Without waiting for a reply, I turn and stride down the hallway. I close the door to the rest of the house and wait.
She follows a moment later. The door closes behind her with a quietclick. She sets the hamper down, then moves her hand to her zipper.
“No, Celine,” I growl.
She takes a step back. Good. She should be cautious—but I hate that part of me likes it.
“You’re not staying,” I tell her.
“You’re very polite, Damian. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“It’s one of my many talents,” I mutter, raising an eyebrow.
“I brought you some Christmas stuff,” she says, almost shy. “Decorations. Some treats. Julian said you don’t celebrate Christmas.”
When I don’t reply, she rushes on. Something in me twitches at how earnest she is, but I shove it down.
“And I wanted to check your injuries. People mess themselves up when they don’t take care of things after… after we do our work.”
She stops, breathless.
A smile almost hits me. I feel it twitching.
“Are you done?” I ask.
She crosses her arms. “You could at least say thank you. I didn’t have to do this. Julian wouldn’t tell me why you don’t celebrate Christmas. He said it wasn’t his place.”
“He was correct.”
“So…”
I laugh darkly. Not really a laugh. More of a choking noise.
“Is something funny?” She demands, her cheeks flushing.
“Celine, you did your duty. Look at me—this is healing. It’ll leave an ugly scar, sure, but I don’t mind. Keeps people the hell away. Julian shouldn’t have told you where I live.”
She looks around the entranceway, at the clean tiles, the neatly stacked sneakers. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Just…” She hesitates, getting a look in her eyes like she doesn’t fully know why she’s here. As if an instinct led her here, andnow she regrets it. “I think people should celebrate Christmas. I know, okay. I know how cheesy that sounds. Blame the long hours! They’re messing with my head.”
She turns, then turns back, flustered.
“It’s the first of December tomorrow.”
“You say that like it matters.”
“This is the only time of year when we get a built-in chance to be happy. A free pass.”
I take a step forward. Then another. She stares up at me like I’m some kind of unhinged animal. Maybe I am.
“When I was thirteen—before you were born—my parents died in a car accident. Christmas Eve. That’s why the holiday doesn’t mean shit to me. Now we’re done.”
Softness flickers across her face, quickly shuttered. She pouts—not cute, more… frustrated. And it hits me.
Makes me feel like an asshole.
