Текст книги "Thirty Nights"

Автор книги: Ani Keating

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“These have been wet all day today, haven’t they?” he asks. My moan is confirmation enough and my hips lurch toward him on their own. “I’d like to shred them but I’ve grown rather attached.” He slides them off in one swift move. Naked for the first time, my hands fly down to cover myself.

“None of that.” He shoves my hands away not at all gently. He looks exultant. His control is slipping too. Good, he can’t wait much longer, and frankly, I will go up in flames if he does. He starts a trail of kisses inside my thigh. His destination is obvious. Once there, he blows a warm gust of air that makes me hiss. He places a small kiss on my pubic bone. His stubble tickles. His words rain on me again, sentences now, commands, dirtier and, oddly, more romantic. More intimate. Some I can repeat, some I cannot. He continues undeterred and finally, finally, he is at the center where the frenzy is at its worst.

His mouth closes on the spot at the same time that one of his fingers slips inside me. My cry rends the air and I grip the bed cover. My hips start to writhe on their own. He restrains me with his other hand and sucks in rhythm with his finger, sending another cry in the air. Then his tongue takes over, circling, and a second finger joins. The pressure of his mouth increases. My thoughts break. Faster. Deeper. Harder. I’m tensing. Rising. Falling. Tunnel vision. Darker at the edges. Breaking. Burning. Calling. Fire. Ice. Air. Aiden. Aiden. Aiden.

A scream is echoing on the walls and in my head. I crash back on the bed. Was I levitating? As the world resurfaces, I still feel his mouth on me but now in kisses, like a soothing, hushing motion.

I feel new. Almost sacred. Benediction through sin—what a concept. I gaze at him, and he looks victorious. He traces kisses up, up and up until he comes flush against me, face-to-face.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice bending under his own need.

“Hey,” I whisper back hoarsely.

I wonder if he can see the worshipful adoration in my eyes. He kisses my lips and my single rational brain cell registers where his mouth has just been. I can’t quite care. His desperation breaks through the kiss, and he knots his fingers in my hair, pulling at it almost angrily. His teeth clamp down on my lower lip and his tongue begins an encore performance inside my mouth.

When he breaks the kiss, his voice is guttural, husky. “I need you. You still want this?”

“Yes,” I say confidently, “more than anything.” I sound needy even to myself. How can I crave him so desperately after what my body just went through? Although, maybe it is precisely because my body knows now, and it is finally free to soar and fall.

He watches me for an instant, as if he cannot believe it. There is something new in his eyes. Beyond the raw need, the beast, the darkness—something far in the back that is seeing the light for the very first time.

He rains kisses on my nose, my eyelids, my cheeks. His hands travel down my body. Their caress is unbearably sweet. Different than his previous demanding possession. I get lost, focusing on the dusting of hair, rough against my newborn skin, and the flexing of his muscles on my chest, my belly, my thighs.

From somewhere near or far, I hear the scrape of a drawer opening and closing. My eyes focus as Aiden edges himself between my legs. He tears the foil of a condom with his teeth and slides it over himself without needing to look at what he is doing.

“Don’t worry, I’m clean,” he says. “But knocking you up would be a new low, even by my standards.”

I don’t know what he means but since I only have one rational brain cell left, I tuck it away. “Umm…I’m clean too,” I mumble.

He chuckles. “Somehow, I wasn’t very worried.”

I blush. Way to be an idiot, Snow. He comes back to my mouth, all humor gone, and his hands move to my lower back. He massages every spot on his way down, around my hips, my behind and my thighs. My muscles—already Jell-O—relax and my eyes close.

“Eyes open. I want to see you. Always,” he commands. He sounds strained, at the far edge of control, and I feel a small amount of pride. Okay, I’m not that bad at this. His hands continue the massage, and my hips sink sleepily against the covers where he holds them. Then, in a sudden movement, he slides inside me. The feeling is bewildering. I stop my cry on its way out. Not because it does not hurt, but because this is not a moment for a cry or for a cliché glass-breaking scream. This is my resurrection and, I have a feeling, perhaps his redemption. These are moments when the soul does the calling and the body must listen. My fingers dig into his arms and I breathe. He watches me with awe, then kisses my lips.

“Almost there,” he says gently, and I realize he has remained silent too. He thrusts deeper and stops as he reaches the farthest confines of my body, into dark, unknown places. At the full, achy feeling, my teeth clamp down on his lower lip to ease the impact. He gives me time to adjust. Slowly, I release his lip, kissing it, afraid that I hurt him. He smiles.

