Heart Knot Mine Read online

  By LILY VELDEN

  NOVELS

  Heart Knot Mine

  HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN

  Same Page

  The Race Is On

  NOVELLAS

  Gay as Mardi Gras

  Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  5032 Capital Circle SW

  Suite 2, PMB# 279

  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

  USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Heart Knot Mine

  © 2014 Lily Velden.

  Cover Art

  © 2014 Lily Velden in collaboration with Design Bug.

  http://lilyvelden.wordpress.com/ and http://www.designbug.com.au/

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

  ISBN: 978-1-62798-687-8

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-688-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  May 2014

  As always, I need to thank my children, Luke, Josh, and Emma. I am truly blessed with my children.

  I’d also like to thank my Mum and Dad—the fact that you might find my choice of subject matter a little odd, and yet you encourage me anyway, means a lot to me.

  My friends—you know who you are (at least, I hope you do! If not, I’m not stalking you enough!). My life wouldn’t be as wonderful without you.

  And last, but by no means least, John—thank you for reminding me so eloquently about the power of the written word. I am truly grateful.

  1

  SITTING WITH my ass parked on my favorite barstool, at my favorite bar—the Redhead Piano Bar on Ontario—I nursed my bourbon and silently asked myself the usual questions. Well, actually, it was really only the one question phrased a hundred different ways. That’s what happened when you went the route of academia—you learned how to complicate the shit out of things and use fancy-schmancy words. If you thought about it, it was a bit ridiculous to be using three-plus-syllable words to ask a question, when most of us were usually seeking a simple one- or two-syllable word answer. Yes. No. And, if we’d really lucked out: maybe.

  I snorted into my drink, remembering the words of my most admired college professor, Ross Whedon: Noah Daniels, how many times have I told you? An academic will always take a whole paragraph for what could have been said in one sentence. Christ, even my thoughts were long-winded.

  What was my question again?

  Oh, yeah.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I mean, really, what the hell was wrong with me? She was gorgeous. Tall and willowy, with long, flowing mahogany hair that still managed to look sleek and glossy under the dim lights of the bar. Big brown eyes, clear skin, an impressive rack, and when she walked away from me, I saw she had a great peach-shaped ass.

  That’s right, she walked away. Why?

  Because I gave her the brush-off. That’s why.

  Hence my question. What the hell is wrong with me?

  She wasn’t irritating. Her voice didn’t grate. Quite the contrary. She was charming and friendly. In fact, I’d go so far as to say she was interesting and articulate—she was in PR. Surely that meant she could string together a sentence?—and yet, I’d passed on her not so subtle come-on. I looked at her again, knowing I could have her if I wanted her, but try as I might, I couldn’t muster even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for the idea.

  And that was the problem.

  Me and enthusiasm didn’t seem to be on speaking terms anymore. All the color had seeped out of my life. I was living a monochromatic, black-and-white photograph of a life where everything was a shade of tedious.

  I wasn’t sure how it happened, or even when it happened.

  It just had.

  It crept up on me, like a slow-spreading parasitic vine, gradually sapping the vibrancy from my life. One day I woke up and everything was gray, dull, and lifeless.

  And it had been that way for a while.

  Lifting the glass, I paused, letting the bourbon wet my lips before throwing my head back and tossing down the last of my drink. Closing my eyes, I hissed, relishing the searing burn to my throat—a small reminder I was actually alive—a living, breathing, sentient being and not merely a walking, talking robot.

  If only there was a whiskey burn for my emotions, I’d be set.

  Glancing down at the aged cherrywood bar, I vaguely wondered what they used to achieve such a high polish. It was almost mirrorlike in its sheen. I could clearly see my face reflected upon its surface.

  And instantly wished I hadn’t.

  After grimacing at the shell staring back at me, I decided scrutinizing myself wasn’t such a good idea. Taking my own advice, I looked up, meeting Seth the bartender’s gaze. He raised his eyebrow at me in query, and I gave him a brief nod, watching as he poured me another finger of Booker’s.

  As he slid it across to me, not a word was spoken. I nodded, he nodded, and we both went back to doing our own separate things—me to thinking, him to serving the other patrons. The opening notes of a melody from the piano situated at the opposite end of the dimly lit room, and the dulcet tones of Stella McClaren floated above the chatter of the Thursday-night crowd. They went quiet as she continued. I wasn’t surprised. She was good.

  The start of the music was my alarm clock, telling me it must be eight o’clock. Time to head home to the never-ending pile of papers waiting to be graded.

  Sighing at the thought of what awaited me, I took another sip of the amber fire in my glass and swirled it around my mouth before letting it seep, drop by drop, down the back of my throat. Once again, I said my silent thanks to the bourbon for serving a dual purpose: anesthetizing me while at the same time reminding me, with its burn, I was still alive and breathing. Quite an achievement.

