“I guess so,” she mutters. “Should I leave the hamper?”
“Take it.”
Another huff. “Fair enough. Coming here was probably a mistake, right?”
Her disappointment hits harder than it should. “The thought is what counts, Celine. So, thank you.”
She gives me a small, shaky smile. “You’re welcome. And I’m sorry.”
“Forget I said anything.”
Oversharing isn’t my thing. Hell, sharing at all isn’t my thing.
“Well… see ya.”
She carries the hamper out. I shut the door quickly and watch through the peephole. Her hips sway under the weight, and I look too long. Too damn long.
When she glances back at the house and bites her lip, something kicks in my chest I don’t want to name.
I run. Actually, run back to the gym.
She’s too soft. Too innocent. And I’m too far gone already..
CHAPTER 2
CELINE
Iknew it was a bad idea. But when Julian finally admitted that Damian was alone for Christmas—hating every second—something in me tightened. The image of him sitting there by himself wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t just do nothing.
Mom once called me a Christmas elf. Most people would take offense—me? I practically requested the title.
But it didn’t go how I planned. His cut is healing well, a crescent moon on his cheek, fading but noticeable. Somehow the scar only makes him look rougher… meaner… annoyingly hotter. And he’d answered the door in a sweat-soaked shirt, muscles on full, accidental display.
And when he told me about his parents… the sound he made wasn’t a voice. It was a wound speaking.
I know I should let this go. I’ve been very good at letting things go for most of my life. But something about seeing my brother’s best friend covered in blood–getting even a sliver of a look intothe world I’ve avoided my whole life—shook something awake in me.
Plus, well… everyone deserves to enjoy Christmas.
Two days later, and I still can’t get him out of my head. Not him, but his house. The outside pretends to be a ruin, while the inside is all sleek, expensive, icy perfection.
I can’t stop wondering who shot him. Who cut his face? Whether he’s in hiding. He’d acted like someone was watching the street that day—like he needed me inside before the world saw I was there.
I try to stop thinking about it. I lie awake one night, sleep refusing to come, thinking of Damian with his shirt stuck to him and an entire universe of rage behind his eyes.
Maybe that’s why I’m doing this.
Hamper hugged to my hip, I approach his ramshackle—a word that feels invented just for him—house and press the doorbell.
He answers after one ring this time. He’s wearing a sleeveless gym shirt, all carved arms and flexing muscle, the faint bullet scar still angry on his skin.
“You again,” he grunts, his expression unreadable.
Do I notice the corner of his mouth twitch? Did I just see a hint of a smile?
He turns and walks inside without a word, leaving the door open. Technically, I could leave. But of course, I follow. I set the hamper down and shut the door behind me.
He leans against the wall, bare foot tapping, gaze locked on me like heat meant to burn.