“Beautiful, Elisa,” he whispers. His husky voice turns my name into music. I relax, and he pulls back slowly. Despite the ache, I feel empty immediately and want more.

“One more time,” he murmurs, and now he flies inside me without stops. My fingers dig again into his arms but I’m adjusting. It’s not pain exactly; it’s a desperate ache that wants more of him, not less. He rests again. Of their own accord, my hips shift needily against his.

He smiles a pure, unadulterated smile and starts moving over and over, without any stops this time. There is only fullness and a slow rhythm I can follow. I let my lungs free and moans that have nothing to do with pain surround us. I wind my arms around his neck and he wraps my legs around his waist. My hips move hesitantly at first, but he guides them until they undulate eagerly against him. He picks up his rhythm and I falter, trying to keep up. I cannot.

He reaches a sharp crescendo, harder, faster and fuller than before. He grasps my hips, tilts them up and thrusts in the same motion, blindingly exquisite and impossibly deeper. I jolt to the edge of the bed, my head lolls back and my hair tumbles to the floor. He grasps my shoulder and pins me down so I don’t move. Then his hand closes around my throat. Not enough for me to lose air, but enough to lose everything else. With every thrust, I gasp for oxygen. His grip loosens, and he kisses my throat. Another thrust. Two. Three. His teeth clamp beneath my ear and my blood blooms there. My moans change to cries as my body builds. My insides begin to convulse and clutch against him desperately. He puts more weight behind his thrusts. Six. Seven. My vision darkens, my ears ring. Eight. Nine. I explode. One single word fires through my lips. His name. He thrusts once more and comes with a cry of his own, convulsing and, at last, stilling on top of me.

We stay like this—it could have been minutes or hours. The sound of our harsh breathing fills the air. The scent of steel mixes with sandalwood and cinnamon. Tonight in our no-man’s land; we stopped time. No clocks. No past. No future. Just this one bubble, shimmering at the edges.

Slowly, consciousness arrives. At first like a taste in my mouth, then a thought, then an afterthought. I move through my thoughts, rushing over past fantasies, ex-flames, ex-versions of me. Nothing compares. All that I find on the other side is a new me. And, despite all the paintings, I only now feel like a masterpiece.

I cannot move my limbs but I turn my head and kiss the top of his where it is still resting on my chest. He stirs and moans incoherently. He rises slowly with me still soldered to him, and rolls on his back. My hands are lost in the expanse of his palms, my fingers twined with his.

He opens his eyes. They are peaceful, content. For once, nothing is raging there. He reaches behind me and pulls out. The hollowness left behind must show on my face because he smiles.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. I think I found where I want to be buried.” His voice is hoarse and husky. He chuckles at his own pun.

“How are you feeling?” he asks then, in a serious tone.

I smile. “You’ll need to teach me some words for that.”

“I’d rather hear your words first.” The V appears between his eyebrows. I reach a finger to smooth it.

“Hmm, all right. Happy, content, orgasmic, ecstatic, surreal—” I start laughing because he rubs his stubble against my breasts and retaliates with a bite.

“Do you need a thesaurus, Elisa?” The V is gone and his eyes sparkle with humor.

“No, I like your dirty words better.”

“Elisa, you haven’t heard my dirty words yet.” He laughs and kisses me lightly. “Apart from your newfound struggle for words, how was the rest for you? Did I hurt you?” He sounds worried.

“Well, I don’t have much experience but from my perspective, things don’t get any better than that. I believe you would be better suited to answer that question, however, given your obvious authority and expertise on the subject,” I tease, in my most scientific tone.

He simply laughs, twisting and untwisting a lock of my hair in his fingers.

“Let me check something,” he says. He rolls me back on the bed, and flits to the restroom. He emerges back with a washcloth before I can sigh. Oh no. This will be mortifying. Why do you care, idiot, after everything you’ve just done with him?

“Let me see. Don’t be embarrassed. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he coaxes gently. I close my eyes, pretend I’m invisible and open my legs. I feel him wipe the warm, wet cloth over me. It doesn’t hurt. It feels good. He shifts on the bed and I open my eyes. He has put the washcloth on the nightstand. I don’t even look at it. I know what I’ll see.

He cups my face, caressing my lips with his thumb. I smile. It’s not like I was waiting for my wedding night. I was waiting for desire to find me. And after all these years, find me it did.

