As promised, here's the special Holiday addition to Playing in the Shade - a Christmas style epilogue. But, as a bonus for you guys, I have made this an extended version so much steamier than what debut in the Mistletoe and Mischief anthology ;) Cause I know you guys can take it.
So enjoy! and thank you all soooooooo much for taking part in Laura and Tristan's incredible journey.
***
"Here we are, Miss. Shade Lodge."
"Wonderful," I said, the first kick of excitement chasing away any budding haze of jet lag. After a fourteen hour journey, on the back of a brutally long week of meetings, at long last I was here.
Dublin. The heart and home of Tristan Shade.
Barely a stone's throw from the bustling central hub of the Emerald Isle, the chauffeured sedan pushed along narrow roadways and down to a cloistered private drive of a stunning property.
Shade Lodge, as its owner, was an arresting picture of sweeping beauty. With a slate shingled roof, and walls of whitewashed brick covered in charming ivy, topped with stately chimneys puffing plumes of smoke and lead glass windows. As the car rolled to a stop I tried to imagine Tristan here with his parents. A captivating little boy rolling around in the manicured lawn with a puppy nipping at his heels, or even sitting beneath the shady boughs of the large oak holding a tattered copy of Yeats, whiling away the summer months.
Stepping out of the car, I took it all in, charmed by the architectural beauty intimately woven with historical elegance. The sky a wash of grey clouds backlit with sun. The promise of snow frosted the air and sent a damp chill to slice through the layers of my cashmere trench coat. Chilled, I hugged my arms to my chest.
While the driver dealt with the luggage in the trunk, the bright cobalt front door whisked open and a spindly man, elegantly dressed in pressed slacks and cranberry sweater, rushed out. His pale face flushed against the brisk wind.
Stanley Daulton, the head butler had been in Tristan's employ for eighteen years. At a hair over the age of sixty, he took fierce pride in his work and ran the household with intimate efficiency.
"Mistress Pierce, we're so very happy to receive you." Directing the driver to take my luggage inside, he plucked my shoulders in my hands and leaned in to air kiss my cheeks. "I trust you had a pleasant flight?"
"I did," I said as he looped my hand through his arm to lead me up the walkway. "Did everything arrive on time?"
"Oh, to the letter, Mistress. To the very letter," he said, opening the main door, all glossy paint and polished brass fixtures. "We stored everything in the back house until the Master left early this morning." Shutting the door behind me, Stanley helped me out of my coat, hanging it delicately in the large, walk-in entryway closet.
"Thank you, Stanley, you've been very helpful."
"My sincerest pleasure, Mistress," he answered, a concerned gleam dimming his smile. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable leaving you to handle this immense task all on your own. Shall I stay another hour or two and assist? It would be my--"
"Sincerest pleasure?" I finished for him, smiling. "Thank you, Stanley, but this is something I would like to do myself. For personal reasons. Go, the driver is waiting to see you to the airport. Enjoy your vacation. I'm sure Daniel is eager to get to Bali."
An excited flush warmed his cheeks at the mentioning of his husband's name.
"Yes, that he is. You were most generous to arrange this for us. We haven't taken such an extravagant holiday in...quite some time."
"It's overdue," I agreed. "Where's your suitcases?"
"Daniel went up ahead to the airport," Stanley answered, "and deposited out bags in a waiting room so he could finalize a few things at the office before we leave."
"Smart."
"He is a man of many talents." Stanley beamed. "I thank every day to have him. This life isn't always the most...accommodating of personal relationships. Not that I am complaining," he added quickly, galled at the thought that he'd voiced any degree of displeasure.
"A work/life balance is essential," I said, soothing his nerves. As gruelling and my hectic schedule often was, it paled in comparison to the sort of ruthless standards and rigid guidelines a career butler held himself to.
Up until recently I hadn't known that employing a butler was still a thing, but as I'd soon discovered while helping Tristan break apart his empire, apparently it was. And Tristan had put Stanley through his paces over his tenure, managing almost a dozen properties in four different countries. That number had been ruthlessly slashed following the divorce. Leaving only Shade Lodge--his childhood home, a small flat in London and a vacation condo in the Florida Keys.
