Magnus Read online

  “Call?” I ask since I’m unsure why he wants me to call him when we’re in the same house.

  “Yes. I’ll to be in the gym for a little while and then I’ll be in my bedroom. It’s easy to get lost in this house so if you need something, call me.”

  “Will do. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Magnus

  I make sure breakfast is waiting for us in the morning. I’d canceled my plans to go to the office today, choosing to spend the day with her instead. I knew she wouldn’t have a problem volunteering with me. It’s right up her alley. She’s a person who likes to give from the heart. To give of her time – the most valuable asset we all have.

  I’ve been sipping coffee, watching her eat and still trying to understand her – more specifically trying to figure out why she’s so much like Nicoletta. She behaves like her. Smiles like her. Beautiful like her but doesn’t look like her. Their spirits are similar.

  I like having Shiloh around. I should probably tell her, but I’m hoping she picks up on without me having to do so. Being vulnerable with a woman has never been my thing. Nicoletta wasn’t apprised to that side of me either.

  “You’re ready to go, aren’t you?” she asks, “And I’m eating all slow, holding you up.”

  “You’re fine,” I tell her. I sip coffee, but my eyes drink and swallow her. Today, she looks cheery, but I still see signs of what crying did to her last night. Makeup has hidden the frustration beneath her eyes but her eyelids are puffy. It doesn’t take away from her beauty.

  She’s wearing some of her new clothes. The yellow sweater makes her smooth, chocolate skin glow. Her hair is up – a good thing since we’re going to volunteer, but I want to see it down. I want to see her relaxed, loose and carefree around me.

  She stuffs the last piece of sausage in her mouth then mumbles, “I’m ready.”

  “Take your time, Shiloh.”

  “I’m ready,” she says. “Let’s go serve our community.”

  * * *

  We’re at a school in one of Charlotte’s poorest neighborhoods. Most, if not all, of the children who attend this particular elementary school qualify for free school lunch. The monthly food drive seems to help them out. It’s enough food to last for a few weeks.

  Shiloh is in line beside me handing out cans of beans while I’m putting peanut butter and jelly in people’s bags. It makes me think of her father and the story she shared with me yesterday about his battle with the toaster.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, turning to look at her. It’s cold. Forty-something. She has on a hat and gloves but I know her face is probably cold, especially the tip of her nose.

  She sniffles. “I’m fine.”

  “You can take a break if you need to warm up.”

  “No, I’m good. Seeing the smiles on these people’s faces is keeping me warm. What about you? Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” I say.

  “How long have you been doing this, Magnus?”

  “It’s been years.”

  “You enjoy giving back?”

  “I do. Before, I thought it was a waste of time, you know. Something I delegated to other people. But then when I realized how important it was to Nicoletta, I decided to give it a try.”

  “And you fell in love with it.”

  “Yes. Something like that.”

  “Cool.” She drops more beans in bags. “I think this is very kind of you to do. Honestly, you could easily have someone here in your place, but you’re here. The Magnus St. Claire.”

  “Why do you say my name that way as if you’ve been following me your whole life? You didn’t know who I was when I first started coming to the bistro.”

  “Yes, I did. Well, sort of. Every time you came in, Rico reminded us.”

  I chuckle. “Did he?”

  “Yes. He always gave us a pep talk on how to handle you.”

  “It didn’t work for you, huh?”

  She nudges me. “It did. I just don’t like to look up to people because they have wealth. I admire people who are wealthy in other ways. Who have good hearts. Who’d spend the better part of their day handing out food to the less fortunate.”

  She looks at me. Smiles.

  I smile back.

  * * *

  At home, she runs upstairs while I’m in the kitchen. She returns with a bag in her hand. I instantly pause mid-sip looking at the bright smile on her face.

  “I got something for you.”

  “What’d you say?” I ask, trying not to frown. I don’t know what she bought, but I don’t need it. Don’t want it.

  “I said I bought something for you. I was hesitant to give it to you at first, but…”

  “I don’t need anything, Shiloh.”

  She’s smiling when she says, “I knew you would say that, so I bought something simple you would like.”

  “I said I don’t need anything,” I say in a more stern tone so she’ll know I’m not playing around with her.

  She finally gets it.

  The color drains from her face. She doesn’t understand how a person can turn down a gift, but I honestly don’t want it.

  “Can you at least look at it first before you turn it down?” she asks, handing the bag to me.

  I take it from her and toss it in the garbage. Her mouth falls open.

  She frowns. “Did you just—did you—are you serious right now?”

  “I am. How many times did I tell you I didn’t want it?”

  “Unbelievable,” she says. “Just when I was starting to think you were somewhat of a decent human being, you find a way to remind me how much of a jerk you are.”

  “Watch your tone in my house, girl,” I say to her and that’s being nice for me.

  “Was that even real today? Giving back to the community and all that talk about falling in love with the cause—with helping people?”

  “Yeah, it was real. Okay, don’t get it twisted. Spending time volunteering has nothing to do with me not wanting your gift. I don’t want it.”