He wraps his arm around my waist and brings me on top of him. I rest my head on his chest, inhaling his scent. Spasms quiver over his body like earthquake aftershocks. His erection presses against my belly but he does not pounce. Perhaps, he wants to give me time to recover. Or perhaps, he does not want to hurt me. Whatever his reasons, he simply runs his fingers through my hair, kissing it and whispering slowly. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’”

His voice is soporific, as I listen to Byron’s poem, trying to understand why it reminds Aiden of me, and why he chose it for this night. With every word, my body and mind find a stillness they haven’t known before. Perhaps so does Aiden because the woman in the poem brings hope, reconciling innocence and lust, darkness and light. In her, somehow they coexist without contradiction. Much like they do on our embargo night. I have never spent much time thinking about my beauty. But tonight—part woman, part art—I feel beautiful, inside out. Awake, even as I fall asleep.

Chapter Twenty

Wide Awake

Close your eyes, Elisa, Aiden says.

I do, and he kisses my bare skin. My lips, my throat, my breasts. Suddenly, his lips leave me. I wait for them, but instead arctic air bites my skin. I open my eyes and all I see is blizzard. Heavy snow blinds me, as I stand naked in a white expanse. Ice crystals are blocking my airways. I look at my hands and they turn purple. A disembodied, blue, rigid hand grips mine.

Come back, Elisa, my mum’s voice calls me. At the sound, the blizzard turns into the Portland airport. I’m naked at PDX. Alone. No Aiden. No Javier or Reagan. Last call for Flight 602 to Heathrow, London. Flight 602. Passenger Elisa Snow… Elisa Snow… The disembodied hand grips mine tightly and drags me to the gate.

I jolt awake, gasping for air. I find none. My name is echoing. Elisa. Elisa. Two sapphire eyes meet mine as the world comes into focus.

“Elisa? Elisa! You’re fine. Look at me. Look at me.” Aiden’s voice is urgent, his hands hovering over my face as though he is not sure whether he should touch me.

At the sight, air finds its way into my lungs. It comes out in fast and shallow spurts, and a sheen of sweat gathers on my forehead. I have not moved an inch but even my skin is trembling.

“Elisa, you’re here. You’re safe.” Aiden speaks methodically, as though he is walking me through a survival exercise. “Breathe. Breathe.”

I obey, drawing in a deep breath of sandalwood and cinnamon air. It soothes my throat as my lungs start stabilizing.

“That’s good. Good girl.” Aiden smiles and his fingers brush lightly against my cheek.

I blink to banish the image of my mum’s blue hand and focus only on him. He is sitting up in bed, close to me. His eyes are vigilant, shoulders tense, spine rigid as though he is preparing to fight. The bedroom light is still on. The feather quill is still at the foot of the bed. Everything is the same. Except me.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, suddenly embarrassed. I want to crawl into a fume hood and stay there at least until after June thirteenth. But since that would require not seeing Aiden, I force a smile.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t.” He cups my face. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want some water? Food?”

“No, I’m okay. It was just a bad dream, that’s all.” I put my hand on top of his.

He leans in and kisses across my cheek to the corner of my lips, back and forth, back and forth. Light like the feather quill, as though anything more might startle me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I respond a little late, focusing only on his lips. Talking about the dream would breach the embargo to its fullest and ruin every minute of fairy tale left.

“What is six-oh-two?” he asks, his lips still on my skin.

Oh, bloody hell! I was talking? That’s not my usual dreaming style. Reagan says I mostly just whimper. Well, at least this one is somewhat explainable. “Avogadro’s number. My dad’s favorite constant. Apparently my brain borrowed it for the dream.”

His eyebrows knit together and I can see the battle in his eyes: ask, don’t ask, embargo? At last, he nods but doesn’t press further. Maybe he wants the embargo to last a little longer too.

“So how come you’re awake at this hour?” I change tracks. “Can’t stop watching me drool?”

The beautiful, lopsided smile lifts his lips until the dimple forms on his cheek. “Something like that.”

“Do you want to go to sleep? It must be late.” I look at the night beyond the glass wall, wondering what time it is. It’s the worst possible question for me. How many hours do we have left? How can I leave after this?

“No. Unless you want to. I’m not the best sleeper.” He shrugs. But I know sleepless nights too well. Nights when the terror of your dreams is just as awful as reality. This is not one of those nights. And I’m wasting it on nightmares that would cause Freud to retire early, instead of ogling Aiden.

I scoot closer to him on the bed. He wraps his arms around me.

