Lost to You (Take This Regret 0.5)(29)
Author: A.L. Jackson

My pulse spiked when Christian slid his hand slowly across the seat, the movement calculated. His chin tipped to the side and he flipped his hand so his palm was up. This time, he didn’t just take my hand or guide me into what he wanted. He waited. It was an invitation, one subject to a decision from me.

My eyes flicked from his hand to his face. I wavered, a gush of air suffusing into the cab as I deliberated. I wanted to ask him, what does this mean? I wanted reassurance, for him to ease the ache that had bound itself to the beat of my heart, for him to say he wanted me in the same way I wanted him, and that I wasn’t making the biggest mistake of my young life.

Instead, I wove my fingers through his.

As if he found as much relief in the contact as I did, a sigh fluttered from Christian’s mouth, and he squeezed my hand.

The cab came to a stop, bringing an end to whatever Christian and I had just shared.

Even if that was it, if we shared nothing more, I’d cherish it, because I would swear, for a few seconds, Christian knew he felt more, even if he didn’t know how to admit it.

Venting a sound of frustration, Christian wrenched a hand through his hair when the valet opened my door. He seemed as opposed to leaving the safety of the cab as I was.

“Looks like we’re here,” he said, stating the obvious as he pulled his hand from mine.

Inclining his head for me to go on, I accepted the help of the doorman and stood from the cab. For a moment, I was alone, fidgeting as a new dread came to settle in the pit of my stomach.

My nerves rocketed as I absorbed my surroundings. Christian was right. The last people I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with were his parents, and the last place I wanted to spend it was somewhere like this. No question the building was beautiful, but pretention poured from its walls, an excessive display of glass and marble and brass.

What the hell was I doing here? I normally wasn’t one of those girls who felt ill at ease in their own skin. I liked who I was. But here, I had no place.

Christian sidled up to me. Like it belonged there, his hand went straight to the small of my back. “Let’s get you out of the cold,” he encouraged, turning us up the runner.

The attendant opened the door and stood aside with a clipped nod of his head.

I lifted my gaze to Christian to find a slight grimace when he turned his chin down to me, an apology, as if he knew how nervous this all made me. I didn’t even know what we were anymore, and now I had to face his parents with all those dizzying questions mucking up my mind.

We checked our coats, and Christian led us to the podium where the maître de stood. “Reservation for Richard Davison.”

The man scanned his book. “The rest of your party has already arrived. Right this way.”

Subdued conversations created a dull hum in the overly elegant space. Waiters in tuxes balanced silver trays, flitting silently around the room. Light clatters of silverware seemed the most distinct sound.

I tensed amidst it all. No. Definitely not a place I wanted to spend Thanksgiving. It wasn’t as if I’d never been to a nice restaurant before, but this place was over the top.

Christian leaned in close to my shoulder and mumbled, “I told you this would be miserable.”

I faked a smile. “It’s fine. It’ll be great.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

His hand dropped from my back and found my hand, weaving our fingers together. Part of me wanted to jerk away, to stop the flow of confusion I felt from the overt gesture, to hide whatever this was from his parents, to cut off the longing it ignited within me, but I couldn’t let go.

Christian’s hand constricted on mine when the maître de stopped in front of his parents’ table.

The man dipped his head. “Your party.”

Christian said, “Thank you,” but I found I could give no response as I fixated on the couple in front of me.

Oh God. What had Christian dragged me into?

Two of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen sat looking up at us. My gaze waffled between the two of them, shocked by the striking resemblance Christian bore to his mother and stricken by the coldness in his father. Something about his hard stare made it difficult to look away, although the man’s contemplation easily jumped between Christian and me. There was little semblance between father and son other than the thatch of black hair perfectly tailored on Mr. Davison’s head.

His mother was waif thin and wore a silk two-piece skirt suit. Jewels dripped from every exposed surface of her body. I could only guess the long hair she had in a stylish coif had been dyed blonde, and she wore her chin permanently lifted in an elevated air of self-righteousness.

Unease had me shifting my feet as I shrank back from the severity of their presence.

“Mom, Dad, this is my friend, Elizabeth Ayers. Elizabeth, this is my father, Richard Davison, and my mother, Claire Davison.” Christian released the death grip he had on me and gestured in my direction, although thankfully, he chose not to move far from my side.

Richard Davison slowly rose from his seat and extended a brusque hand across the table. “So nice to meet you, Elizabeth.”

Wrapping his hand around mine, Christian’s father shook my hand. It was firm, hard, unwelcoming. There was nothing nice about it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Davison,” I forced around the lump in my throat.

When I turned and accepted Christian’s mother’s hand, it was cool to the touch, clammy. “Very nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” It was all form and pomp, insincere.

I struggled to keep my hand from trembling in hers and searched for confidence, reminding myself I was doing this for Christian. “Very nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Davison. Thank you for having me.”

In return, she offered a tight nod of her head and folded herself back under the table.

Christian pulled the chair out for me and helped me settle. Almost inconspicuously, he brushed his fingers under my elbow, a silent buoy to my spirit. I would suffer through this for him.

“Thank you,” I murmured under my breath as I adjusted in my seat. We were handed our menus, and I crossed my feet at my ankles as I sat up straight in the chair. Rigid. Impressing people had never been something I was interested in, but something about these two told me I would fare better pretending to fit into a place where I so obviously did not.

This was going to be a long night.

I glanced above my menu to find Christian’s father watching me with the concentration of a hawk about to swoop in on its prey.