And even though Tristan had lost most of his wealth and assets, he refused to let go of Stanley--mainly because the man had been a fixture in his life as far back as he could remember, and Tristan believed in honouring loyalty.
Though that hadn't stopped Elaina from trying to take this place--and Stanley--from Tristan too, citing an oversight in their negotiations. Furious at the announcement of our engagement not two weeks after the papers had been signed, she'd lashed out with the fury of an ex-wife out for blood and for no other purpose but to drive a knife into Tristan's heart--for leaving her.
For ending the marriage. For being happy.
Not that she had much of a leg to stand on, but money had a way of cutting corners and creating legal loopholes that otherwise wouldn't be accessible. Knowing this better than most, Tristan had almost caved to her tyranny if for no other reason than to see the matter put to bed. Until I'd found out, and I put my foot down.
On her throat.
I wasn't going to give her that small victory, no matter how long it stalled matters and set myself squarely in her path, prepared to leverage whatever I had to in order to wage war. Not surprisingly, a show of force had her backing down without much incident. A bullies often did.
"Well, Mistress, if that will be all..." Clearing his throat, Stanley shifted uncertainly. Torn between love and his strong sense of duty.
"Go," I said, taking his hands and squeezing them. "Have fun and send lots of pictures. I want to hear all the exciting details when you both are back in the New Year."
"Certainly, Mistress. But perhaps I should call one of my associates to be on stand-by should you require anything? Especially with the task of tending to your family when they arrive next week?"
"Stanley, I can manage them well enough on my own. We're not hosting a state dinner, just an intimate, family visit. Don't worry and fuss, okay? Go. Or else I'll be forced to fire you for two weeks just to be sure you'll enjoy yourself."
He smirked at that, nodded. "Very well, Mistress. I bid you a Happy Christmas." Kissing the air above my cheeks again, he lifted a black peacoat from the hook, folded it over his arm and offered a slight incline of his head. "Until the New Year."
Sailing out the door, he shut it behind him and I turned the trio of locks.
Thanks to my clever and efficient assistant Paul, I had Tristan's calendar copied onto my phone. Judging his itinerary he was in for a day of back to back meetings with investors and shareholders, pushing the latest Iconic/Shade business model for growth and expansion into the European market. He wasn't due back until nine pm when he believed a car would be waiting to see him to the airport to collect me from my evening flight.
Checking the time, I smiled. That left me with six solid hours to get it all done. I could conquer the world in less.
With all of Paul's careful plotting and scheming, we'd arranged for the necessary items to be delivered weeks prior to my arrival, which required a bit of finessing with Stanley to accommodate without alerting Tristan in the process. But he'd been only too happy to help with our clandestine efforts.
Part of being a butler meant that Stanley was intimately appraised of all of Tristan's deepest, darkest secrets. In some way he was closer to Tristan than anyone could ever be--aside from myself. He'd witnessed the downward spiral of his black grief after Ailish's passing, and with no choice but to lend a silent ear and ever constant presence, Stanley's hands had been tied. Because speaking up and offering council or advice was simply not done.
A butler was seen, never heard and Stanley followed the rules of his profession to the letter.
I thought back to the episode I had born witness to in June, the anniversary of Ailish's death. I remembered how broken Tristan had been and the brutal lashing he'd inflicted upon himself as punishment for the weight of guilt and responsibility he'd carried for years. That had been hard to watch, and I knew tomorrow would be equally obscured and mired in ghosts as the dawn of Christmas would mark an even more painful reminder: Ailish's birthday.
And as such, he rigidly abstained from anything that had to do with celebrating the season.
According to Olivia, the whip-wielding dom Tristan met with twice a year to banish his demons, sometimes the only cure for pain was agony. And though he had promised me that those whipping days were behind him, I knew, at the core, he still ached miserably. I wanted to stem that hurt once and for all. The only way to do that was to give him a reason to move beyond that painful wound.
Now I finally had one.
Boxes lay stacked neatly in the circular foyer, a note taped to the front from Stanley with detailed instructions and directions. Next to it, the fresh grocery delivery with all the produce and veal shanks I planned to make for dinner. First things first, leaving my luggage in the hall, I turned to the task at hand.