“So, if you don’t want to sleep, what do you want to do?” I ask, kissing the corner of his lips.

He watches me for a few heartbeats but does not pounce. Perhaps doing so on a woman who just had a nightmare goes against his morals.

“I want you to tell me something that’s not embargoed.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” He plays with my hair, giving me time to think. He is barely breathing, perhaps afraid of pressuring me.

In the silence that follows, I have a sudden urge to leave something behind—here, with him. Not on his bed, his wall or even his skin. Somewhere deeper, in a place only he knows. The urge becomes a compulsion. It crashes against my ribs with the urgency of someone strapped to an electric chair.

“Are you up for a midnight stroll?” I ask.

His eyebrows arch. Perhaps he was expecting a long story or, with my track record, a battle for information. “Where?”

“There’s a place I usually go to alone. It will be closed now but we can still go in. I’d like to show you,” I say, more than a little bewildered by my choice. Over Javier, over Reagan, over everyone I have met here, somehow it is this beautiful stranger who feels right.

Aiden smiles. “It would be my honor.”

That little ember between my lungs glows and vibrates while the rest of me starts hunkering down for what I’m about to do. Making the end excruciating. But I’ll worry about that tomorrow. And maybe this way he will share something that matters with me too.

“Let’s go,” I say, climbing out of bed. He does the opposite. He leans back on his elbows, his eyes traveling over me. I cover my breasts and scuttle to the other side of the palatial bedroom where my dress is in a heap on the floor. He laughs a buoyant, carefree laugh that fractures the night. It’s freeing, like the sound of a waterfall.

“Elisa, I have memorized for life everything you’re hiding. So you might as well let me enjoy the show.”

He’s right, idiot. He’s seen it all. Still, I pick up my dress and clutch it to my chest, blushing head to toe. He uncoils from the bed covers and saunters my way in nothing but flawless skin. I know he is walking at his normal pace but it looks like slow motion to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure angels are singing.

“Doing some memorizing yourself, Elisa?”

“Not really. Just realizing that memory does not do reality justice.”

He smiles but this time, the dimple does not form in his cheek. “Depends on the memory,” he says so quietly that I’m not sure I heard him right.

He reaches me, covers my hands with his and pries the dress from my fingers. His eyes start a path from the roots of my hair to my curled toes. He leans in, his mouth to my ear.

“Don’t hide from me.” His breath sends a fiery current over my skin. But the instant my breathing picks up, he pulls away.

“Tempting though you are, I don’t want you to be sore. You have to sit for your painting tomorrow.” He winks, and just like that, his humor returns.

Oh, bloody hell, my painting! Will he still insist on that when he hears the truth?

He strides into his walk-in closet—or rather, walk-in apartment—taking my dress with him.

“I don’t think my dress will fit you, Aiden. Might be a bit tight around the—ah—groin.”

He laughs that waterfall laughter again. The closet lights flicker as he crosses the threshold. He flits to the far back, the muscles of his exposed back rippling with tension even from this distance. Why? What causes this? I want to ask but I’m sure the reasons are embargoed.

He puts on a pair of dark jeans and a navy sweater with blinding speed. Then he digs some clothes from a polished wood dresser and is back to me in seconds.

I look at the mountain of clothes, horrified. “These are for me?”

“Yes. It’s cool out and you only have your dress with you.”

Before I can open my mouth, he slides a white short-sleeved T-shirt over my head, then a long-sleeved one, then a navy hooded sweatshirt. They all fall to my knees. He kneels in front of me and guides my legs into a pair of gray sweatpants.

“Aiden, do you think this is going a little overboard? Considering that it’s May in Portland, Oregon, not winter in the Arctic tundra?”

“Not at all,” he says, lifting my right foot. He kisses my toe and slides a woolen sock over it. He repeats the process with my left foot and tops off the preparation for the Ice Age by sliding a knit hat over my head until it covers my eyebrows. He steps back, regarding his handiwork with solemn deliberation.

“Are you sure we don’t need a scarf and gloves? Or a biohazard suit?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He smiles and swats my behind. “You’ll do. Come, let’s go fend off the elements.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“I’d still fuck you.”

“That’s rude.”

“But true.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Even better.”

“Aiden, honestly, can I at least take off the hat? I can barely see. I’ll trip.”

“No, you won’t,” he says, picking me up like I weigh as much as the hat, not twice my normal pounds from all the fabric layered over me.

I wrap my arms around his neck. His ever-present tension relaxes and he marches out of the bedroom with purpose.

