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Authors: Lily Everett
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by the flickering firelight.
“What books did you bring for us tonight?” Leo asked, curious as ever about the bulging knapsack at Serena’s feet. In between bouts of very pleasant distraction over the past days, they’d explored wedding benedictions, sonnets, quotes from defunct space cowboy TV shows, and nineteenth-century gothic romances.
“More poetry.” Serena straightened, perking up at the mention of her beloved books.
Leo let her go without protest, even though the absence of her lithe, warm body against his side left him chilled. As much as he enjoyed discovering the abundant joys of Serena’s sensually responsive body, he’d come to treasure these moments almost as much. Fully clothed, in no way improper—after all, reading aloud was a favorite drawing room activity of the staid Victorians—and yet he knew Serena more intimately through the passages and pieces she’d chosen to read him than he did through the careful removal of each article of clothing.
Serena Lightfoot was unlike any woman he’d ever known—unabashedly romantic, but in a quirky, offbeat way that made him smile rather than roll his eyes at the sentiment.
“More poetry, hmm? It’s going to have to be quite something to compete with that one about how falling in love is like owning a dog.”
Her eyes lit up, sparkling in the firelight. “I knew you’d like that poem! See, you always think I’m crazy at first, but I’ve got the goods. Admit it.”
“Freely and unreservedly.” Leo stretched his arms along the back of the sofa and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. “I honestly never knew that expressions of sentiment—love—could be so…”
“What?”
He struggled to find the word he wanted. “Humorous. Playful?”
“Joyful,” Serena suggested, voice low and happy.
Leo nodded, and Serena clasped the book in her hands to her chest in a paroxysm of unselfconscious pleasure. “You totally get it. I love that you get it!”
You get me
, she didn’t say. But Leo heard it all the same, and a pang shot through his chest like an arrow.
Uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t been nearly as open with Serena as she’d been with him, Leo felt a deep-seated need to redress that imbalance in some small way. “In my house, growing up, ‘love’ was not a word one heard. Or spoke. I suppose I learned to think of it as a weakness.”
“Your parents never told you they loved you?” Serena was aghast, eyes wide and dark.
Deeply uncomfortable, Leo stared into the glowing embers of the fire and shrugged. “Please. There’s no need for the Oxfam eyes and trembling lips. I was hardly abused. In fact, I was given every advantage, everything I could possibly ask for.”
“Exactly,” Serena pointed out, pulling one leg up onto the sofa so she could face him directly. “Your parents gave you every
thing
you wanted—but not what you truly needed.”
Leo pulled his well-worn mask of sardonic amusement over his face. “I assure you, what you call ‘love’ is not necessary for survival.”
“Yes, it is.”
The intensity in Serena’s voice forced Leo to meet her laser-focused gaze. Still dazzled from staring into the fire for so long, Leo blinked away the dark stars exploding around Serena’s head. She almost seemed to glow in the dimly lit room, a lantern to light his way.
Leo shook off the fanciful thought. “I don’t even know what that means. How can you say that? How can you even believe in love, after everything that’s happened to you?”
“First of all, because I’ve felt it.”
Leo felt his upper lip curl into a snarl at the thought of Serena having real feelings of love for any of the men who’d used and discarded her, but she shook her head.
“There are lots of different kinds of love,” she reminded him. “I love my parents, and they love me back—almost too much, sometimes! But I’d take my mother’s nosiness into every aspect of my life and my father’s constant offers to pay for
“What books did you bring for us tonight?” Leo asked, curious as ever about the bulging knapsack at Serena’s feet. In between bouts of very pleasant distraction over the past days, they’d explored wedding benedictions, sonnets, quotes from defunct space cowboy TV shows, and nineteenth-century gothic romances.
“More poetry.” Serena straightened, perking up at the mention of her beloved books.
Leo let her go without protest, even though the absence of her lithe, warm body against his side left him chilled. As much as he enjoyed discovering the abundant joys of Serena’s sensually responsive body, he’d come to treasure these moments almost as much. Fully clothed, in no way improper—after all, reading aloud was a favorite drawing room activity of the staid Victorians—and yet he knew Serena more intimately through the passages and pieces she’d chosen to read him than he did through the careful removal of each article of clothing.
Serena Lightfoot was unlike any woman he’d ever known—unabashedly romantic, but in a quirky, offbeat way that made him smile rather than roll his eyes at the sentiment.
“More poetry, hmm? It’s going to have to be quite something to compete with that one about how falling in love is like owning a dog.”
Her eyes lit up, sparkling in the firelight. “I knew you’d like that poem! See, you always think I’m crazy at first, but I’ve got the goods. Admit it.”
“Freely and unreservedly.” Leo stretched his arms along the back of the sofa and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. “I honestly never knew that expressions of sentiment—love—could be so…”
“What?”
He struggled to find the word he wanted. “Humorous. Playful?”
“Joyful,” Serena suggested, voice low and happy.
Leo nodded, and Serena clasped the book in her hands to her chest in a paroxysm of unselfconscious pleasure. “You totally get it. I love that you get it!”
You get me
, she didn’t say. But Leo heard it all the same, and a pang shot through his chest like an arrow.
Uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t been nearly as open with Serena as she’d been with him, Leo felt a deep-seated need to redress that imbalance in some small way. “In my house, growing up, ‘love’ was not a word one heard. Or spoke. I suppose I learned to think of it as a weakness.”
“Your parents never told you they loved you?” Serena was aghast, eyes wide and dark.
Deeply uncomfortable, Leo stared into the glowing embers of the fire and shrugged. “Please. There’s no need for the Oxfam eyes and trembling lips. I was hardly abused. In fact, I was given every advantage, everything I could possibly ask for.”
“Exactly,” Serena pointed out, pulling one leg up onto the sofa so she could face him directly. “Your parents gave you every
thing
you wanted—but not what you truly needed.”
Leo pulled his well-worn mask of sardonic amusement over his face. “I assure you, what you call ‘love’ is not necessary for survival.”
“Yes, it is.”
The intensity in Serena’s voice forced Leo to meet her laser-focused gaze. Still dazzled from staring into the fire for so long, Leo blinked away the dark stars exploding around Serena’s head. She almost seemed to glow in the dimly lit room, a lantern to light his way.
Leo shook off the fanciful thought. “I don’t even know what that means. How can you say that? How can you even believe in love, after everything that’s happened to you?”
“First of all, because I’ve felt it.”
Leo felt his upper lip curl into a snarl at the thought of Serena having real feelings of love for any of the men who’d used and discarded her, but she shook her head.
“There are lots of different kinds of love,” she reminded him. “I love my parents, and they love me back—almost too much, sometimes! But I’d take my mother’s nosiness into every aspect of my life and my father’s constant offers to pay for
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