Warm Me Softly Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © 2019 D.M. Davis

  Additional Novels by D.M. DAVIS

  Playlist

  Dedication

  New York: Present Day

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Did You Enjoy This Novella?

  Stalk Me!

  Copyright © 2019 D.M. Davis

  Warm Me Softly by D.M. Davis

  ISBN13: 978-0-9997176-8-4

  Published by D.M. Davis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  www.dmckdavis.com

  Cover Design by D.M. Davis

  Cover Photo by Shutterstock

  Editing & Proofreading by Tamara Mataya

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  This story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.

  Until You Series

  Book 1 - Until You Set Me Free

  Book 2 - Until You Are Mine

  Book 3 - Until You Say I Do

  Finding Grace Series

  Book 1 - The Road to Redemption

  Book 2 – The Price of Atonement COMING 2020

  Standalones

  Warm Me Softly

  Iris by Goo Goo Dolls

  White Flag by Bishop Briggs

  Need You Now by Lady Antebellum

  Love Me Anyway by P!nk and ft Chris Stapleton

  I found by Amber Run

  For my readers.

  May you find a love that warms you the whole year through.

  THE BITE OF THE COLD NIGHT air chills my bones. I find it oddly comforting as I walk to my favorite Thai place to pick up dinner. Sunlight has given way to moonlight, but it’s the Christmas lights that brighten my path. I love Christmas, always have, and Christmas time in New York is magical. Though, tonight I’m feeling less of the magic and more of the weight of what this day holds. Thanksgiving was just two days ago, which means Christmas is less than a month away. It also means today is the one-year anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.

  She was my family—my only family—after my grandfather died when I was fourteen. I can’t remember my parents. I was two when they died. I have photos, so it feels like I have memories of them, but they aren’t real. They’re just a convoluted series of snapshots in my head I’ve transformed over the years into memories.

  Memories are funny things. They’re precious, at times fleeting and unreliable, and for me they’re all I have, all that remain of what was.

  Chimes announce my arrival as I open the door. A whiff of warm air and the aroma of my favorite Thai food wash over me like a warm blanket.

  Barb looks up from behind the counter. Her friendly smile grows. “Hi, Mags. You look beautiful.”

  I return her smile. “Hi. You’re not busy tonight.” More of a statement than a question; the dining room is unusually empty.

  “No, sadly not. Must be the weather. Too cold to drag themselves in here so we can warm them up.” She smirks, knowing that’s exactly why I’m here. “You want the usual?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The door dings behind me. Barb glances over my shoulder and then back. “You dining in tonight?” Seeing my hesitation, she persists. “Sit, Mags. Let me warm you up before you head back out into the cold. Your grandmomma wouldn’t want you eating alone.”

  I rarely dine in. I prefer to take it home, but the mention of my grandmother stifles my response. I nod in acquiesce. She calls to Harry, her husband, to get my drink order before moving on to the next customer.

  I meander through the maze of walnut tables, taking in new artwork and richly hued plants that add vibrancy to the space, until I select a cozy-corner seat in the back, away from the door.

  Rubbing my hands together, I try to bring back some feeling. I lost my gloves after opening my grandparents’ antique store this morning. A roaring fire would be heavenly right about now. And someone to snuggle with would make it perfect.

  The clatter of footfall announces Harry’s approach.

  “Hi, Harry.” I look up at the man who is not, in fact, Harry. “Oh! It’s you.” I cringe at the tone of my voice and the scowl of my brow. I may not like this man, but I don't need to be rude. I just can’t seem to help it when it comes to him.

  He chuckles, pausing halfway through sloughing his coat, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, softening his ruggedly chiseled face. “Maggie.”

  His deep voice sends chills down my spine. It always does, and it always irritates me to no end that I can’t stop my body’s traitorous response to him.

  He’s the enemy, I tell my body for the millionth time.

  “Marcus,” I manage with minimum bite.

  Before I can ascertain why he’s here, Harry interrupts, dropping off hot bread and waters. “I’ll be back to take your drink orders in a moment.”

  Wait. Our drink orders?

  I don't miss the satisfied look on his face as he eyes Marcus and me having dinner together. He obviously doesn’t know who Marcus is, or what he’s trying to do to me, to the neighborhood.

  I turn to Marcus, who’s taken the seat across from me, his ski-slope tanned face and smile impossibly sexier than a moment ago.

  I whip my head back to Harry to clarify that we’re not together, but he’s disappeared around the corner.

  “I’d like to join you, if you don’t mind.”

  I open my mouth, poised for a tart rebuttal, but words fail me.

  Marcus holds up his hand. “Maggie, I know I bring out the worst in you.” He unfolds his napkin and lays it in his lap. Calm. He is the calm to my brewing storm. “Perhaps, in the guise of Christmas spirit, you could give me this.” The sincerity in his eyes is hard to resist. “Allow me the gift of your company.”