  Another sip, more swirling and the drip, drip, drip down my throat; then I motioned to Seth to tally up my tab.

  The crowd was swelling—the live acts here were good—but I just wasn’t in the mood to be entertained. It was a sad state of affairs, I decided, that I preferred to be home alone reading essays than here being chatted up by a beautiful woman who probably wanted me to warm her bed as well, if her body language was to be believed.

  I looked at her one last time as she mingled with her friends, long-legged and sexy in her tight black jeans and figure-hugging top, and mentally apologized to her. Though why I felt the need to apologize was beyond me. If she was anything like my previous bedmates, she’d have enjoyed being impaled on my cock had I chosen to share it with her.

  They all enjoyed it because I could fuck them for hours. No problem with premature ejaculation here
. No sirree. They thought it was because I had incredible control, like I was some sort of master cocksman or something, but the truth was a lot more humbling.

  None of them excited me enough to get me off, and more and more, it all felt like too much hard work to even try.

  It was one of life’s sweet ironies that the less interest I showed in them, the more they showed in me. Life could be cruel.

  Once upon a time, I searched energetically for the Elizabeth to my Darcy, the Juliet to my Romeo, the Jane to my Rochester, but with each successive disappointment, my enthusiasm for the task waned. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, I couldn’t even be bothered to get naked with them. Why make the effort when the act itself only left me feeling more empty and hollow than I had before performing it? When the supposed euphoric afterglow I was meant to experience left me feeling aching and raw… as if it were taking something away from me rather than filling me. Having sex, I decided, was like trying to fill a bottomless cup—both physically and emotionally. Really, what was all the fuss about? Why were men so obsessed with it?

  I tossed the last of my liquid fire down my throat, pursing my lips at the heat that went all the way down to my belly, then pushed my empty glass away. After sliding off the barstool, I turned toward the cloakroom by the entrance, and with a final nod at my favorite bartender, bid him farewell. “’Night, Seth.”

  “’Night, Noah.”

  I SLID the key into the lock and turned my wrist, nodding at the smooth action of the tumblers clicking over to unlock the door to my quaint little house. And quaint it was—there was no other word for it. My safe haven from the world looked like a small Tudor-style English church, a tiny piece of England set within the heart of Chicago, Illinois, in the good old US of A. Its historic exterior satisfied the history buff in me—I was, after all, the youngest tenured Art History professor at School of the Art Institute of Chicago, an achievement that should have filled me with pride and happiness.

  Should being the operative word.

  Unfortunately, my successful career left me feeling as hollow as my love life, or lack thereof. I loved teaching. I loved seeing the light go on in another’s mind, and I was proud to do it well, but what was the point if there was no one to share it with? And how were you supposed to find someone to share it with if you never felt that spark?

  Which, of course, took me back to my question.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Why have I never felt the spark? I’ve dated beautiful women. I’ve dated smart, funny, and talented women. I’ve dated older women. Younger women. Shy and extroverted women. Blonde women. Brunettes. Redheads. I’ve dated them all. But no spark. Not so much as a flicker of spark.

  I stepped inside, reaching beside me, knowing exactly where to place my fingers despite it being dark, and flicked the switch. A dozen small lights positioned over the myriad of artworks that lined the central hall flared into life as I quietly closed the door and locked it. With quick, sure moves, I shirked my coat off and hung it on the coatrack beside the entry before striding down the hall. I bypassed the bedrooms and study as I made my way to the rear of the house—to the comfort of the open-plan living, dining, and kitchen area.

  Another flick of my wrist and more small lights sprang to life, showcasing the artworks and sculptures that lined my walls and dotted my floors. There was hardly a central ceiling light to be found in my entire home—I preferred the softer, more intimate lighting of several lamps. I liked my drawings, prints, photographs, and paintings to be lit in the way they deserved. I might enjoy my home’s historic exterior, but I was glad about its mostly modern interior and fixtures.

  Entering the kitchen area, I made a beeline for the sink. I pressed my hips firmly against the cupboards, wanting the mild sensation of pain, and closed my fist around the upturned glass I’d used and rinsed that very morning. I registered its smooth cool surface as I righted it and then held it under the tap, filling it with water. The bourbon had made me thirsty, and I drank greedily. In my haste, a small droplet leaked from the side of my mouth and slid down my chin. Using the back of my hand, I wiped it away before finishing the glass and replenishing it.

  My thirst was slaked, but I was not yet ready to seat myself on the cream leather couch to commence reading the stack of essays awaiting me. Instead, I walked to the antique walnut sideboard that resided in the dining area. I sipped my water, contemplating the photos arrayed upon its surface. All but a few were of my brother, Mitch, who was older than me by a mere fourteen months, his pretty wife, Miranda, and their two sons, my beloved twin nephews, Ricky and Jared. The exceptions were my parent’s wedding photo and a couple of me with Mitch and his boys.