  “So you throw it in the trash? Right in my face?”

  “Would you prefer if I’d done it behind your back?”

  She shakes her head, balls her hands into fists and grunts before walking out of the room. I don’t know where she goes after that. I don’t chase her. I don’t seek her to explain my position. Why should I have to? Would she even understand? For her to understand would mean I’d have to talk about Nicoletta and I don’t want to do that. But now she has me thinking of the time when Nicoletta gave me a gift:

  “I got you something,” Nicoletta says. She’s smiling big and bright. Pink, lips and all. She’s holding a box, wrapped in gold paper, secured with a gold bow. She knows I don’t like gifts – never have since I saw a gift make my foster mother weep.

  I remember she was sitting in a rocker soothing one of the other kids – a three-year-old girl she’d only kept for a few weeks – when a knock came at the door. It was her sister. Said she made her something. Handed it to her.

  She opened the bag and tears dropped from her eyes like the beginning of a heavy rainstorm. I didn’t ask questions. I just observed.

  “Mama,” she cried.

  Apparently, she’d lost a picture of her mother and her sister found one and had it professionally framed. Thanks to her thoughtful sister, she now had another one. A replacement.

  It was at that point I associated gift-giving with sadness.

  But my Nic…

  She had a smile on her face when she stood before me with the small box. I couldn’t turn her down. Could never say no to her. So, I took it, opened it and saw a watch. A Rolex. Nothing special. Just a Rolly. I’d already owned at least fifteen of them so what was one more?

  “You like it?” she asks. Her cheeks had turned a shade of peach to compliment her caramel skin tone.

  “Yes. It’s nice, Nic.”

  “Turn it over,” she instructs.

  I look at the
backside of the watch and engraved in silver is: For My Hero. Love You. Nic.

  Those few words made the watch much more valuable than it’s monetary worth. Of my collection, it’s the only one I still wear – the only one with meaning. Maybe Shiloh’s gift has meaning, too. I’m not sure if I want to find out.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Shiloh

  Magnus continues his two-day streak of ignoring me. I never knew giving someone a gift could send them over the edge of darkness. It’s Saturday, so I know he’s going for a run. As soon as he leaves, I leave to take care of some tasks at my father’s house. My house. Number one on the list is cleaning out his closet. I don’t want to do it, but it must get done.

  And so it begins…

  Every time I step through these doors, I feel like I have to keep reliving his death. I don’t have time to cry. I have to work. I make an effort to be strong.

  I put earbuds in my ear, using the upbeat music as a mood-booster to help me get through this. I open the door to my father’s bedroom, walk to his closet and start removing his clothes, folding them in neat piles on the bed. I categorize everything. Pants with pants. Shirts with shirts. Shirts that smell like him. There’s a pile of socks. Neckties my father hardly ever wore. Shoes that are worn out. Shoes that are new. Shoes I’ve never seen.

  I empty his entire closet, then bag everything up – eight black trash bags of my father’s belongings. Some bags I’ll donate. The other bags of things not good enough to be donated will get tossed out.

  I walk back to the closet to make sure I didn’t forget anything when I see a brown box on the top shelf. I rise up on my tiptoes to get it and still have to strain to reach it. I grab the edge and take the box to the bed, remove the lid and see old pictures of my parents. There’s a wedding photo, a picture of them with Selah, then a family portrait after I was born. There’s a picture of me, Selah and Shelby – a photo I’ve never seen. There’s one of papa holding me. Mama holding Selah. I find mama’s obituary beneath the photos. The paper is old. Wrinkled. The words are faded but still readable.

  Sybil Winston leaves behind her husband, Albert Winston and three daughters, Shelby, Shiloh and Selah.

  The life literally drains out of me when I feel arms wrap around me from behind. I’m fighting, kicking and squirming, trying to free myself from danger. Nobody was supposed to be in papa’s house and I’m certain I locked the front door. That means somebody broke in. I’m being attacked. Oh my God! I’m being attacked.

  “Let me go!” I scream, snatching the earplugs from my ear so I can hear what’s going on. “Let me go!”

  “Calm down, girl. It’s me.”

  It’s Magnus’ voice. That angers me even more. “Get your hands off of me, Magnus! What are you doing here?” I ask yanking my arms away, freeing myself of him. I fix my clothes and attempt to get my bearings but I’m still rattled.

  He’s frowning. Looks fire-hot with madness. “I’m here looking for you. Where’s your phone?”

  “Why are you looking for me?”

  “Where’s your phone!”

  “I don’t know. Why are you looking for me?” I ask, my heart still pounding.

  “Because I called you five times, and I didn’t get an answer.”

  “I told you where I’d be. I sent you a text.”

  “I saw it.”

  “Then why are you here looking at me all crazy-eyed like I stole something from you?”

  “I told you—I tried to call and I didn’t get an answer,” he says pacing the floor. He rubs a hand across the small curls on his head. “My God, girl.”

  He’s still pacing – looks like he’s about to go on a rampage.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “I knew you were here alone, and it bothered me when I couldn’t get you on the phone.”

