Page 51 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Fifty

HOLLY

While the announcer begins awarding the authors of children’s fiction and sci-fi, I lean in front of Cyrus who’s between Stacy and I, and whisper in her ear, “So, how are you going to tell him?”

“Got any ideas?” she asks.

“I think in a meeting. Privately. He’s an old fashioned bastard, catch him off guard and you’ll live to regret it, Ren,” Cyrus puts in his two bob’s worth as I finish off the last of the foamy liquid in my glass, leaving the coffee beans at the bottom.

I don’t understand why he calls her Renee, she told me she doesn’t like it, but maybe she hasn’t mentioned anything to him about it.

“He’s right.” I nod. Based on all of our emails, and very few calls, Quinn is a grouchy old man at times, so telling him in an enclosed space, alone, is a wise idea.

“What about you two?”

“Now that I don’t know. But the sooner the better, I think,” he says.

“But what about the New York Times?” Stacy asks exactly what I’m thinking.

“What about it?”

“Aren’t you scared to lose the opportunity of getting it? Quinn won’t allow… that… in his firm.” That being two of his employee’s shacking up.

“It’s just a title. It’s just money. Two things that can always be found again. But what I won’t find is another Holly.”

Oh, be still my beating heart.

Stacy looks concerned, as if nerves were kicking in so Cyrus says comfortingly with a hand on her back.

“Hey, put it this way. At least if he doesn’t like either of our confessions we can all fly to the land down under.

I’ve heard it’s nice and warm there. We could resort to writing books on the beach instead of by a warm fire. ”

“Is this a New Year’s resolution?” she asks.

“I already have one.” He fixes his eyes on me. So steamy, full of hope and desire. “But I’ll have another.”

“I… I’d love to show you my home,” I say with an abundance of butterflies swarming in my belly.

“It’s settled, then.”

“So, what’s this New Year’s resolution of yours? The first one.”

“To kiss Holly. At midnight. Under a?—”

“I swear to god if you say…” I cut him off, then Cyrus starts fiddling with something in the pocket of his jacket that’s thrown over the back of the chair. “If you pull a holly out of your pocket.”

And sure enough, a little vine of sharp, green leaves, nestled around a bunch of bright red beads stares back at me as it hangs in the grasp of his fingers.

I knew it.

A bloody holly.

How fucking cliché.

“Shit, that’s you!” I squawk, delayed in awareness that the awarder has called out Cyrus’s name. He’s won an award for something, but I haven’t been paying any attention to know what for. I pull his jacket from the chair and shove it against his chest. “Go, go, go!”

“Perfect…” he mutters under his breath as he struts off.

On the screen behind the commentator is a presentation, showing that Cyrus has won the highest rated dark romance novel.

I stand, fighting a tear as I clap, so hopelessly proud of him, then whistle a melody with my fingers slotted between my lips.

My ears ring as the crowd roars for him.

Not a single person in the building doesn’t have their hands together for Cyrus. Suddenly, a sense of dread hits me.

I can’t let him ruin his career over me.

I don’t care what he says, it’s not just a title.

It’s not just money. This is his entire life.

Ugh, this fucking sucks! I can’t let my head go down that rabbit hole again, we’ve come so far, but right now as he grasps the beautiful glass trophy in the palm of his hand, losing what makes him him is all I can think about.

A member of the audience chants, others joining in. “Speech. Speech. Speech!”

Cyrus holds his lips about an inch from the mic stand, his breathy sigh echoing through the room over the speakers.

“Wow. Thank you, everyone. I wasn’t expecting…

” he toys with the crystal, holding it up in the air.

“Well, this. Quinn, buddy, we’ve got a hell of a lot to celebrate for this year, I’m closing it off a proud man, and entering the new one with a bang.

” His eyes dart to mine even from so far away, looking through me in a way that has me both flexing my thighs together, and gulping nervously all in one. Oh, shit. “Holly?”

I slouch in my chair, hoping that everyone somehow magically went deaf and no one heard him. But then everyone turns to look for who this Holly person is.

“Miss Cate, won’t you please join me?”

The alcohol leaves my body in an instant.

“Oh. My. Dear. God,” Stacy mutters in disbelief, a pause between each word.

…Yeah.

That.

“Come on, get up there, lady,” someone nearby presses, but my body remains concrete in my chair.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart. You can do it,” a soft female voice runs through my ears, catching my attention, but I don’t see where it’s coming from. That voice… it sounds so familiar. “Where’s that fierce Aussie girl that’s full of guts, and passion?”

Susan?

She’s here?

I don’t know what comes over me, but I stand, and similar to being introduced to everyone here, the entire audience stares, but with much more intensity. My body feels as though it’s seconds from catching alight by their burning glares.

Cyrus holds his hand out for me when I reach the stairs to the portable stage, my heart beating a million miles a second, and my breath erratic as I take it. Lighting bolts strike when our skin collides as he guides me up to the podium beside him, unexpectedly making me gasp, and almost trip.

I’ve touched this man a million times, you’d think I’d be used to it by now.

“I’ve got you. I’ve always got you,” his delicate voice whispers into my ear, away from the mic.

The crowd stays silent, waiting patiently for whatever it is Cyrus is about to say. I don’t see many faces, as everything around me is blurred, but I do see Quinn, Stacy, Bentley, and…

Crap , the photographer from earlier today.

“Uh, thank you, everyone. I’d like to stay a few words, if I may,” Cyrus slowly chokes through the speaker, like he’s delaying something.

“Five, actually.” And as if a stiff body and a fluttering heart isn’t enough to deal with in front of four hundred people, my stomach drops seeing what I do next.

His hand disappearing into his coat pocket.

That bloody holly.

In one hand, he holds the sprig, and in the other, his award for best dark romance. He peers over his shoulder at the big, cast iron wall clock hung beside a deer head. It’s 11.59 P.M.

“If you could all count down with me?”

One arm pulls me closer against him so that my chest is flush against his, the other holding the holly above us both, and in an instant the crowd sings with cheer.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four .

Three.

Two.

One…