The moment the night air whips my skin, I’m grateful for my Eskimo attire. The wind is sharper up here than in town. Aiden sets me down by the Aston Martin and opens my door. For the first time since the accident, I wish I had my own car so I could drive instead of giving directions. Hmm, on second thought, then I couldn’t stare at him.

Aiden folds gracefully into the driver seat despite his tall frame, and turns on the ignition. He presses a button on the steering wheel and “Für Elise” fills the car.

My eyes fly to his. He smiles. “It seems appropriate.”

“My mum named me after this,” I volunteer, surprised at how easily the words leave my mouth.

“It suits you. It has a calming quality, I think.”

“Calming? You mean soporific?”

He laughs. “We’ve already established you keep me up at night. So, no, soporific is not appropriate. Where to, Elisa?”

“Down the hill, to the left.”

I listen to the melody as the Aston Martin curves smoothly, its light beams piercing the thick darkness. Every few seconds, my eyes flit to Aiden’s face. There is a different kind of beauty about him now—something that glows underneath. The music changes to the “Moonlight Sonata” as we take the final curve. The closer we get, the louder my heart beats until it drowns even the angelic piano. I keep my eyes ahead where in a few meters, the tall, rose hedges will appear.

“Ah!” Aiden smiles. “The Rose Garden.”

I nod, rolling down the window. The moist May air steals inside, heavy with the scent of early blooms. Aiden parks the car and scans the night with sharp vigilance. It’s so intense that I follow his gaze, half expecting shadows to morph from the darkness. But there is nothing.

He gets out and comes to my window. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek. “Sure you want to be here?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.” He frowns as though the answer is a surprise. He opens my door, wraps his arm around me and pulls me to his side. I expect the permanent tension that strains his muscles, but they are half-relaxed, like violin strings after a long concert.

We start strolling to one of the oldest public gardens in the United States. Ten thousand roses and counting. But that’s not the only reason why I come here. I stop under the enormous trellis at the entrance, the way I always do. Christmas lights and soft halogens light up the paths. The rest of the blooms are tucked in the darkness, their petals humming with critters. There is a whoosh of hilly wind, almost like a whisper. I lock my knees, bracing for the crater that ruptures in my chest when I come here. But tonight, it is contained. Not like it does not exist, but like the ember that glows at Aiden’s presence fills it with light, not void.

“You come here alone.” Aiden’s voice is low—a statement, not a question.

“Yes. I grew up with a rose garden. Not as grand as this one, of course. But it smelled the same.”

I take a deep breath, wondering if my lungs know the difference. Aiden breathes in the air, too, as his eyes assimilate the garden. There is something unique about the way he perceives things—as though he is consuming them with all his senses.

“So you come here when you miss home,” he states quietly.

“No. I don’t miss England. I come here when I miss them.”

“Your parents?”

I nod. “This is the only spot I’ve found here that suits them. Come. This way.” I take his hand and start on the mossy, cobblestoned path.

“The path to our cottage in England looks exactly like this except it’s barely two feet wide,” I say, having the odd sense that I am inviting Aiden not to my home, but to my origin.

His sentient eyes scan the path. Then he pulls me to his chest and caresses my lower lip with his thumb.

“Why do you come here alone? I’m sure it’s not because you can’t find the company.”

“We all need a place where we go alone. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I think that’s true.”

“Do you have an Alone Place, Aiden?”

Walls rise up in his eyes and he stops caressing my lips. “Yes, I do.” His voice has a hard edge.

I wait for him to tell me where it is, but he doesn’t. I don’t push him even though I would give some of my remaining days to know. Things like this are only shared by choice.

“So you know the feeling, then.”

He nods. I reach on my tiptoes and kiss his lips lightly. “Come, let me show you the rest,” I say, following the mossy path.

“Do they have your favorite roses here?” he asks, as we enter the round Shakespeare Garden with its twinkling lights.

“No. Aeternum romantica grows only in East Africa. Portland’s soil would be too wet for it. In truth, I’ve only ever seen it in pictures. But I did see its purple cousin once when it was shipped to England for the Countess of Wessex. My dad was asked to extract the oil from the petals so that the Countess could use it.” I smile at the memory of Dad bouncing on his heels, much like Denton, when the royal summons arrived.

“You’re serious?” Aiden chuckles.

“Oh, yes. He was quite overcome. Before he was locked up to distill the geraniol oil, he managed to get security permission for me and my mum to see the roses.”