  “So your solution is to bust the door down like S.W.A.T., run in here and accost me?”

  “I was worried—worried that something had happened to you and the whole time I’m panicking, you’re in here listening to music.”

  “I was doing more than listening to music,” I say, walking up to him, standing my ground, defending my actions or lack thereof according to him. “Look at all the clothes I packed. Look at the closet, Magnus. It’s empty. Look at—”

  “I see the closet,” he says.

  “Okay, then. You can leave now. Goodbye.”

  “You don’t dismiss me. I leave when I’m ready to leave.”

  “Yeah, because Magnus St. Claire does what Magnus St. Claire wants, right? Doesn’t matter how anyone else feels. I don’t understand how you could take a gift from me,” I pause since my voice is shaky. I’m already feeling a certain kind of way after being in this house, going through my papa’s things, looking at old pictures, reading mama’s obituary. Now, I have to deal with all the nonsense Magnus brings. “I don’t understand how you take my gift, throw it in the garbage and then come running over here like you care about me. You don’t care about me or my feelings. It’s all a façade, and I don’t even know why you feel a need to keep up all the fakery. You don’t have to—”

  Before I can say another word, he grabs me again, but not from behind this time. We’re face-to-face when he pulls me close – so close our bodies slam together. His action literally took the words right out of my mouth.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Don’t know how to react.

  Don’t know what he’s doing.

  He has a grip on me so tight, I can’t move. I feel my body shiver in his possession. I look into his eyes in search of a hint concerning his current feelings – hard to do with a man like him. I see nothing I can go on. I just smell his scent. Feel his warmth. So I stand there, completely at his mercy, waiting for him to let me go.

  The silence between us is unnerving. The way he’s holding me is equally unsettling until I see him bite down on his bottom lip. He looks deep into my eyes and says, “Now that I have your attention—”

  He lowers his mouth to mine, his arms still holding me captive like I’m his. His lips seize mine like it’s something he’s been wanting to do for a while.

  I whimper.

  I’m too much in a state of surprise to get the full effect of what’s happening. This, he said, would never happen. Said he didn’t kiss, but he’s kissing me – kissing me good.

  I whimper more, realizing some reactions can’t be helped no matter how much I want to conceal them. I close my eyes. My lips are trembling.

  He thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. My eyes immediately open to see the look on his face as he’s lapping it all around, getting acquainted with my tongue.

  I close my eyes again and get into the feeling of being kissed by him, absorbing every second of this phenomenon before it ends.

  I feel my toes tingle. Oxygen leaves my brain. Gravity ceases to exist. I don’t know how I’m holding myself up. This kiss is intentional. Has meanings unknown to me. His tongue is strong as it savors mine. He’s skilled at this kissing stuff. My lips have never been sucked and pulled with such force that it causes parts of my body to ache for him.

  And he smells good, so freakin’ good. The scent of man that lingers on his skin and the luxurious cologne he wears permeates my nostrils and does something to alter my brain.

  His arms are strong and protective around me. So possessive.

  This kiss is everything – everything fantasies are made of.

  He’s everything.

  He slowly pulls his tongue out of my mouth and loosens his grip on me after he’s had enough. He stares at me. Doesn’t say anything. Just stares.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and use the few brain cells that are still working to convince myself to breathe.

  And he stares…

  Stares at me in a way that tells me he can’t believe what he’s done. Like he’s crossed the line with me and realize it’s one that can’t be uncrossed.

  “Why’d you—?” I breathe. “Why’d you kiss me?” I manage
to get out.

  “Where are you taking the bags?” he asks, giving me a question after he ignored mine.

  “Um—to—to the, uh—thrift store. The, um…Goodwill.”

  “I’ll take them for you,” he offers.

  “No. They’re my father’s things. I want to do it. Some of them—uh—I’m throwing away. Those two bags right there are trash.”

  “Then I’ll take the ones you’re throwing out. Once you leave Goodwill, I want you to come straight home. You understand?”

  I want you to come straight home…

  I’m pondering his words, searching for meaning behind them. He said to come straight home like his home is my home. Is that what he thinks? And why does he want me straight home like I can’t make any other stops without his permission?

  “Shiloh?”

  When I look at him, he asks, “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. I heard you.”

  “Straight home,” he reiterates, then turns and heads out with two bags, not saying anything further.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Magnus

  When I showed up at Shiloh’s father’s house, I had no plans to kiss her. I was legitimately worried when I couldn’t get her on the phone. My first thought was, she was over there alone, having a breakdown, falling into depression as she moved about the house. But she was okay. Listening to music. Packing his clothes and other belongings. Reminiscing. Looking at old pictures of them.

  I was worried when I couldn’t reach her. She’s become my happiness of late. She doesn’t know that. She doesn’t need to know it. All she needs to do is be there – at my house so I can feel her energy.

  And she wasn’t there.

  I’d come back from my run and waited. Then I called, and nothing.

  I drove to her father’s house and banged on the door after seeing the Porsche parked in the driveway.