“You work out a lot,” I murmur—and immediately want to eat my tongue.
He looks at me like I’m some naïve kid for stating the obvious.
“You brought the hamper,” he comments.
“You’re very perceptive.”
There it is again—that almost-smile he fights like smiling is a sin he can’t afford.
“Why, Celine?” he asks, and something in his tone smacks me right in the ego.
Because I’m curious, even when I shouldn’t be. Because I enjoy coaxing an almost-smile out of you. Because I’m tired of pretending, I don’t see the shadows you and Julian walk in. And because I’m not brave enough to ask my brother to tell me the truth.
“Because…” I hesitate. “Everyone deserves to enjoy Christmas. I know you’ve had a hard time. I’m not saying I can snap my fingers and magically make it better. But maybe if you saw your house decorated, it might help.”
“Help,” he echoes, flat and skeptical.
“To heal the past. I can’t wave a magic wand, but I’m an Olympic-level decorator. I can handle it. No trouble.”
He studies me. “Is this an act?”
“Excuse me?”
“This bright-eyed, positive, optimistic thing. Is it an act?”
“Maybe I don’t see the benefit in being miserable all the time.”
“And maybe misery is easier for some people than happiness.”
“Well, maybe I don’t believe in taking the easy option.”
This time it’s real. His lip twitches upward. His eyes spark—just for a second. “If you’re determined to do this, then I won’t stop you. But I am not helping.”
“Fair enough,” I mutter.
He shrugs and opens the large door that separates the rest of the house. “Go nuts. I’ll be in the gym.”
“Where you live, apparently.”
He lets out a sound—almost a laugh—before killing it immediately like he regrets letting it escape. I watch the broad, muscular landscape of his back far longer than I should.
Picking up the hamper, I walk into the corridor.
It’s like something out of a reality show.The Real Grump of the East Coast. New carpet. Fresh paint. Fake firelight built into the wall. I peek into the living room and find polished hardwood, spotless shelves, and a massive TV.
He clearly cares about his home. He must’ve spent a fortune making this place look so appealing. And yet he allows the rest of the street to think this is some hellhole. He doesn’t care aboutbeing an eyesore. The kitchen is a glossy marble dream, the frosted windows framing a garden just as wild as the front.
I set the hamper down by a stove that probably costs more than my rent and start sorting decorations, ignoring the voice whispering I’m here because Damian intrigues me more than he should.
And yes, he’s hot. Let’s not pretend otherwise. His grumpiness is unfairly attractive. Every almost-smile feels like winning a prize I wasn’t supposed to enter to begin with.
I chew my lip and stuff that thought deep, deep down.
What am I even doing here?
No, I know why I’m here. Damian is hurting. He’s lonely. And even if I don’t ask questions—about him, about Julian, about myself—anyone can see he’s drowning in something heavy.
Rolling up my sleeves, I get to work.
