He chuckles, warm breath brushing over the side of my neck as he leans in to press a kiss there. Goosebumps race down my spine.
“Why am I a Neanderthal, baby?” he asks, lips ghosting my skin. “I got your computer for you.”
I tip my head to glare up at him, which is less effective when my pulse is doing cartwheels.
“And then you failed to tell me about it because you were too busy screwing my brains out,” I accuse.
“You loved every minute of it,” he says, entirely without shame.
I make a face. “And that’s the only reason you’re forgiven. Be happy you have a good dick.”
His mouth curls into a wicked, dimpled grin. “I have a fecking great dick,” he corrects, moving around the back of the sofa to drop down beside me. “What are you doing?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.” I drag in a breath. “I just needed todosomething, you know? Check on things in Lucy Falls, make sure the world didn’t implode without me. Did you realize what day it is?”
Before I can click into my first tab, his hand comes over mine, big and gentle, and he very deliberately closes the laptop.
“I do know,” he says. “And I also know you’ll drive yourself mad with that screen if I let you. Let’s go for a drive. Get some Thanksgiving dinner. I know a place that serves a great one.”
I eye him dubiously. “And I can log back on later?”
“Of course.” No hesitation, no patronizing caveat. Just a yes.
“Okay, then.” I snap the laptop shut myself this time. “That sounds nice. Just let me get some clothes on.”
I stand, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt.
His gaze follows the movement, heat sharpening his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I kinda like the T-shirt.”
“Cretin,” I mutter, but my cheeks are hot as I flee back to the bedroom.
The restaurant Bran takes me to is the kind of place you only find if you know exactly where it is—half-hidden down a side road, parking lot full of pickup trucks and a few beat-up sedans. Inside, it’s dim and warm, all wood paneling and mismatched holiday decorations. A tiny artificial tree lists in the corner under the weight of too many ornaments.
The air smells like turkey and sage and pie crust, the clink of silverware underscored by low conversation and the occasional burst of kids’ laughter. A country song hums quietly from a speaker near the bar.
Our waitress seats us in a back booth, away from most of the noise. The vinyl sticks to the backs of my thighs through my leggings, but the wine is tart, the rolls are soft, and for the first time in days, my shoulders start to unclench.
I’m mellow when the question slips out.
“Do you really go to the bar on Christmas?” I ask, then wince and clap a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. If you’re in a bar on Christmas, you probably don’t want to talk about why.”
Bran shakes his head, expression easy. “It’s all good. It’s like I said—the Irish are my family now. With my parents gone, it’s just another day.” He shrugs. “Easier than sitting in an empty house, staring at walls.”
I nod, pushing a piece of turkey through gravy. “Yeah. Empty houses are overrated.”
He takes a sip of his drink, eyes flicking to me over the rim. “What are your Christmases like?”
I chew slowly, considering how much to say. There are things he probably already knows, just from being tied into Kael’s world. The broad strokes. Not the details.
“You know my father died just a couple of years before my mother, right?” I ask.
“Yes.” His voice goes quieter. “Heart attack?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, looking past him, back into a living room lit with white Christmas lights and the glitter of glass ornaments. “He died on Christmas Day. We didn’t have the greatest relationship. He was very focused on my talents. My intelligence, and how it could be utilized.”
His brows pull together; he starts to say something, but I wave a hand, cutting him off.
“It was a long time ago,” I say. “It’s just that I felt guilty for a long time for feeling kind of relieved that he was gone, you know? The thing was, my mother refused to let his death ruin the holidays for me. She made it her mission to make themmorespecial. Like…she was determined that when I thought of Christmas, the first thing that came to mind wasn’t the EMTs in our driveway.”