Carting the groceries to the kitchen, a gorgeous recently renovated marvel of white marble and stainless steel appliances, I sorted and packed everything away, leaving out what I would need to dive into on the counter.
Because I knew the cooking would take some time, rolling up my sleeves, I got to work. Searing the veal and chopping vegetables, I dialled up the temperature on the double wall ovens. One set for braising the veal and the other to later bake some of my mom's beloved almond shortbread cookies.
Since our engagement I'd gone to considerable lengths to apply myself in the kitchen. Even though Tristan was more than okay with taking the reins, I was never the sort of woman to go into anything half-way. I wanted to share this with him, and therefore I immersed myself in the culinary world.
Exploring taste and texture and timing—as I discovered especially with baking, timing was crucial element to either success or failure. I wasn't a bona fide Bobby Flay, but I'd learned that so long as I had thorough and excellent instructions, I could guarantee a decent reproduction. And with braising or long, slow cooking, it was kind of hard to screw up.
While the veal braised and the shortbread dough chilled, I set my sights to the home. It was the holidays after all and I wanted this place to exude the spirit of the season. Thrilled at the thought that my family was set to fly up next week so that we could celebrate the New Year together. All of us--for the first time in a long time--as a unit.
United in the face of Uncle Percy's depravity, Colin and Helen had found common ground and a renewed purpose in therapy. Though their marriage was far from out of the woods, they were happier with Nate rounding out the worst of their hard edges.
Paul was even going to venture in for the weekend, with Michael of course, with whom he was currently snuggled up with in London. My best friend Jacqueline had to pass as with the stock market taking a dive--possible recession weighing on everyone's lips--she intended to while away at the grinding stone with hopes to enter the New Year stronger.
And of course, there was Dad and Shelley. They had married quickly following their engagement in the summer, with a simple early fall ceremony in the backyard and only the closest of friends and family in attendance. Though I knew my dad had loved my mother up until her untimely death, I was hard pressed to remember when he'd last looked so happy. So alive.
And with Tristan soon to join my family, I felt it was important to forge and hold fast to our memories and traditions. With no relatives for Tristan to speak of, I knew it would fall upon my shoulders to bring both to his life.
I strung lights in the window, hung a wreath on the door. Scattered poinsettias and candles about the room, loaded firewood into the wood burning fireplace and pinned stockings to the hearth. Festive linens in brooding cranberry with gold accents draped over the polished mahogany dining table and, after returning to the kitchen to finish the final touches for dinner and popping the almond shortbread into the oven, I saved the tree for last.
A real one set proudly in the bay window. The long, graceful boughs full of needles. All lush and verdant--the heady scent of pine brought me back to those years in my childhood, to snow men and snowball fights in the yard.
To the early days of December where Collin and I would trek out into the snow with our parents, out into the back woods of our home in search of our Christmas tree.
It was always our thing.
Dad and Collin did all the heavy lifting while mom and I supervised, administering encouragement and hot chocolate. Thinking of my mom brought a wave of teary emotion. The holidays had lost a bit of their sparkle when she'd passed. And, I quickly discovered after pausing in festooning to sample the first batch of almond shortbread, I was still a long way off from perfecting the recipe she had endeavoured to teach me as a child.
Back then I hadn't been interested in baking and puttering away in the kitchen. I'd been so busy, so full of energy--so determined to get out into the world and thrive that I'd failed to see one very obvious fact: tomorrow was uncertain, only today was guaranteed.
I'd shipped over several crates, stuffed with a variety of Christmas regalia. This one carried the ornaments--and not the delicate glass variety, but ones acquired over the years as a family. Plucking up a pudgy little Santa, his body poised in a ballerina's jetee, I stroked a finger over his velveteen belly. Most of the fuzz had rubbed off over the years and the face was chipped and dull. But this was special. Treasured. This had belonged to my mother, and once decorated her tree as a child.
As always, when I hung those cherished ornaments, with each string of light and tinsel, I thought of her. Missed her.
As I lit the fire and stepped back to take in the full grandeur of the room, twin pangs of love and loss cinching around my heart. It wasn't until I'd decided to hatch this little scheme for Tristan that I realized I had also mired myself in the grief of loss. Slowly chipping away at the bits and pieces of me that celebrated those memories because thinking of them were too sharp, too bright and raw.