  Gift? Me? What?

  He waits, his fingers laced together resting on the table, his eyes hopeful.

  I fidget, rubbing my hands, still trying to warm them.

  One brow rises. “Cold?” His hands capture mine before I can respond. He frowns. “They’re like ice.” Bending, he blows warm breath over my fingers. “Where are your gloves?”

  He continues to rub my hands, clasped between his much larger ones. I’m mesmerized by his touch, his warmth, his concern. He disarms me.

  “They… I… lost them.” If they weren’t already red from the cold, the flush I feel creeping up my cheeks would alert him to the effect he’s having on me. As if my stammering is not proof enough.

  He chuckles. Again. At me.

  I pull my hands away, needing the distance, needing to eliminate the distraction. “Why are you being so nice?”

  He folds his empty hands. His pensive look conveys I struck a nerve. “I’m always nice to you, Maggie.”

  “Hmph.” I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He smirks and sits back, his comforting hands disappearing under the table. My fingers twitch, wishing he was still holding them captive. “I think it’s you who has a hard
time being nice to me,” he says.

  He’s right. Despite my nature—how I was raised—I have a hard time being nice to him. I feel vulnerable around him and that’s something I can’t afford to be. “Do you blame me?”

  He leans forward. The heat in his eyes locks me in place as he rips off a chunk of bread, separates it into two, butters its warm center, and hands it to me. I absentmindedly take it as if this is our normal routine, and rub the two halves together to spread the buttery goodness around.

  The bread is a tradition started with my grandparents when I was a little girl. My grandfather always said he wanted warm bread when he ate Barb and Harry’s soup. My grandmother started bringing in a loaf, and Harry would warm it up for us. It’s unusual for a Thai place, but it didn’t take long for other customers to start asking for bread too. It’s now a staple—you only have to ask for it. But me, they know, and Harry brings it hot out of the oven. I never have to ask.

  Closing my eyes, I take a bite and savor the crisp crust and warm, soft center. There’s nothing better than fresh-baked bread. It reminds me of home and being in the kitchen with my grandmomma.

  I open my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze intense with newfound heat. “Good?” His brows arch and amusement curves his lips.

  Ignoring the throb between my legs, I take another bite, not stopping until I’ve finished.

  Harry returns with our drinks, advising our food will be out momentarily. I guess Marcus is joining me for dinner. I didn’t necessarily agree, but it seems too late to turn him away now.

  Marcus butters more bread for himself and then for me. “I never meant to make an enemy of you, or your grandmother.” His voice is gentle, soothing my frayed nerves. “On the contrary, I’ve always hoped we could be more.”

  “More? You’re trying to buy my building, take my grandparents’ antique store from me. That’s my home, my job. It’s… everything. What more could you possibly want, a kidney?” My voice having reached a volume I don’t care for, I ease back, taking a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  Composed, I continue. “Can we not do this today?”

  I’m interrupted by Harry with our meal. He sets down two steaming bowls of Thai noodle soup and another basket of fresh bread.

  “Enjoy.” He bows as he backs away.

  “Thanks, Harry,” we say simultaneously.

  My gaze flies to Marcus. He knows Harry’s name? I pegged Marcus as being too self-important to bother learning his name—or anyone else who serves him. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t know who Marcus is.

  Marcus smiles and points to my soup. “Shrimp bowl?”

  “It’s my favorite.” I note he’s having the same.

  “Me too.” He cocks his head. “See, we have something in common. I bet if you got to know me, you’d see we share more than just a love of Thai shrimp noodle soup.”

  More? Somehow, I doubt that. I have nothing in common with this man. I can’t deny I’m attracted to him, but his rugged good looks, finger-tousled dark hair, and tall, muscular build cannot compensate for the truth of what he wants.

  “Why not today?” Reading my perplexed expression, he clarifies. “I said I’d hoped we could be more, and you said I was taking everything from you, then you asked if we could not do this today.”

  “Oh, yes. That.” I stir my soup and take a tentative sip. It’s good and hot, liquid gold. I fish around, playing with the noodles. “I’d just rather not fight today. That’s all.”

  He leans closer. “I’d rather not fight with you any day. But, why not today in particular?” He’s a determined SOB.

  I study my bowl like it’s the most interesting thing in the room—which would be a lie. The man across from me clearly holds that title. The heat of his gaze burrows into my brain.

  I can’t say it out loud. I can’t bear the pity I might see on his face if I were to look up. I shake my head, taking another sip of soup and then a long drink of water, blinking back my tears.

  “It’s a year today,” he says with reverence.

  Smart man. I guess he is paying attention.

  When I glance up, it isn’t pity I see on his face. His brows are drawn, lips down-turned, and normally sparkling blue eyes, sad. “My mom’s been gone five years. I think every year it will get easier, and every year I’m surprised when it’s not.”

