Daisy Chain - Part Five

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Chapter Two: Daisy Chain - Part Five

Olive

Olive had given up the spy business.

Truly, she had.

So she wasn’t spying.

Not really.

She just didn’t understand why Uncle Lark was sitting on the gazebo bench in the middle of the pond all alone.

It was a nice day, she supposed. Sunny and colorful with a brisk breeze kicking up the fall of leaves in swimming swirls. As she burrowed deeper into the evergreen bush she was hiding in, the scents of warmth and fire smoke mixed with the pine, a comforting smell.

But it didn’t look as if her uncle was enjoying the weather.

She’d seen him like this before. A long time ago. When her daddy had first disappeared. She knew her daddy and her uncle had been twins. So alike in looks and voice, they’d often fooled and confused folks, but Olive had always known the difference.

Her daddy—who, no matter how many years passed, she still remembered and longed for—had been a softer man than her uncle, more relaxed and freer with his smiles and laughter. He’d lived life as if it were a game, as if everything was just one great, big sport.

Her life with him—those few short years she could remember—had been happy ones, always filled with new things, new people, new experiences.

Then, one day, the light that her father had filled her life with died out. The door had rung while they were playing Hide and Seek. She’d smiled from her hiding spot—in the coat closet under the stairs—while she watched him open the door, thinking that the interruption would stall him and cost him the win.

He’d pulled open the front door to answer it, only to step outside once he did, closing the door shut behind him. So she’d waited there in that closet, counting the minutes.

That had been more than three years before they’d even come to the hotel—then thirty years more than that—but she still remembered those hours, like a vivid vision that even time couldn’t erase.

At ten minutes, she’d been impatient, wondering what was keeping her father.

But, at fifteen, it’d been wiped away by the giddy knowledge that she’d won.

At twenty, she’d become bored and irritated again, tapping her toe against the boxes of winter boots.

But, by thirty minutes, worry had edged its way in.

So, tired of waiting, she’d snuck out of the closet and opened the door, but her daddy and whomever had been at the front door were gone.

It had been hours—hours of nervous worrying and wretched waiting—before she’d thought to call her uncle, who had rushed to her side and hadn’t left it for more than thirty years.

Uncle Lark didn’t smile as much as her daddy had. He didn’t laugh or join her games as much or as enthusiastically. But he was steady and constant, a permanence in her life that came when she needed him and never wavered.

But he wavered now.

His clothes—his gray suit so clean and perfect with its long, thin white stripes—now hung drooping on his slumped frame. His back—usually straight and proud—was bent over while he laid his head in his hands weakly with his elbows on his knees. His blue eyes were bleary and dazed as he stared out over the pond, watching the sun slowly climb across the sky.

He looked so sad.

She understood that. She was sad too.

She wanted Mei back.

But everybody—Flax and Calla and Rowan and even Mei herself—had told her that she had gone. That she wasn’t going to—couldn’t—come back.

But Olive still didn’t really understand why.

All she knew was that the last time she’d seen her, Mei had come to her, had cried and held her, before leaving her room, disappearing behind yet another door.

Olive sniffled and hugged her doll Daisy tight to her while she watched her uncle sit alone in the middle of the pond. She wanted to go to him. Wanted to curl up in his lap. She needed to hold him and be held by him.

But Flax had told her not to. Had said to give him time.

Time for what?

She didn’t understand. She knew that she would feel so much better if she could just go to him; wouldn’t he feel the same?

Alone; how could he want to be alone? Alone, she was just sad and scared and so terribly lonely, and she just couldn’t see how that could help anyone.

She shook her head. No, alone was not the answer.

But whenever she went to him, he just seemed sadder. The look on his face when she’d barged into Mei’s room—the bleak sorrow of it—scared her.

She huffed and her face pinched in confusion and dissatisfaction. She had to do something. So she squeezed Daisy under her arm and scurried closer, crossing the bridge over the pond to hide behind him on her knees at the gazebo’s arch.

Peeking through the holes in the birch wood lattice, she saw that her uncle wasn’t just staring out into nothing. He was facing one of the hotel’s gardens and the group of servants tending it.

She studied him closely and noticed his gaze followed one in particular, a maid with a long, black braid, plaited down her back. A few loose, midnight strands waved about, wild and free, desperately whipping her smooth, unfeatured face.