Five years without her and it never got easier, but I understood now that I needed to feel it. All of it. Otherwise I would lose the best part of her for good, the part of her that lived inside of me. The part of her that I would share with my children one day...
Smiling, tears swimming in my eyes, I brushed my hand over my stomach.
One day...
The sound of an opening door plucked me from my thoughts and I brushed away the evidence of tears from my cheeks as Tristan walked into the room confusion on his eyes and a question on his lips.
And, struck with the transformation, he came to a standstill. I took in his haggard expression, the glazed eyes behind reading glasses, dressed in a grey cashmere knit sweater over dark washed jeans, long golden hair mussed around lean, angular features. Judging just his face alone, my man looked like Hell had swallowed him up and spat back him out.
Then those soul-piercing silver eyes shifted to mine. Dropping his satchel and phone, he cleared the room in long, determined strides, caught me in his arms and held on.
Love and concern clutched at my heart, so bright and fast as I returned his embrace, savouring the warmth and strength of his body. His crisp, clean smell.
After a minute his breath whooshed out, like pressure seeping out of a tire, and with it his body eased. Relaxed. "You're here."
"I am," I whispered against the skin of his neck, pressed my lips there. "This was too long." Fourteen days apart--with an entire ocean between us and unforgiving time zones, this was the longest we'd ever spent away from one another. A necessary evil as his rushed divorce to Elaina had created a ripple of dissent on the market he'd spent the better part of the last four months putting to ease.
"Where's Stanley?"
"On his way to Bali," I said, stroking my hands up his shoulders, threading my fingers in his hair. "I wanted to be alone with you."
Tristan's answering smile spread and when he kissed me I knew the time apart had been every bit as difficult and hard felt for him as it had been for me.
"Are you hungry?" I asked, thinking about the veal warming in the oven.
"It can wait," he said, mouth busy against mine. A whisper of thrill pulled through to my belly as he led me down the hall. His strides urgent and determined so I almost had to jog to keep up. Within the room, the door had barely whispered shut before he moved, fast as a blink, and had me over his shoulder. Playfully, his hand clapped over my ass. Squeezed.
I laughed as he spilled me into the bed, and braced over me, his knee between my thighs. For a man who'd gone through most of our relationship without kissing me, he made up for it now with long, drugging pulls of his lips and tongue. Sliding deeper, deeper until I was drowning in him. Lost in him.
If this was all I'd ever have of him, this hot and avid mouth, I would die in utter bliss.
"I missed you," he whispered against my lobe, nipped it with his teeth as his body lowered against me, settling his weight between my thighs. A promising hint of what was to come pressing where I wanted so much more.
Hands, if there was anything more perfect than his mouth, it would be his hands. And I quivered as they filled with me. Seeking. Exploring. Finding all the parts of me he knew so well.
There, in bed, he stripped away my clothing in a manner that was all slow sips and slower caresses. Ever the patient and demanding lover as his hands glided between my thighs, claiming me in that confident way of his.
Approval hummed in his throat, vibrating right through me. It was no surprise that I was ready for him. Panting, I arched into his palm, quivered as he filled me with his fingers, gliding with solid, wet strokes designed to tease and torment. Circling his wrist with my hand, I moaned his name as he took me. Took from me. He pushed me to the edge, with his lips against my ear, whispering of all the dark and wicked and wonderful things he wanted to do to me. All the things he wanted me to do to him.
And I honestly don't know which I wanted more. It didn't matter.
I belonged to Tristan and he knew it. From the first instant, the night he'd stood me before the window, whispering in my ear, his breath hot on my neck and his fingers gliding up my back, I was finished. Ruined for any other man but this one.
Fisting his hair, I dragged his mouth to mine and begged. Begged for everything. For him.
"I need you," I whispered. "God, I need you."
With those simple, breathless words, that careful patience in him gave way to greed as hands tugged off his sweater, revealing a body I've explored endlessly and still ached for more. Needing to touch him, I pulled Tristan on top of me, skin to skin and scorching with need.