  My eyes slowly close. I called him a son of a bitch. Even though it was just in my head, I feel horrible. I insulted his mom when I meant to insult him. God, who am I? I’m not myself when I’m around him. I shouldn’t be insulting him at all. I lay down my spoon and give him my full attention.

  “I think it might have been easier if I’d been younger, when I didn’t really understand what was happening. Or older, after I already had a family of my own. When she died, I was only twenty-three, and still needed her in my day-to-day life. Now, at twenty-eight, I think of getting married and having kids, and how much of my future, my siblings’ futures, she’s going to miss. I think that’s the hardest part; it’s not what I’ve lost, but what she’s lost. What our future spouses and children have lost in never getting to know the remarkable person she was.”

  I reach out and clasp my hand over his, needing to make amends—needing some sort of contact. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry, Marcus.”

  He smiles down at our joined hands. “See, we have more in common than you think.”

  “MARCUS, BUDDY. TELL ME YOU AREN’T over here pining for that curvy mahogany-haired hottie of a shopkeeper.” Trent slaps me hard on the back, joining us at our designated table by the window in our usual post-work pub.

  He’s been my best friend since middle school. We grew up in the same high rise, went to the same schools, even had the same teachers. His blond hair, pale grey eyes, and smooth tongue make him more than popular with the ladies. My sister, Cynthia, has had a thing for him for years. He doesn’t see her in that way. At least, he’d better not.

  “I’m not pining. I just want to be sure she closes up safely.” My eyes wander back to him as I take a swig of my beer. “The East Village is pretty safe, but it’s still New York.” I turn my attention to the building across the street. Parker House, Maggie’s antique store, sits on the corner. Its detailed wood work, awnings, and festive window decorations make it stand out from the rest of the street level storefronts. She should be closing up any minute. I don't want to miss her. It’s the only glimpse of her I get most days, unless I brave her terse censure by a not-so-chance face-to-face meeting. It’s not stalking—maybe it is pinning. I’ll take any scrap of her attention I can get, especially after our dinner a few nights ago. Even if it’s only the sight of her closing up shop.

  Fuck. I sound like a desperate sap. For her, it seems I am.

  “It’s been ages. Just ask her out already, man,” Gabe chimes in.

  Trent and I met Gabe in college. He fit right into our tight-knit group. Smart as a whip and all-around nice guy. He’s the dark knight of the group with his dark hair, dark eyes, and olive complexion. He’s engaged to “the one” with plans to marry her next summer.

  Trent still lives in the building we grew up in, uptown. Gabe and I live around the corner, different apartments, same building, close to Maggie. They’re good guys, loyal and trustworthy. We’ll still be drinking beers together when we’re in our nineties, but hopefully with our wives beside us, at least some of the time.

  “He had dinner with her the other night.”

  I glare at Jacob, my loose-lipped, older brother, for sharing that fact.

  He just shrugs. “What?”

  “I told you that in confidence.”

  “You dog.” Gabe slaps me on the back in the same spot as Trent did a minute ago. I try not to wince. “Did you kiss and make up? Does she like you now?”

  I shrug. “She likes me just fine. She’s just not happy that I’m trying to buy her building.” I don't dare tell them that we connected over dinner. She even let me walk her home. Granted, it was just a few blocks from the
restaurant, but still, it’s progress.

  I’ve been trying to acquire her building for the last three years. It’s not my only project, but it’s the only one I haven’t made much progress on, at least not when it comes to her or her grandparents’ holdings. Her building is prime real estate, on a corner with fifty residential units and seven shops on the ground level. Unfortunately, it’s not just one owner. I’ve bought all the shops out except for hers, and twenty of the residential units. The deals are done and the tenants are currently renting from me, until I secure the entire building and they relocate when construction starts.

  “Does she realize the amount of money she stands to make selling to you?” Trent asks.

  I look at him and shake my head. “Of course she knows. I’ve been negotiating this deal for three years now. She has in writing what Sutton Development is willing to pay.”

  Sutton Development is my dad’s baby. Both Jacob and I work for him, heading up our own projects.

  “And she’s not interested?” Trent asks in disbelief. “She’ll be a millionaire several times over.”

  It’s true, she would be. Maggie’s grandfather had the foresight to buy up half of the building. He made a large initial investment buying the street-level corner store and ten residential units. He then purchased fifteen more units over the years as they came up for sale. He was a smart man. And all of it now belongs to Maggie.

  I gaze out the window. The shop lights are still on. I haven't missed her. “She’s not interested in the money. She likes where she is. She loves her home, and her grandparents’ shop.”

  “You almost sound like you admire her,” Jacob states.

  “I do. She’s passionate about that antique store. Lights up when she talks about it. She wants to honor her grandparents by keeping it going.” Except for the other night when I witnessed the weight of the loss of her grandmother. I hated to see her so alone in grief. I’m thankful she let me keep her company, even if only for a little while.