Turning back to her uncle, she saw that he was crying. Quiet, slow tears slipped almost unnoticeable down his rough, unshaven cheeks. It broke her heart to see it, her own tears sliding wet and cold down her face.

She buried her face in Daisy’s hair, letting the downy, citrus, Clementine curls sop up her sadness. She closed her eyes and breathed in the doll’s sweet, powdery scent, feeling a warm, welcome sense of calm and comfort sweep over her.

Her eyes popped open and her mouth let out a silent sigh.

Daisy.

She was the answer.

Olive never felt so very alone when she had Daisy with her. Gratefully, she brushed the doll’s hair back off her delicate, porcelain face.

She glanced up at her uncle. She didn’t want to give up her doll, didn’t want to be all alone again, but he needed her—needed someone—more than Olive did. If Olive couldn’t help him herself, she could give him Daisy and hope that she could help her uncle find some small measure of peace.

Olive smiled and took a deep, determined breath before sneaking toward the bench. On her hands and knees, she crawled quietly to him, laying the doll against the bench leg for him to find before, just as swiftly, crawling back to her hiding place in the evergreen brush.

She settled back into place when she saw her uncle turn toward her. She held her breath, wondering if he’d seen her. But then he turned back again, his stiff legs shifting.

He stopped when the bench moved, causing the small, fragile doll to fall onto the soft, pinkish wood floor with a muted thud. Olive saw him stop as if too surprised to move for a moment before leaning down and picking up the doll in his large hand, holding her gently.

The smile that touched his face was small and brief, but it was there and it warmed Olive like an embrace.

He looked up again, his eyes searching the area—for her, she supposed. But when he didn’t see her, he clutched the doll in his hand before tucking her protectively into the crook of his elbow and heading back toward the hotel.

She watched him go and, though she was all by herself hiding among the pine-scented leaves, knowing that he wasn’t made her feel less alone.

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Daisy Chain - Part Four

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Chapter Two: Daisy Chain - Part Four

Calla

Gemini: You’re very powerful; you can do anything you want. So be careful to want the right things.

“Wait!” Juniper called to Calla, panting as she ran.

She slowed, jogging in place and trying to be patient. Doing high-knee runs to keep her heart rate up, she watched while the woman in bright, patterned spandex and full-makeup staggered exhaustedly down the path.

Well, it wasn’t exactly Calla’s normal workout, but Juniper had been so excited about joining Calla on her morning jogs that Calla just couldn’t bring herself to tell the woman no.

Juniper had told her over dinner last night that she’d always meant to start, but just never had the motivation. So Calla had offered to jog with her. She just hadn’t realized that the ex-dancer would be so out of practice.

Calla paced herself next to Juniper who was practically walking, despite her exaggerated arm movements. Calla had tried to give the woman pointers all morning but the more she tried to tutor her the more Juniper struggled, growing more and more awkward in her stride and breathing. So Calla had stopped.

Together, in silence, only Juniper’s heavy heaving between them, they ran through the wooded landscape. Calla tried to tune out everything, just listening to her heartbeat—steady and strong—and the sound of the leaves—crisp and crackling—beneath her feet.

She’d almost succeeded when she suddenly stopped.

“What in the world,” puffed Juniper just behind her, “is that man up to now?”

Calla shook her head uncomprehendingly at the odd sight of Flax surrounded by Faceless servants, frantically shooing them away.

“He told me yesterday,” Calla said, still staring at him with a stunned expression on her face, “that he was going to make an effort to pick up the slack for Lenten.” She watched his rather pitiful progress. “You know, considering everything.”

“Really?” Juniper asked, more than a little surprised herself. “Flax? He’s helping out?” She shrugged. “Well, that’s nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Calla agreed, “it’s nice, I guess.”

They both watched Flax grab a rake from one of the Faceless, waving it about like a weapon and crying obscenities at the mob of servants.

“How long do you think it’ll last?” Juniper asked, skepticism plain in her voice.

She shrugged. “Until Lenten gets back.”

Calla frowned. Gets back. She’d made it sound as if he was away on vacation or on a sabbatical.

The man was grieving. Had been for a week now. Who knew when he’d snap back and start moving on again? Calla imagined that losing the love of your life—well, of the sort of life they led—would be hard to come back from.

“God, I hope it’s soon.” Juniper sighed and started to jog again.

