A beautiful heartfelt, sensual erotic romance story—New Zealander, Daisy struggles with the death of her husband, her days become blurs of unreality. There doesn’t seem to be any light at the end and if there is one—it’s probably a train.
Life has become slightly surreal. Nobody told her death would be like this. That she’d feel so exhausted some days, even brushing her teeth would seem like the ascent on Everest without oxygen.
Her one bright spot is picking up a lotto ticket at the local store where the gorgeous Greek owner NICKY CONSTANTINE works. His dancing Aegean-blue eyes and jet black wavy hair are as attractive as his long fingers. She notices them every time. He’s flirty and fun—he’s probably nice to everyone. Good Greek Boy, she thinks in her sarkier moments.
But one day, Nicky touches her hand and she’s transported into another time and era—she sees a flash of a heavy sheepskin flight jacket and peaked service cap. In her confusion, she leaves her cash card at the store.
Unbeknown to Daisy, Nicky’s only flirty with her. He’s been watching her for months, concerned for this lovely, fragile woman.
Finding her card, he takes up her challenge that men aren’t romantic anymore. He arrives at her door with an invitation to drive down to the river.
He’s packed champagne and candles…
Christmas is right around the corner...has Saint Nicholas come early this year?
I’m sitting here staring at the computer screen. Hoping the Muses might arrive back from their six month snorkeling trip to the Bahamas. Surely to God, their visa’s are up by now. I rely on the “Muses.” They’re my writing team.
Usually they turn up out of the blue, noisy and fervent. They slam into my brain, toss their tennis rackets in the corner, saying, “Gosh, that was jolly hot work, let me get a drink, then I’ll sit down and tell you a story.”
I generally just type like a mad woman as they talk. Then abruptly they stop. I’ll look up from my keyboard and hours have literally gone past.
But not today…
And not for a while…
On a whim, I’d bought a wee apple cider drink to heat in the microwave. The smell of cinnamon is overpowering. I usually like the American Christmas smells, but it’s all getting to me this year. It’s not surprising, but I wish I was through this bit already. I’m sick of feeling like shit. Either sleeping too much, or not at all.
All part of the grieving process. I know.
It just seems like a long, long evolution. I no longer measure my life in weeks or months, but days, or a week. It all blends into one long blur. I need a new life. Just scrap this one and start again. Sometimes you’ve burnt so much crap on the bottom of the roasting pan, the only choice is to toss the bloody thing out and get a new one. I wonder what store sells new lives? I could ask Santa for one. Oh to still be a kid where we wished for things, and Santa magically delivered!
I’m ready to resign as an adult. Hand someone my car keys, check book and drive off with my handbag on the seat and cat carrier in the back. Oh…suppose I’ll need the car keys and cash card. As a kid, you didn’t think things like this. That was the magic of it. You just did things.
“Okay, Santa,” I say out loud. “I need a ton of money, a gorgeous lover who adores me and has waited his whole life to meet me. That’s what I’ll have for Christmas, thanks.”
A loud knock at the door startles me out of my reverie. I hope the windows are closed, talking to myself has become a bit of a “thing” lately.
Rat-a-tat-tat again. Damn. Earth to Daisy! More like Daze-y. I laugh. Now, I’m laughing at my own attempts at humor. I should consider just signing myself in somewhere for a psych evaluation and be done with it.
I open the front door. Oh, bloody hell. I bet I look like shit on a stick.
“Hey.” Adonis is all smiles.
“Aloha,” I say automatically.
“You always say that, how come?”
“I used to live in Hawaii, it’s my American home state.”
“Ah, okay, very cool. I like that,” he says decisively, like it fills a gap in his knowledge base.
Crikey. I wonder what he’s doing here. Damn, wrong time to think. Now I’ve gone completely blank.
“Um…I…I bring your card back.” Perhaps the planets are out of alignment, he’s also drawing some blanks.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “My card?”
“Oh yeah, sorry.” He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open, sliding out my ATM cash card.
“Thanks Adonis,” I say automatically. Bugger…I’ve just called him Adonis.
“Is that what you call me?” He grins.
“Sorry! I know your name.” God, how embarrassing is this?
He’s rocking back and forth on my doorstep, a huge grin from ear to ear. There’s a bloody Christmas reindeer dangling from his ear now. He must rotate the damn things round.
“Good reindeer,” I say. Once again, proving I can speak, just not very well.
“One of the kids give it to me.” He fingers it.
What a sweetie. And married… Oh joy.
“I love your earrings, they’re fun.”
“It’s good to have fun,” he says.
I nod, agreeing with the sentiment, if not the execution right now.
He gives me my card, touching my hand, and an electric current sizzles up my arm. He expels air, like he’s also felt the same thing.
Our eyes lock.
He inhales slowly, a slight hesitation. “Will you ask me to come in?”
“Yes,” I say softly. My brain grapples for something that makes sense. I’ve just had the sensation of slipping through a portal again.
“That’s a really silly earring,” I say.
“My nieces are funny little girls,” he says, very seriously. Then a hint of mischief creeps into his now dark eyes.
“Ah, so you do know my name.” He grins.
Oh God, I called him Adonis in what feels like hours ago, but probably only five minutes has passed. Time’s disappeared on me.
“I have this really hideous apple cider someone’s gone berserk on the cinnamon with, do you want some?” I ask.
“Oh well…no, well…that’s fine,” I say, flapping my hand, feeling like an idiot. Of course, he doesn’t want some crappy microwave cider you ning nong.
“I have a better idea,” he says slowly. “You say no one romantic any more…”
“Well, yes, I suppose. Just the way I’m feeling probably.” I shrug apologetically.
He leans forward to take one of my hands. Time slips away. We both gasp. I spring back, shaking my head, trying to clear it. God, how weird. Again, I have a flash of something. A blue uniform, peaked cap and pencil thin moustache. I nearly blurt out, “I’d love to have this dance with you.”
Note to self: Stop listening to Glenn Miller music.
He’s also flustered. Perhaps me leaping back like he’d slapped me didn’t help.
“Would you like to come for a drive with me? By the river… Pretty, um…relaxing…” He spreads his hands. I get the feeling he’s equally at a loss for words.