I pad along the perimeter of the Shakespeare Garden, stopping at the purple floribunda bush. I sense Aiden behind me like a shadow.

“The Purpura romantica looked similar to this one,” I say. “Except its blooms were smaller and it smelled like honey.” I caress the deep purple petals. Aiden’s fingers cover mine, feeling the petals too.

“Like your eyes,” he says.

I nod. “And my mum’s. And my grandma’s before then. I think it’s why Dad worked so hard to get permission for those roses. He exchanged his annual bonus for some blooms.” I swallow the wave of tears rising in my throat. It does not take the supernatural strength it usually does.

“My mum, Clare, was in seventh heaven. She was very fond of roses—something she inherited from her mother.”

I start leaving the floribunda, but Aiden wraps his arm around my waist and draws me to him. He bends his head, running his nose over my throat to my chin. Inhaling deeply. Then his warm lips press against mine. If I live a million years, I will not be able to describe Aiden’s kisses. This one is slow at first, soft like petals. His lips and tongue fight for dominance over my mouth until they combine forces and I surrender. My arms hang limply on his shoulders, all nostalgia forgotten. Was that his plan? He pulls away, smiling.

“You smell better than this rose,” he says. “Now carry on.”

“I like your smell test but the olfactory sense is fooled by sex hormones. So you see, your conclusions are unreliable.” I take his hand and follow the Shakespeare circle to the tall tea rose. His low throaty chuckle blends with the night. I tap his nose with one of the cyclamen buds. He smiles and sniffs.

“You still smell better.”

“You wouldn’t want my mum to hear that. She was born to aristocratic Lady Cecilia Juliana Sinclair. This rose—La France—was Cecilia’s favorite. Each Lady Sinclair has a signature rose, I’m told.”

Aiden tilts my face up and kisses me again. “I had a feeling about you,” he says against my lips.

“What feeling?” My words sound more like sighs.

He pulls away, running his thumb over my lower lip. “When I first saw you, you seemed so…defeated. But you had this dignity about you, like someone slapped you and you were turning the other cheek. The words ‘grace’ and ‘aristocratic’ came to mind.”

I laugh. “You’d be the first to apply those words to me, I think.”

“I highly doubt that. And I really dislike your self-deprecation.” His jaw sharpens against his skin.

“I’m British, Aiden. Self-deprecation is our national trait.”

“You’ve managed to Americanize your speech but not your outlook? There has to be more to it than that.”

“Well, quite obviously, I was waiting for a man to buy my naked paintings. Nothing is more beneficial for a woman’s self-esteem than being wanted only for her body,” I say, trying to keep a serious face.

He smiles and presses me close to him again. “What about being wanted for her insufferable know-it-all attitude?”

I laugh. “That’s a genetic trademark.” I shuffle my hand over the tea rose buds, remembering Mum complaining about the same thing in Dad.

“So what happened to Lady Cecilia?” Aiden prompts, no doubt thinking that my know-it-allness comes from my aristocratic line.

“She ran away with the family butler, Franklin Brighton—my grandfather. When the scandal broke, her family disowned her and removed her name from the inheritance. They never reunited. She and Franklin were both gone by the time I was born.” I tap the rosebud one more time and traipse across the grassy circle to the ivory hybrid in the corner.

“Another rose with special meaning?” Aiden asks.

“Not as special as the others. But it’s part of the story. My mum met Dad when she worked at the Ashmolean as an assistant curator. It was love at first sight, they said. And by what I saw, it does exist.

“They married in six months. I was born only a year later, right as my dad got a professorship at Oxford. They moved to a tiny cottage in Burford, a small town close to the university for my dad.

“Mum loved to garden. Her pink English roses slowly took over the cottage’s bricks and even the shingles on the roof. It looked more like a fairy tale than a twenty-first century home.”

“Is this rose your mother’s favorite?” Aiden points at the pale bloom.

“No. This is very similar to the hybrid she cultivated for me.”

A soft, cinnamon gasp leaves his lips. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it is. She worked on it for years. Named it Elisa, of course. This here is called centifolia because it has precisely one hundred petals. The Elisa has fewer but it’s the same color and fragrance.”

Aiden leans in and smells it. “I like this rose best. But with all due respect to your mother, you still smell better.”

“Especially after sweating in these clothes.” I raise my face to his, prepared for his kiss this time. As his lips mold to mine, I realize he is kissing me by each rose. I don’t know if it’s to keep my memories at bay or simply because he can, but whatever the reason, this stroll feels new. More mine, less my parents’.