"This way," he said, settling on his side he pulled me back against his chest and scraped his teeth over my shoulder. Sliding around the edges of my moan I heard the hiss of a zipper and hungrily my fingers anchored on his hip, nails digging in to the curved perfection of his ass. With a smooth, solid thrust he filled me. Hard, stretching fullness. And pleasure shocked through us both in a single, wild beat.
"A'ghra." The word was wrenched from his chest, heavy with meaning. My love.
Hooking an arm behind my knee, Tristan levered my leg higher, and rolled his hips in that delicious, powerful rhythm that promised to be my undoing. I wouldn't last long this way, I never did in this position but god I loved it. It was almost too much. Too full. Too strong. Too deep, but still I wanted more.
Each thrust took me higher. Until I was dazzled. Blind. His hips pumped against me with brutal, wonderful power. Raw. Passionate. Devastating.
Teeth sinking into the sweet spot between my neck and shoulder, his hand fisted around my throat, the other locked tighter around my thigh and I knew he was right there with me. At the brink.
There.
Oh, god. There!
I broke with a sobbing cry, Tristan's own release twining with mine, making it somehow richer. More satisfying.
Pouring into me, his body sagged, lax against mine. And for a while we stayed that way, saying nothing. Breathing together. Holding one another. His fingers toying with a lock of my auburn hair and my own hands skimming up the smooth planes of his chest.
Touching. Just touching.
More than making love to him, I loved this even more. The moments afterwards. The lingering intimacies and precious silences. I wasn't sure how long before the rumble of hunger split through that post-coital glow. Tristan lifted his head from my shoulder and even in the darkness I could see his playful smirk.
"About dinner..."
We dressed comfortably, wearing t-shirts and sweats with him teasing me as I added on plush, comfy socks because apparently my American blood wasn't thick enough to handle an Irish winter--even with the heat was on as high as Tristan could stand to let me crank it. Serving the meal, we tucked into tender meaty osso buco, roasted potatoes and glazed carrots.
"I'm impressed. That was excellent, thank you," he said, linking fingers with mine once the meal was finished and dishes cleared. I flushed at his praise. Coming from him, that was a major compliment.
On the couch, he gathered me against him, sighing gently. "And thank you for this. You've clearly been very, very busy."
Taking in my handiwork, with fireplace lit, the lush, full Christmas tree festooned in lights and decorations, to the poinsettias and candles; cozy and warm memories blanketed the air like flannel.
Smiling, I snuggled deeper into that comfortable nook between Tristan's arm and his body, toying with the dangling tips of his fingers.
"I told you Christmas was always kind of a big thing in my house. I wanted to share this with you," I said. "Traditions I grew up with. Traditions I hope we can continue to carry on together while making a few of our own." Angling my face up, I kissed him gently, pleased to see the weariness that had carved so deep and heavy into his face when he'd first crossed the threshold was now softened with a smile.
And for the millionth time since the day he proposed at my father's horse breeding estate, I was mesmerized by his stark, savage beauty. This man loved me. This man was going to marry me in little over ten glorious months. This man...
And Jesus, I realized I'd almost lost complete track of time. I was, after all, on a schedule.
"What?" he asked as I popped straight on the couch, swinging my sock-covered feet to the hardwood.
"One second," I said, scrambling down the hall. I wasn't gone long, I knew what I was getting and where to find it, and returned to find him still reclined on the couch, a puzzled look on his face. At least until I whisked the gift I'd been hiding from behind my back.
"Merry Christmas."
His silver eyes turned to dark orbs of brooding grey. "It's not Christmas yet."
"Yes," I said, wiggling the package, "at least it will be in exactly twenty minutes—but whatever. Here. Another family tradition. We share one gift the night before. I want you to open this one."
Tristan's gaze slid down to the slender, little box I held. I'd never seen anyone so unsure of a present before, but I had to remind myself why this was so hard for him. Why this was so vital I do this here and now. After years of sexual and emotional abuse in the hands of a cherished uncle, Ailish had taken her life--revealing the whole sordid truth in a lengthy letter she'd penned to him moments before the deed was done. Tomorrow was her birthday. And like he did every year on both the day of her birth and the day of her death, Tristan suffered with crippling guilt and blame.
I wanted to banish that from his soul, once and for all.