Calla shook her head, leaving Flax to his promises, as she caught up to the woman, trying to keep her own.

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Daisy Chain - Part Three

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Chapter Two: Daisy Chain - Part Three

Leander

Where was he?

Shaking on the linoleum tile—

No, not linoleum. Kicking his leg out a bit to twitch his bare foot against the stone, he knew he knew that feel. The cool, slick smoothness. Sandstone.

Slowly, cautiously, he uncurled himself from his fetally tight ball. First his head, tilting back. The tense muscles in his neck strained and his snarled mass of unruly curls tangled messily as it fell.

He looked one way, then the other before he let the fierce clench he had on his knees loosen. The joints—the sore angles of his elbows and wrists—popped as bent limbs became straight again.

Like a puppy, he weakly rolled over onto his knees. Settling with his shivering form hunched over his knees, he let his forehead rest on the sturdy, stable surface of the sandstone floor.

Babies are born without knee caps, he thought while he stared at his bent legs, which don’t develop until the child is two to six years of age.

He leaned back, strangely comforted by that fact, the sturdy stability and unchanging certainty of it. He let the balls of his feet rest on the stone before pushing up into a Downward Dog pose.

He breathed deep.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

A person’s breathing rate increased when they started to type.

He pushed up and stared at the wall. Stone-faced, the large, uneven bricks looked sturdy and inescapable.

He quirked his head at a message carved into the stone.

On weak, coltish legs, he walked up to it, his eyes squinting to read the somehow familiar scratched scrawl.

ELYSIUM HOTEL

LEANDER’S ROOM

EXTRA ELYSIUM NULLA SALUS

Leander took a deep breath, feeling somehow comforted by the words.

There is salvation within The Elysium

How did he know that?

His brow furrowed, he reached for the door’s latch. The moment his hand touched the cold metal, the lock snapped with a loud clack.

Leander jumped back, with a shocked yelp.

Reaching out again, he tested the latch, pushing down tentatively. It turned easily under his grip.

The Elysium. Paradise. Zion and Eden. “ ‘That is my home of love: if I have ranged, like him that travels I return again, just to the time, not with the time exchanged,’ ” Leander murmured before he stepped into the library, remembering a quote he’d once read.

“Sonnet 109” by William Shakespeare. That was it. Happier having placed it, Leander sighed, breathing in the faintly dusty scent of knowledge.

Home.

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Daisy Chain - Part Two

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Chapter Two: Daisy Chain - Part Two

Flax

Flax knocked on Suite 206 softly before he pushed on the already slightly cracked open door. He moved to sit on the bed, next to the bunched up comforter covering the small mound.

Placing his hand on her back, he murmured, “Hey there, chickpea.”

The small figure wiggled beneath the blankets at his touch.

Flax smiled sadly when her little redhead popped out from beneath the covers, shaking the mussed strands out of her face.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her. “How did you even get in?”

Since the day he—and Olive and Calla—had barged in on him, Lenten had seen to it that Suite 206 remained locked at all times now.

Olive wriggled a little wormy arm up and out from under the covers, producing the small, gold skeleton key that usually hung from a chain inside Lenten’s coat pocket.

“Ah,” Flax said, trying hard not to be impressed by the girl’s resourcefulness. “I’m guessing your uncle doesn’t know you have that.”

He watched her shrink back down into the bedspread. She shrugged, the blankets moving more than she did, then shook her head.

He shrugged. He couldn’t very well get mad at her—seeing as how it was he who taught her how to pick pockets. So instead, he simply said, “You know your uncle won’t be too happy with you for taking it?”

Again, she shook her head.

“So why’d you swipe it?” He took it from her hand to put in his own pocket. He’d slip it back later before the absent manager noticed, to keep his little creeping vine—and subsequently himself—out of trouble.

Olive sat up, licking her lips. She gazed up at him, the covers all but drowning her. “They still smell like her.” She buried her nose in the thick comforter’s downy mass.

Oh God, Flax groaned silently. Goddamn, that he kept getting caught in this mess.

If he were a smart man, he’d head on over to Juniper’s or Jonquil’s—or both, maybe even together—and not emerge until the whole thing blew over.

But, because he’d lived more than long enough, Flax knew that grief didn’t just blow over. He’d said enough goodbyes in his life to know those were the things that stuck with you forever.

