“Looking to see if they’ve predrilled these.”
I chuckle, then reach down to haul her up. She pops up—too light for the force of nature she is. She falls into me, and her breath hitches as I wrap an arm around her to keep her upright. Those wide blue eyes stare up at me. Has she been this relaxed since I’ve met her? Damn it. Has she been this untroubled since given her burden—because that’s what it is, a burden. Inside, my heart snarls at Kieran O’Donnell for strapping his daughter with this life. His beautiful, curious daughter saddled with a life of botched weapon shipments and the stress of keeping each one of her men and their families safe. I hate him. I hate him for what he stands for and for what he saddled his own flesh and blood with.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, and I realize I’m scowling.
“Nothing,” I say, moving a piece of hair from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. Snow beads her lashes as she lowers them, and when she tilts her face into my touch, something inside me goes quiet and greedy all at once. I want her lips on mine, but in this moment, I want to memorialize her expression even more.
My thumb lingers at the hollow of her cheek, learning the map of her warm skin against my cold fingertips. I lean in, tasting the winter air between us. Her breath puffs against my mouth, and she releases a tiny hitch when I press closer. For a heartbeat, I can feel her mouth on mine. Then I stop, forehead resting against hers.Hell, I think to myself.Don’t make me want you like this.
Clearing my throat, I drop my hand. “Let’s get a tree. Looks like Ronan is freezing his balls off.”
Aoife blinks, a flash of disappointment running across her face before she smiles once more. “Okay. I think this one.” She points to a tree I’m almost positive will not fit in my studio apartment.
“It’s too tall,” I say.
“Nope.” She pops thep. “I measured it in my mind, and it works.”
“How about that one?” I point to a petite, weaker-looking tree.
Her face contorts. “What? No. That’s one of those Charlie Brown trees.”
As soon as she says it, my mind flashes to the couple from earlier having this exact discussion. Hell.Wesound like a couple. We could never be, but my mind wanders, allowing the thought to grow and tumble until it’s not just a snowball of thought, but a giant boulder careening toward a cliff. This could be us every year, leaving work and driving through the snow to pick out a Christmas tree for our house. Then it could be us and our son, taking him for the first time to pick out his tree. He’d have hot chocolate, and Aoife would laugh at the brown mustache hovering over his lips, even as he used the collar of his shirt to wipe it. We’d decorate it when we got home. I’d do the lights while Aoife poured us drinks and popped popcorn. Then together we’d trim the tree with a wide array of ornaments, some new, some old. After our son went to bed, I’d scoop her up and tease the stress of her day away in our bed, over and over and over again.
I snap straight, growling at my imagination spiraling out of control. I laugh inwardly at myself. In what world could the leader of the Irish Mob and a washed-up detective at odds with his own family ever work together? We could never create thelife my brain conjured up. My lip curls, and I look away. “Fine. We’ll get the tall one. I’ll go get someone to wrap it up.”
I dart away, bolting through the spindly branches that grab at my jacket and toward the barn where the scratchy music grates on my skin. I push through the doorway, not paying any mind, and bump into a middle-aged kid. He’s around ten years old, I’d assume, but the cup tumbles out of his hand and the hot liquid lands right on my sweater.
“Shit! What the hell!” I burst out.
“I-I’m sorry, Mister,” the kid squeals, his voice cracking. I blink when a few adults look my way, narrowing their eyes at me.
I rub my forehead and clench my jaw. “It’s fine.” Then, I reach into my wallet, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. “Here. It was my fault anyway.”
Slowly, he reaches for it, plucking it from my fingers. “Hey! Thanks!” He speeds off, back toward the hot chocolate stand for another cup.
I sigh. This was a bad idea. Why did I get the notion to bring Aoife here? It was supposed to be a peace offering. A way to show her I, too, don’t have a tree and that’s okay. Or was it to spend more time with her? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m leaving here with a gut punch because of what I want,whoI want.
The silence on the way back to my apartment isn’t the subdued kind one cherishes when comfortable and content. No, it’s aggravating and pinched between us in an unsettling way. Add to the fact that Ronan is on my ass, his lights blinding me as I overthink everything.
I’m falling for Aoife, and not in the she’s pretty-cool-and-gorgeous type of way. It’s in the mind-numbing I-can’t-think-of-anyone-else way.
When I finally pull into the parking space, tree strapped to my roof and all, I turn to her. “I know it’s late.”
She glances at the clock. 9:08 p.m. Then she looks back at me, lifting my cigarette carton and handing it to me. “I get it, Detective.”
My brow creases. What does she get? And why does she always call me that when she’s putting up walls between us? Despite my internal torment, I still want her to decorate the tree, but it may have to be another time, some other night. “I still need to get Christmas lights to put on this thing,” I say. “I hadn’t thought of that until we pulled up to the farm that I realized I’m flying off the cuff on this one.”
“I get it, Grayson. I’ll have Ronan take me home.”
I snatch her hand. “No, you don’t get it. Let me?—”
“You’re right. It’s late, and I have an early morning call with—scratch that. Not something I should say in front of the law.”
I frown. She’s shutting down, and I’m ruining the evening I’d pictured. “When can I see you again?” The question bolts from me before I can suffocate the words.
“I’ll see you around, Detective. Thank you for taking me to pick out the tree. I needed the break, more than you know.” She scrambles out of the car, and before I can swallow the thick knot in my throat, she’s hopped into the SUV and is gone.
I sit stunned at the whirlwind of the night. Opening my box of cigarettes, I take one out, light it, and pull in a long, measured drag. The ember flares to life in the darkness of the car. This is getting complicated, and I need to put this to bed before I can’t turn back. Aoife O’Donnell is not mine to have.
