CHAPTER 10
GRAYSON
I’ve replayed my words to Aoife over and over in my mind since I left her apartment. They, along with her tantalizing hips grazing mine and the dense scent of her in her apartment, kept me company in the shower later that day.
Then they wouldn’t leave me the rest of the week. I know there’s truth to them, but she doesn’t, and it’s not my place to push it.
Aoife watches the slanting snow dancing in the headlights of oncoming traffic. The anxiousness of the past week all leaves when she’s in my car. When it’s just the two of us in this space. I like her here.
I like her here with me.
I’m not sure why I used my night off to take her here, but it stems from my observation of her apartment, and then the realization I was being hypocritical. I don’t have a Christmas tree either.
She sits upright as the Christmas tree farm comes into view. Steely clouds stretch low, blocking out any starlight, but the place glows anyway. Strings of colored Christmas lights drape along the eaves of the corrugated metal roof, threading through the rows of trees.
Her eyes widen on the old blue building that grows larger as we approach. “Grayson …”
I smile, watching her and nearly running into another car backing out of a parking spot. Her face is lit with joy, and it consumes me. It’s not until I whip into the emptied spot that I realize there isn’t a space close for Ronan. However, he proves undeterred as he parks perpendicularly behind me, blocking me in. Well, I guess that’s one way to keep me from taking off with her.
Aoife bounces out of the car, looking over the frosted evergreens. The faint hum of “O Christmas Tree” plays on the speakers strung up on wooden poles throughout the yard, and when I exit the car, she’s singing along. I shove my hands deep into my pockets.
Shit.
Her plump lips part as awe twinkles in her lurid eyes, and I wonder if she knows she’s the only thing worth looking at amongst all this holiday cheer. I wonder if she knows I can’t look away.
She sucks in a long inhale. “Smell that? Ugh, all that pine scent is beautiful. How did you find this place?”
I take a breath, wanting to smell what she does. The pine in the cold air is sharp, and it ushers in memories. “My parents used to bring us when we were young. It’s been around a long time.”
My brother and I used to race through the rows of trees, spilling our hot chocolate and completely disregarding my parents’ instructions. It was one of the few times my perfect brother would get into trouble with me. Of course, they made us go to confession for our unruly conduct, which in retrospect was young-kid behavior, but to them it was a slight on God.
“I didn’t even know this was here. My dad used to have one delivered.”
Ronan steps out of the car, his leather jacket not looking warm enough, but he doesn’t flinch when a flurry of flakes blows across his cheeks.
“Come on,” I say. “The best part is getting to pick out your own tree.” Moving toward her, I usher her forward, placing a hand along her back. She shudders, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s from the cold or my touch.
“And whose tree are we picking out?” she asks.
“Ronan’s.”
She lets out another burst of laughter, this time not sarcastic but full of life. My fingers greedily flex around her hip, and I haul her into me. “We’ll pick out one for my place. It’s as you’d assume, void of any Christmas decorations.”
She beams at me as we walk past several families with kids running around, their own hot chocolate splashing over the sides. But instead of reprimands, their parents giggle and laugh along with them. Couples are scattered through the aisles of trees, pointing and arguing over which trees are the best. One is too tall; the other too “Charlie Brown.” Fresh hanging wreaths and garland dot the archway into the big building where the farm has its own store.
“So how big can you get?” Aoife asks, moving ahead of me and spinning between several precut potted trees.
I close my eyes for half a second at her words and shake my head.
Ronan shoves me between the shoulder blades, and I turn, cutting him a dark, venomous look. He steps back.
“I have eight-foot ceilings in my studio, so we can’t go any taller than that.”
We?
Aoife nods, gaze going serious as she inspects each tree down the row. She leaps to the next one and bends down, checking underneath it. The outline of her gun, holstered somewherebehind her, is such a dichotomy at the moment. Her whirling excitement amidst such an innocent holiday like Christmas, and the butt of her gun pressing cold into her side. If there were a metaphor for who Aoife O’Donnell is, it’s that one.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she kneels again at the next tree.