So he sighed and grabbed the little girl under each arm and pulled her—blankets and all—onto his lap. Wrapping his arms around, he held her wordlessly.

“She’s never coming back,” Olive stated quietly, pulling her little Daisy up from under the covers to hold the doll the way he held her on her own lap, “is she?”

Silently, he shook his head against her tiny, silken cheek.

She stiffened and let out a resigned huff before nodding. She snuggled into the bunched up fabric, squeezing it. She inhaled deeply, as if she knew that even that scent—that last bit of Mei—would eventually be gone and she wanted to savor it while it lasted.

After a few more breaths, she turned her face and tipped her chin back to look at him. “Why?”

Flax paused, not knowing how to explain something no one really understood. Settling on the simple, he said, “It was just her time, that’s all.”

“But why?” Olive asked. “Did she do something wrong? Is that why she had to leave?”

“Aw,” he told her, hugging her closely, “no, petunia, no. Mei didn’t do anything wrong. It just happened. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Olive looked at him, a question in her eyes that couldn’t quite make it to her lips. She turned away, facing forward to swing her little feet, her stockinged heels hitting the mattress between his legs. She leaned back against his chest, growing silent for a very long time.

Finally, in a voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it, she said, “I thought we could stop it.”

“I know you did,” Flax told her. “And I know you did your best, but no one could have stopped it. It was just her time.”

“If I’d tried harder,” she murmured quietly, “if I hadn’t treated it like a game...” She shook her head and sunk impossibly lower.

“There wasn’t anything else you could have done.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. “I should have tried harder.” She pouted, biting her quivering bottom lip as more tears fell down her face. “I didn’t even say that I was sorry,” she said, her voice a quiet whine. “I didn’t think that when she said goodbye she meant forever.”

He bit his own lip and listened to her cry, unable to think of what more to say.

“I didn’t even say sorry,” she wailed, guilt and shame clear in her voice.

That was it.

He just couldn’t listen to her go on like this any longer. Determined to put a stop to her tears, Flax gripped the little girl by the waist and turned her around. He gripped her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his gaze. “Now you listen to me, little girl,” he told her in a straight, no-nonsense tone, “Mei loved you from the very first second she saw you to the very last second she had left. If she could have, she would have loved you forever. When it was her time, you were the very first person she wanted to see. She wanted to be sure that she got to see you one last time, to say a proper goodbye.”

Olive gave one long, loud sniffle, wiping her nose on the comforter. “She did?”

“She did,” he told her, using a corner of the covers to wipe her cheeks. “And she knew you loved her with all your little heart and she knew that, if you could have, you would have kept her here with you and with your uncle forever and ever.”

Olive, with her chin still cupped in his hand, nodded her head furiously. “But I couldn’t do it, could I?” A sad, disgusted look pinched her face. She shook her head from his grasp and averted her gaze, her little girl voice—the level and pitch of it—lowering staggeringly, sounding more mature and world-weary. “I try and I try and nothing I do is ever good enough.” Looking back up at him with much older eyes, the little, eight-year-old said, “Is it?”

Flax stared into the soul who’d been stuck in this hotel for thirty years and knew that there wasn’t an answer for her.

So instead, he gathered up the sides of the comforter and wrapped her up more fully in it, rubbing it and its scent against her arms. “It gets better,” he told her. “With some time,” he said, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt, “and with lots of people around who care about you—”

“Like you and Uncle Lark and Calla and Rowan?” she asked, her voice again gaining its usual youth and sweetness.

“Yeah,” he said as he tweaked her nose, glad to see her innocence surface from the jaded haze, “if you surround yourself with people like that—I promise—it gets better.”

Olive stared into his gaze for a long moment. “Then how come Uncle Lark always wants to be alone?”

That stymied him for a moment. “It’s,” he started, “different for your uncle.”

“Why?”

Lord, damn the person that invented that question.

“He’s just not as smart as you are,” he said with a joking smile. He tickled her, making her squeal with laughter. “But he’ll come around eventually. Okay?”

Still smiling, Olive nodded sagely before letting out a loud yawn.

Sweeping her up into his arms, he was glad to see sleep start to take grief’s place. Even if it couldn’t fix everything, at least her dreams could give her a few moments of peace.