  Again and again, my gaze was drawn to the photographs showing Mitch and Miranda together.

  Spark.

  They had the spark. They had it in spades. They had it spilling over the edges and overflowing. It was blatantly obvious. It was there in every look they gave each other. It was almost tangible—so real I found myself reaching out to touch the space between their faces on the glass of the frame, surprised to feel nothing but its smooth surface.

  Mitch felt the spark from the time he was sixteen, when we moved to Chicago from Pittsburgh. He knew it from that first day at Lake Forest High when blonde and cheerleader-beautiful Miranda Rowlands was assigned the task of showing him around. I could still hear his voice, dreamy yet resolved, and nothing like his usual joking smartass manner, when we met up at the end of the day to drive home together. I’d asked him how his first day went. Couldn’t be better, Noah. I just met the girl I’m going to marry. I’d behaved like a typical pesky younger brother, laughing and teasing him, but he’d remained unfazed, and time proved him right. Neither Mitch nor Miranda had ever had eyes for anyone but each other.

  Sighing, I replaced the photo, trying to deny the small kernel of envy and jealousy that settled in my chest, irritating and impossible to ignore, like a pebble in a shoe. They didn’t deserve such emotions from me—Mitch might be a bit of an overbearing older brother at times, but both were decent people who’d shown me nothing but love and support, and now with our parents gone, having died in a car crash, they, and their boys, were all I had left.

  But I was jealous.

  I was envious.

  I wanted what they had.

  Why couldn’t I have it too? Why had my search been so fruitless? Why had the fates seen fit to deny me my safe harbor?

  2

  ON AUTOMATIC pilot, I gave Joey, the regular barista at my favorite campus coffee shop, my order for a cappuccino. Nothing fancy—no hazelnut or vanilla flavoring, no soy or skim milk, and heaven forbid, no artificial sweetener. Just a good old-fashioned cappuccino.

  “Hey, Noah. How are they hanging for a Tuesday?” Joey was famous for his irreverent manner of speech, and normally I enjoyed a bit of lighthearted banter with him, giving as good as I got.

  But not today. Today I was distracted.

  “Great, Joey.” Absently, I handed over a few bills and accepted the steaming cup. Equally vaguely, I made my way to the only vacant table in the joint, a dimly lit one, situated in the back corner. The coffee shop god was looking after me, it seemed. The table was perfect—nice and quiet—private and out of the way. I’d be able to read and think without distraction.

  That I didn’t trip or bump into anyone or anything as I wove my way to my destination was probably a small miracle—my mind was definitely in a different locale than my body. It was still in the dean’s office, his words now running on a continuous loop in my head.

  Should I accept? I asked myself, Should I accept their offer?

  In one deft move, I slid my butt onto the seat and placed my filled-to-the-brim cup on the table. With surprisingly steady hands, I slid my finger under the edge of the envelope, opening it to reveal the papers that put into writing the dean’s words of less than an hour prior, and as I sipped my coffee, I read, checking that I’d understood him correctly.

  One semester.


  One semester where I’d do an exchange with my counterpart at Central Saint Martins in London as part of our newly formed relationship as “partner” colleges. And by exchange, they did mean everything: swap houses, cars, and jobs. Both administrations felt it would be beneficial for all future student exchanges to have at least one staff member at each center to be familiar with not only the college, but also the city. That being the case, part of my job would be to research accommodations, transport, and all manner of resources such as art-supply stores, and upon my return write an information manual of sorts. I’d also become the liaison officer for the US side of student exchanges between SAIC and Central Saint Martins.

  Can I do it? Can I let a complete stranger stay in my home? Drive my car?

  I pondered those questions, my gaze returning to the letter, seeking the name and details of the man with whom they were proposing I do the exchange.

  Robert Callinan: thirty-two, single, of Bloomsbury, London.

  Hmm, young, like me.

  And then it hit me.

  Why was I hesitating?

  What was stopping me from grabbing the opportunity with both hands?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  I looked down into my coffee cup, surprised to see it empty as I couldn’t remember finishing it. A quiet snort escaped me—perhaps the coffee god had continued his care and allowed me to inhale it, saving me the bother of swallowing. I ran my forefinger around the inside rim, scooped up the remaining froth, and popped it into my mouth, sucking appreciatively. Decision made.

  3

  I COULD scarcely believe it was done, and I was in one of London’s famous black cabs speeding from Heathrow to Bloomsbury, clutching Robert Callinan’s veritable essay of information and notes. Not that I needed it to quote the address to the driver—I’d memorized it, right along with the name of his neighbor, who was holding a full set of Robert’s keys for me.