t wish for things you can’t handle,” he returned, leaving the door ajar as she retraced his steps.

She tried to catch up to him, but her legs were weak. She hadn’t eaten in almost a full day; perhaps that was the reason for the weakness. She wished she could lean against his strong arms for support.

“Wait for me,” she said, but he kept walking. “Gael!”

Oh no, she couldn’t believe she said his name. Her hand flew to her mouth as he stopped, turned, and stomped toward her. The passage light revealed his day old stubble on his cheeks and the hard line of his mouth. His eyes blazed as he stared down at her, willing her to deny that she knew him.

“Now tell me the truth; how’d you know my name?”

Her mind whirred like a machine trying to figure what to tell him. The truth would only embarrass her. Then she remembered his bag. She’d placed it in her lap, and it had his name tag.

“Your bag … remember, we’d jostled for the seat. I placed the bag in my lap?”

For a moment, he didn’t seem convinced. After a few seconds, he visibly relaxed his face, and his eyes glinted. The sudden fluttering of her heart irritated her, and she returned a scowl.

“Let’s go down. My father and his wife are waiting.” He turned and began walking out the door.

“After you,” she replied, trying to still her nerves.

She’d have to be careful from now on and not give away the fact that they met before. It would be awkward for him to know that she was the model he rejected without an audition.

“Are you serious about me carrying you?” she heard him ask.

“Of course not; my legs aren’t broken,” she replied to his back.

Gael stopped abruptly, resulting in her bumping into his rear. He turned just suddenly, and their faces were now inches apart. Their eyes locked, and she saw his blue ones flicker from dark blue to blue-green. Then he pulled back an inch or so.

“Leave the attitude behind, will you? At least for the time we are here.”

“Okay … sniffle …”

It was going to be difficult holding her tongue around him. He seemed to bring out the worst in her. Ever since she met Gael Matheson, he’d rubbed her the wrong way. This wasn’t the first time she’d not been selected from a bunch of girls. It was, however, the first time anyone had rejected her after a few seconds without giving her a chance to prove herself.

She had the urge to hold on to his arm, but she refrained, not wanting to rely on him any more than she had to. As they descended the stairs, her eyes scanned the house. It was homey and brightly decorated.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, a man, whom she assumed to be Gael’s father, was there. His eyes were paler than Gael’s, but the build was the same, except that he was perhaps in his mid-sixties. Beside him was a woman she assumed was Gael’s sister.

Zoe’s eyes widened as she took in the decorations around the living room. Her mouth gaped at the tall Christmas tree with its excessive decorations, the electric fireplace with the stockings hanging to the right and left of the mantle. She couldn’t help wondering if she was at the North Pole.

“Wow,” she muttered. Gael stopped and glanced her way, warning her with his eyes. She shrugged. “It’s so … so … Christmassy!” she muttered only for his ears.

“Hello, how are you feeling?” the woman stepped forward, taking her hand.

“She’s still a little warm,” Gael, answered for her. He turned to her and introduced the couple. “This is my father and …” he hesitated, and she saw his face tighten before he continued, “this is my stepmother, Marla.” He glanced her way and added, “This is Unicorn.”

She wanted to punch him. After telling her to behave, he introduced her as Unicorn; he was trying to get a rise from her. Maybe he realized they’d met before but needed to confirm. Does he remember me? she wondered.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Matheson,” Zoe greeted, noting the tension in Gael. “You can call me Unicorn … sniffle.”

“It’s David and Marla,” Gael’s father said. “No need for formalities.”

Marla stepped forward and placed the back of her hand on Zoe’s forehead. “Yes, she is still warm,” she told her husband before taking her arm and leading her to the sofa. “I’ll get you some chicken soup. It’s already made.”

“I’m not hungry, thanks.”

“You need to try and eat. The chicken soup is good for you,” Marla insisted.

“I have just the remedy for these things,” David said. “Come sit and we’ll take care of you; isn’t that right, Scooch?”

“Dad.” Gael’s voice was sharp.

The man’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry.” David beamed. “Marla, get a blanket for the young lady,” he addressed his wife before turning to Zoe. “Make yourself at home, my dear.”

Marla left to fetch the blanket while Gael’s father went to a sidebar off to the right. The living room was spacious, and the large sofa comfortable. As she leaned back on the sofa, Gael stood nearby like a mother hen. She could not help giggling at the exchange between father and son a minute ago.

“Scooch, that’s a very pretty name,” she chuckled for his ears alone.

Gael scowled at her, obviously not amused. Marla returned with the blanket and fussed over her a while, ensuring she was properly tucked under. She’d brought up her legs, sitting crosswise with her back against the cushion.

This was her first experience spending the holidays with a stranger since she became an adult. It was a surreal feeling. Gael moved from beside her, making about three strides to his father and taking a glass the man had.

“Are you sure about this? We don’t know if she can handle alcohol,” he said in a low tone.

“It will be fine,” his father replied. “Let her sip it slowly.”

Without replying, he returned to the sofa and handed her the small whiskey glass. “This is pretty potent stuff. He,” he thumbed behind him, “swears by it.”

“What’s in it?”

“Brandy, whiskey, a shot of orange liqueur and honey. It’s warmed and should be soothing to the throat. Take your time and sip.”

Tentatively, she took the warm glass. Their fingers brushed, and a small bolt of current tingled her hand. Startled at the sensation, she gripped the glass tightly, bringing it to her nose. The aroma was divine, but the scent alone made her giddy. One taste, and she would be out like a light.

“Given how you were when you swallowed the bottle of flu syrup, you should perhaps not drink the whole thing.”

His remark alarmed her. “What did I do?”

“Babbled a lot.”

“Oh.” She flushed. “Did I say anything?”

“Nothing coherent enough to repeat … except you said my name.”

She hoped he wouldn’t pursue the name thing again and silently prayed that he actually believed her about seeing the tag on the bag. Bringing the glass to her lips, she took a large gulp and swallowed.

Her eyes bulged as fire scorched her already sore throat. “Ahhh!”

David was by her side in a minute. “What’s the matter?”

She cleared her throat. “It’s hot!” she squeaked.

“I told you to sip it,” Gael growled, taking the glass from her grasp. “I’ll cool it down.”

“Not that kind of hot; I mean it’s strong,” she clarified.

“I told you what was in it. Must you always be so rebellious?” he asked as if scolding a child.

“What do you know about me, Gael Matheson?” she asked heatedly.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. You even refuse to tell me your name,” he retorted.

Zoe flung off the blanket and rose. “If you were interested in knowing my name, you would have asked.” Her voice was hoarse now that she’d burned her throat with the alcohol. “And you would have known who I was when we met at the airport if you weren’t so damn full of yourself!”

Still weak from the remnants of her fever, she stomped toward the stairs. She was halfway up the stairs when he came after her.

“So you admit we met before?”

She whirled to face him mid-steps. “You figure it out, you obtuse donkey!”

“Stop with the name calling already.”

“Don’t follow me,” she added, stomping off again.

Her skin flushed red from her anger, which flared so easily around Gael. This was also new to her. Usually, she was easygoing, not easily riled, but since she’d met him, she found her emotions running away from her.

“Argh!” she groaned as she entered the room and closed the door.

The bed was remade, and she couldn’t find her bag, but she was so upset that she didn’t care. She removed her clothes, leaving her panties on and slipped under the thick warm duvet as the alcohol was giving her a heady feeling. One taste, and she was feeling its effects as predicted. Within a few minutes, she was out like a light.