“Come on, you weed,” he told her when she bundled herself and her little doll closer, laying her head sweetly on his shoulder, “let’s get you to your own bed.”

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Daisy Chain - Part One

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Chapter Two: Daisy Chain - Part One

Daisy Flower: (Bellis Perennis) For over 4,000 years, this common, sunny perennial has been a faithfully favored flower. Used and praised for its healing properties, doctors have soaked bandages in its extract to bind severe wounds and steeped its crushed petals in wine to cure mania.

This flower’s name literally means “day’s eye,” as they open at dawn when the day is just beginning. Because of this, they have come to symbolize childhood innocence, purity, and new beginnings. They can also mean loyalty in love, steadfast trustworthiness, and patience.

Rowan

“Leander?” Rowan asked again as he peeked around yet another bookshelf. Where had the dark-haired boy gone? “Leander?”

He frowned at the silence, his arms starting to ache under the tall stack of books’ weight. Figuring he had enough books to last him a good long while, Rowan turned to leave. “Well, thank you,” he called out over his shoulder, “for all your—”

He stopped when he saw Lenten, wrecked and wretched, in the library doorway. “What are you doing in here?” Lenten barked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “And why isn’t the door locked?”

Rowan, taken aback, shrugged. “I was just getting some books.”

Lenten took three long, fast steps to him, grabbed him by the elbow, and yanked Rowan and his books out into the hallway. Reaching into his wrinkled jacket, he dug into his pocket for The Elysium skeleton key.

Cursing soundly when he couldn’t find it, the manager rounded on the boy and hissed, “Did you unlock this door?”

“No.” Rowan shook his head, still thrown by how angry the man seemed to be. “No, it was like that when I got here. Why?”

“The door is supposed to lock,” Lenten said under his breath, twisting the knob to crack open the door only to shut it again. “Why isn’t it locking?”

Again, he opened the door a sliver more than before, then slammed it shut. He let out a satisfied breath when they both heard the quick click of the door’s bolt sliding into place. “No one’s supposed to be in there at this time.”

“There’s someone else in there,” Rowan told the man, though Lenten was clearly talking more to himself than to him.

Lenten’s already pained eyes looked more anguished at that. He fumbled for the knob again, but the door was locked tight. He cursed again. “Who is it?” He dug for the key with shaky fingers. “Calla?” He turned the pocket inside out. Nothing. Rowan could practically read the curse resounding through the man’s mind. “Olive?” he asked, only to stop suddenly at her name as if a terrifying thought had just occurred to him.

Too fast for Rowan to catch, Lenten grabbed him by his shirt collar and shoved him up against the wall, making the boy drop the stack of books he was holding onto his foot. He was barely able to so much as flinch before the man’s angry fists lifted him up, thrusting his shoulders and back into the hard, white wall. “Is Olive inside?”

Rowan was too stunned to speak. Choking on his shock, he sputtered incoherently.

“Is she?” he asked again, his voice creaking with hysterics.

“No,” Rowan answered. “No, it’s Leander. He’s inside.”

“Leander?” Lenten released his grip, dropping Rowan back on his feet, as if all the panic and the strength had gone out of him. “Oh,” he said with relief. He leaned his head against the wall for a moment before turning to leave.

“Wait,” Rowan said, confused. “I thought you said no one was supposed to be in there. Leander’s in there,” he repeated. “Is he going to be okay?”

The way the man had been talking and acting, he made it seem as if the room was dangerous. Or that something in the room was. “Shouldn’t we get him out of there?”

Lenten relaxed, shaking his head. “No,” the man answered easily, almost distractedly, “no, believe me, Leander isn’t in there anymore.”

Rowan arched his eyebrow.

What did that mean?

But before he could ask, Lenten turned, checked the locked door once more, and left.

Rowan, beyond confused, lowered himself to his knees to gather the scattered books on the floor, wondering what in the hell was happening in this godforsaken hotel.

He looked up at the locked door.

Scooting closer, he reached out and turned the knob.

It jerked stiffly, locked in place.

Leaning closer, he knocked on the door. “Leander?” he called. “Are you there?”

He waited.

No answer.

Maybe the mumbling boy had left while Rowan wasn’t looking. Maybe that was why he couldn’t find him again.

With a shrug, he gathered his books off the floor, hefting them into his arms and off his now throbbing foot, and hoped that—wherever Leander had gone off to—that he was all right.