Impatient, I wiggled the box again--gold wrapped in crimson ribbon. "Go on."
He reached for it, his fingers trembling slightly. The package was light but in his hands it seemed heavy as he settled it on his lap, unknotting the ribbon with careful purpose. He held there a minute, steeling himself, before lifting the lid to reveal what lay inside.
His shoulders jerked--a swift and sudden movement like a gloved fist shot out from inside and socked him straight in the heart. And I supposed that wasn't entirely as melodramatic as it sounded given what was inside. Hands clenched into tight fists, one loosened--knuckles cracking in the wrenching quiet--to stroke carefully across the photograph tucked behind a glass pane.
A photograph of his sister smiled up at him. An old photo I had come across while helping Tristan pack up and clear out his apartment. I thought back to that weekend we spent filling boxes and sorting through a lifetime of belongings with the ever efficient Stanley on deck. This had been in between the pages of a battered copy of some obscure poetry book, marking the pages. A forgotten placeholder.
I guessed she'd have been no more than twelve in the picture. Such a little thing. All silver eyes, blonde hair and the features of a child soon to become a woman. A tear splashed across the back of his hand quickly followed by another.
"Why?" The single word poured out him, hoarsened with misery.
Falling to my knees I took those hands in mine, gripped them as tight as his features. God, shooting him in the knee likely would have been less painful.
"I had to," I said. "I need you to move beyond this, Tristan. Look at the picture. Look at her." He didn't want to and I hated making him go through with it. Seeing the one you loved hurt so completely--could there be anything more horrible? But to cure his guilt I had to hurt him. Then I had to give him something to live for. A reason to accept it. To move beyond it. Once and for all.
"Loving her doesn't mean you have to suffer," I urged. "Missing her doesn't make you weak. She wouldn't want you like this."
His eyes opened in halting, gradual increments, a watery smile breaking through the tremulous line of pale lips. But still the tears flowed. Perhaps not as fast, but still there.
"I haven't...years," he said, his voice still distant. I knew what he was trying to say. He hadn't looked at a picture of her in years. Almost ten, to be exact. Avoiding her face had been easier for him to let go, or so he'd like to tell himself.
"I know," I said, tears swelling in my chest as I brought his hands to my lips, kissed them both. "I know, mo chroi. I wanted you to have this. I want us to share in her memories. To celebrate her life and the love you hold so near and dear in your soul. I want thoughts of her to fill you with joy. With purpose. That's what Ailish would want for you. That's what this gift is supposed to be. Love. Joy and purpose."
His eyes found mine and I felt it straight to my heart. Everything he had inside of him. The guilt and grief and sorrow. But love, love most of all.
"Turn it over."
He hesitated, but this time didn't hold back for quite as long. Turning the frame around, taped on the back was another photograph. This one smaller. Just a simple little square printed on filmy paper. All monochromatic in shades of black and grey with a shape in the center, not fully formed but clearly identifiable.
His gasp was immediate. His surprise—huge. And when he looked at me this time, I was the one sucker-punched.
"You're...?"
Smiling I bit my lip. Nodded. "I found out the day after you left. And I knew I had to wait to tell you. For this moment, right now. Because, Tristan, this is what Ailish would have wanted for us. Our child should know who she was. Should share in those memories. And when the time comes, I want to name our daughter to honour your sister, to carry that legacy," I said, angling his face back so I could see his eyes and was moved by the emotion I saw there.
"You know?"
"No. Not yet. I'm only twelve weeks, but something here," I said, laying a hand over my heart, "tells me that this child is a blessing and a bridge to bring you back from that point of suffering. I want us to speak of her, Tristan. Often. I want us to celebrate her. And that way Ailish will never really be gone. She will be with us. A part of us. Always."
I brushed away his tears, kissed his lips. Rising, I stood before him, his hands gathering my hips and eyes latched to my still flat belly.
"Baby," he whispered. "A baby." Drawing me forward, he held on to me so tight and yet so gentle.
Circling my arms around Tristan and the child growing between us, I closed my eyes and felt it. That shift. That bracing acceptance. That spark of something beautiful lighting deep inside his soul. Hope.
Tristan Shade, the single greatest love of my life, was going to be a wonderful father.
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