Page 115 of Go Back to December

“I gave Annabel a hypothetical forfeit. It was more hope than a plan. We needed a quiet place to talk.”

I scoff.

His eyes narrow. “You doubt my sincerity.”

“Prove it.” I gesture to the bed. “We’ll lie here, watch the fireworks, and just talk.”

“Any concessions in that offer?”

“Such as?”

“We get to hold hands.”

I’m unprepared for the softness in his tone, and the sweetness of the ask. If we’re going to talk about whatever it is he wants to get off his chest, I think I’ll need to hold his hand to get through it.

As the first fireworks burst across the dome, I nod my agreement.

Baz pours us each a draft of cider. The pungent scent floods the room, and he lifts his glass. “Take a cup of kindness?”

“To auld lang syne.” I clink mine to his.

Bursts of color feather across the dark sky above us, and we each take a draw of cider. There’s more whiskey than juice, but it’s warm and zingy and runs down my throat like sweet, sweet fire.

We both smile at the show high above us. I ask Baz if he knows any of the names of the different formations. When he admits he doesn’t, we make them up as they appear and dissolve.

He rests on the pillows, gaze parked above. He keeps one hand on the cider glass. The other he extends, palm open on the bed.

My limbs are loose with liquid courage. I lie back on the other set of pillows and place my hand in his. His warm fingers curl around mine, and three successive bursts of fiery flowers unfold in the night.

We watch more of the show in contented silence until Baz murmurs, “I have another proposal.”

My stomach dips, roller-coaster style. “I’m listening.”

His stare remains fixed on the sky. “I’ll tell you why I didn’t want you at PT. If you answer two questions for me.”

“Do I get to ask you two questions?”

“Only seems fair.”

It’s not fair. Because he’s also promised me the answer to the PT mystery, I’ll be up on information. “You’ll answer whatever I ask?”

“If I can.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“Contractual obligations.”

With a shiver, I banish thoughts of the merger data room. “Okay.”

“When was the last time you did this?” he asks the show overhead.

“Drank whiskey by the fire in a glass igloo while watching the most beautiful fireworks show in the northern hemisphere?”

“Spent the night with someone. In bed.”

“Someone other than you?”

When I sneak a glance, he’s smiling at the sky. “Someone other than me.”