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Fake Dating for Christmas

 

CHECKING IT TWICE

Cainin’s — Collin’s — shoulders visibly stiffened. “You want me to be your boyfriend?”

She nodded. “Just for my office holiday party.” She thought about it. “And my family get-together.” She shrugged. “And my friends’ party.” Was that too much to ask? She shook her head. “About a month of your life. I’ll pay you.”

Collin leaned back and frowned, clearly confused. “Why?” He shook his head. “Why do you want me to do this?”

She sighed. “Like I said, my life’s been a little crazy this year and I just don’t want to add everyone knowing my boyfriend left me a month before Christmas to it.”

His brow furrowed further. “So instead you want to add a new boyfriend.”

“No.” Jeez, had this guy never read or watched a romantic comedy before? “You’ll roleplay as my old boyfriend, Rick.”

He balked. “Won’t people notice that I’m not him?”

Elena felt her face flush as she shrugged awkwardly. “No one’s actually met him.” She waved her hands dismissively. “We hadn’t been dating that long before my mom had her stroke, so I hadn’t introduced him to everyone before that.” She shrugged again. “And after that... well, it just never seemed like the time.”

Collin still looked skeptical. “What about social media? You guys don’t have pictures together or are friends on there or anything?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t do social media and I pretty much only post pictures of my food and my family.” She leaned in. “Look, I’ve thought it all through. This will work.” She needed it to. Needed him to. She just couldn’t imagine going to all those parties and explaining to people how and why Rick had left her. She didn’t want her sad love life to be the topic of the night everywhere she went. After everything else this year, she just couldn’t bear it.

Collin fiddled with his mug, still seemingly unconvinced. “Why me?” When she only blinked at him blankly, he continued, “Why not just ask Rick? You said it hadn’t ended badly. You just didn’t have time for each other. Why not just ask him to get through the holidays, then part ways?”

Elena wrinkled her nose. It was like this guy had never had a breakup. “It’s not that simple. If I reach out to him, he might take it badly. Think I’m trying to get back together with him or emotionally manipulate him or something.” Plus, it’d just be too awkward. If Rick agreed to it, would they be in a relationship still? Again? There’d be a certain expectation of cuddling intimacy in front of people — kissing, holding hands, and the like — but what about in private? No. “This arrangement is better.” Simpler. “You’ll be Rick Gaines, my psychiatrist boyfriend when we’re together, and, when we’re not, you’ll go back to being you.” Simple. Easy. Clean. “What do you say?”

Collin sipped his drink, still looking unsure.

C’mon. She really needed this. Her mind raced for an enticing argument. “Think of it as a real-life Yes And story.”

———

Well, that was intriguing.

He pursed his lips and thought about it. Would it be that bad? Elena didn’t want to be alone for the holidays. Neither did he.

Plus, this could be an interesting opportunity. He tilted his head thoughtfully. “And you said you’d pay me?”

She nodded. “Sure, of course, that’s only fair.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really have a price in mind, but we can figure that out.”

He shook his head. “Parties usually mean free food, right?” She nodded. “How about you pay for things like parking, gas, and expenses?”

Her face brightened at his tacit, practically inevitable agreement. “Of course.”

He held up his hand. “But I do have another condition.”

She paused hesitantly. “What is it?”

Collin was sure she was worried about him asking her for something salacious or sinister. He supposed he was going to ask for something selfish.

And embarrassing.

He felt his shoulders slouch in on himself and the back of his neck heat with a burning blush. “Well, you know how in Yes And we’re not allowed to critique stories. They either succeed or fail on merit. If your story’s good, people will add to it. If it’s not...”

She nodded. “It fades into obscurity.”

He smiled, glad she understood. “And you never get to know why people didn’t like it; just that they don’t. And, if you try to ask why...”

“You get shot down by the members and the mods.” Everyone knew that. “Critiques cause too much in-fighting and drama. Plus, it’s not our jobs to teach people how to write.”

Sure, sure. He understood that. But what if it was? “Well, dating’s a lot like that, right?”

“I guess.” She looked at him incredulously. “You want me to critique your dating?”

He nodded. “It’s the best way to improve, right?”

———

Which meant he wasn’t great at dating now, didn’t it? Great. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “What kind of issues did you have with your previous girlfriends?” Was he the clingy-type or a jerk? He hadn’t seemed like one online, but it was only online, through fiction. What did she really know about him anyway?

To be fair, it was about as much as she had about any of her partners before she met them for the first time, particularly the ones she’d met online.

Collin shrugged. “I don’t know. No one’s ever told me.”

Which was the whole point.

Elena pursed her lips thoughtfully. It was just one month of her life, right? And, in terms of payment, it was a pretty good deal.

Hopefully.

“Okay.” She breathed deep and held out her hand. “The deal is struck.”

He smiled, recognizing his own story line, which again made her feel inexplicably better. “Then I suppose we should begin...”

To read the rest, check out my geeky, holiday novella Checking It Twice.

Fake dating for Christmas? What a perfect plan!

The holidays are hard enough without life throwing snowy curveballs. Freshly dumped, Elena Torres is too busy to find a new date to all her holiday events. There just isn't enough time to find someone new for her office party, her family gathering, and her friends' get-together. So she strikes a deal with her roleplaying buddy, Collin Werther, to pretend to be her ex.

What could possibly go wrong?

Spice level: slow-burn to a kiss at the end

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Vacancies - Part Four

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Chapter One: Vacancies - Part Four

Flax

Flax shut Olive’s door quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping child inside.

God damn! It’d practically killed him to sit beside her on her little frilly, yellow bed in her pretty, sunny room and listen to her cry herself to sleep.

He shook his head as he made his way to the stairs.

How the hell had Mei done this for so long? For longer than he cared to remember, Mei had taken over the role of caregiver. She’d been friend, sister, and mother all wrapped up in one sweet, little package to any and all who passed through The Elysium doors. She’d always been there for everyone, listening with a patient ear and an open heart. Flax had always thought of her as the heart and soul of The Elysium. Looking at it now, the hotel seemed colder, a little less welcoming without her. Without her, Flax admitted to himself as he stopped to stare out the balcony windows at the biting autumn air blowing bits of fall about the lawn, everything felt a little lost.

Pounding an angry fist against the wall, causing the glass to wobble and shake with an ominous sound, Flax decided what he needed—or at least what he really wanted—right now was a good stiff drink. So he headed to his solid, steadfast, oak bar and studied the array of bottles lined up in neat rows against the wall.

But just as he’d decided upon some Rebel Yell Kentucky bourbon—straight—he heard someone rooting around in his kitchen. His kitchen!

Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he headed toward the insolent trespasser treading on his territory.

Pushing the doors open with an aggressive shove, he entered.

“Oo,” he heard the Frenchman say, “Flax, je cherche pour le gateau vanille—uh, le cake. The one from last night.” Turning again to stick his handsome face into the fridge, he continued, “It was so délectable—delicious—I just had to have it with ma bouteille de Château de Selle Côtes de Provence Rosé.”

Flax let out a snort of amusement as the man’s derrière délectable swung and swayed with each visual sweep of the large, stainless steel, dual door, climate controlled masterpiece of a food storage unit. It was a moving work of art in Flax’s eyes. Exclusive wine, exquisite food, and extraordinarily willing company. All the makings of a good night.

Just what he needed.

Stepping up to the man, Flax shuffled him off to the side before finding the cake in question. Producing it with a flair he knew Jonquil would appreciate, he nodded toward the island countertops. As he got the knife to cut the cake, the other man quickly retrieved the wine glasses.

After doling out the refreshments, Jonquil pierced Flax with an arrogantly Parisian, knowing look. “What’s wrong, mon amor? You do not look well.”

Flax sighed before he sipped the wine, stopping to both savor the mixed flavors of the dessert and drink as well as stall.

It wasn’t that Flax was above whining—Lord, if you asked his Mama, he came into this world with a wail, why should that change with time?—it was just that to complain about this...it was about six steps below petty.

“Parlez-moi.”

Talk to me.

“It’s the whole situation with Lenten. And Olive. And Mei,” he said sulkily.

“Mei?” 421 asked, with a knowing nod. “Did she not,” he paused before intoning meaningfully, “a réglé son compte?”

Flax nodded, thinking even the flow and song of the French language didn’t make checking out sound any more civilized. “Six days ago,” he said, taking another sip—swig, really—before refilling both their glasses. “That’s the problem.”

“Ah,” the Frenchman said, “Lenten is...” He paused searching for the word. “Heartbroken, yes?”

“Yeah,” Flax agreed. “I suppose we all are, you know?” He shook his head. “She was one hell of a woman.”

Jonquil sniffed stiffly, fighting—Flax knew—feelings of jealousy and hurt. Not that he had any reason to feel any of that—Mei wasn’t Flax’s and neither, for that matter, was 421. Flax loved well and loved often; exclusivity just not being in his blood.

But Jonquil was très passionnant and though, at times, it was inconvenient, it was one of the things Flax enjoyed best about the man.

“I was just with Olive,” he said, changing the subject.

“Aw,” Jonquil sighed, instantly sympathetic, “how is le petit?”

“Sad,” Flax answered. “And confused. And I don’t blame her. She keeps asking us about Mei and we’ve all taken our turns trying to explain it to her without actually explaining anything. Trying to tell what happened without actually saying the words.”

Flax shook his head. “Sometimes I think it’d be a kindness just to tell her straight, just lay it all out there for her.” He paused looking at Jonquil for understanding. “But damned if I’ll be the one that breaks that little girl’s heart.”

“You’re a good man,” Jonquil told him, taking another bite of sweet cake, eying Flax with interest.

But the other man just scoffed and shook his head. Not a romantic like the Frenchman, Flax knew his own number. “I yelled at Lenten again,” he confessed, setting his fork down on the countertop.

“What for this time?” Jonquil asked, familiar enough with their particular working relationship. “Not about the replicator again,” the man intoned. “It’s NASA property, you know how Lenten feels about government acquisitions. Besides, you wouldn’t even know how to use it.”

“No,” Flax said, waving that off. “It wasn’t about that.” He sighed and took another long swig of wine. “It was about Mei.”

“Mei?” he asked, his shocked jaw dropping. “You yelled at him about Mei?” He sat back, a frown on his disapproving face. “Oh, Flax, how could you? Of all things! And at such a time.”

“I know,” Flax said, squirming against the unfamiliar pangs of guilt and shame. “I know, I know. I hadn’t meant to. I had actually had the idea of comforting the man, of,” he said, the justifications sounding weak even to him, “offering my help. In some way.”

“Then you yelled at him.”

“It wasn’t a conscious thought to,” Flax retorted.

The Frenchman just made an incredulous snort. “I know that,” he said, “like I said, you’re a good man. You’re just so brash, so impulsive, so américain.” He’d meant it as an insult, but the devilish glint in his smile plum ruined the effect.

“So tell me about all this yelling,” the man said, brandishing his wine glass like a sabre. “Tell me about the fight.”

“It was just plain dumb.” Flax cut himself another piece of cake—a very large piece, because after all if he was going to hell he might as well enjoy the journey. “It’s just that ever since Mei, well...” He waved his hand expressively. “Lenten has just sort of disappeared. I mean, before, when she was just showing signs, he threw himself into his work. I’m talking the picture of Puritanical work ethic. But now, he’s just stopped.”

He started to dig into his sinful treat, feeling the empty calories like an albatross on his hips. “He hasn’t even been in his office for over a week. That means no schedules for the Faceless—they’ve been wandering around the hotel like the literal living dead. No checking up on the kids—I’ve been trying to wrangle them in, but the idea of me being in any way parental is just laughable. He doesn’t even do rounds anymore. Or answer room calls.” Flax threw his arms up in the air with frustration. “I’ve been running around this place like one of my father’s chickens before Sunday dinner.”

Jonquil, set down his glass with pointed deliberateness. He cocked an eyebrow and glared at the other man. “So,” he said, his accent sounding purposefully sharp and snooty, “you’re saying that you yelled at a grieving man because you can’t be bothered to take on a few more tasks.”

Okay, put that way, it did make him sound like a lout.

“It hasn’t even been a week, mon beau homme impitoyable.” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “You should be a little more compatissant.”

“I know,” he said. “Vous avez raison, bien sûr.” He nodded. Of course, Jonquil was right. “It’s just,” he gave a wry half-shrug, “you know how I feel about work.”

“Nas pas le travaillent!” the Frenchman gasped gravely. “Work, it is torture for one such as you, non?”

“Tais-toi,” he said with a laugh, flicking a moist crumb at the man. “Or no more cake for you, you damned, froggy bastard.”

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