I clench my jaw until the muscles tic. She’ll never see me as anything but a disappointment for not worshiping at the altar of their money. “That’s why you have two sons, Mother. So, one can disappoint you, and the other can crawl up your ass.”
My mother’s mouth drops open, and she throws a hand over her chest. My father bristles. I grunt, turning to take another inhale of my cigarette. Aoife has me on edge; that’s the only explanation as to why I don’t just walk away. Or maybe it’s because I’ve watched her in her own father’s shadow that I don’t want to leave anything unsaid anymore.
My parents hurt me. Their favoritism for my younger brother, who chose to work at my father’s law firm and perpetuate the family money and name. It’s somehow more noble than sacrificing myself for the good of the city. To protect and serve. I glance at each forearm, pretending I can see through my suit.
“You’ve traded legacy for scraps. You think that’s noble because you have a badge?” my mother spits.
I can’t help but wonder what Kieran O’Donnell would do if Aoife decided she didn’t want her legacy. But then I think of all the pictures I’ve seen, the way he checks in with her, loves her—Aoife feels like she belongs to the O’Donnell name because she does.
“And the Church … We raised you better. Raised you Catholic. Do you ever think of what this does to your soul? Dealing with degenerates and crime every day. Or have you abandoned your faith along with your family?” She gestures toward the smoke curling from my right hand and keeps up her beratement. “Do you enjoy pretending you don’t come from money? It’s embarrassing, and I for one?—”
“There you are!” Aoife’s words overpower my mother’s as she makes her way onto the balcony, no coat. The whip of the icy wind doesn’t seem to faze her. She holds my stare, not sparingmy parents a glance as she comes up to me, grabbing my tie. Adjusting it, she leans in, her Chanel perfume assaulting my nose. “You promised me a dance.” She places a chaste kiss on my cheek before finally turning to acknowledge my mother and father. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Holtz. Pleasure to see you again.”
I stiffen. Again?
My mother looks sidelong at my father, and he clears his throat. “Miss O’Donnell. As always, a pleasure.” My father stutters.Stutters. Brad Holtz doesn’t trip on his words, not that I’ve ever known.
Aoife grins and leans into me, and instinctively, I wrap an arm around her waist, widening my fingers over her hip.
“Well, we will let you enjoy your night. As always, you’re welcome to join us for Christmas Eve Mass. Emily will be there.” My mother stares down her nose, daring me to say no like I always do, especially since she’s sweetened the pot with my niece’s name.
“I have to work,” I lie.
“A son who won’t stand with his family in the Church is no son at all.”
Aoife shifts in my arms with my mother’s words, and I grip her tighter while she glares at my parents. My father distracts himself with his ugly tie, avoiding eye contact with Aoife. My mother plasters her overused disgusted expression across her face.
“Come on. Let’s go.” My father ushers my mother away, and I flip around toward the harbor before they’ve exited the balcony.
“Friendly folks,” Aoife jokes when it’s just the two of us.
Although I know she’s trying to make light of things to cheer me up, I only grunt in response. I glance at her as she leans across the railing next to me, and the only thing I can think about is her smile while dancing with the mayor. “Had enough of Carroway?” I ask, resenting that it’s all I can think about.
“Business per usual. Want to dance?”
“No.”
She grabs my arm. “Grayson, look at me.”
But I can’t. I look away, afraid my face will sabotage the way I want this woman. The way I’m angry with her for looking this good, and dancing with the damn mayor.
She pulls at me. “Dance with me, Grayson. Please.”
Her timid “please” has me stopping short. I turn to her, and she looks sad. No matter how mad I want to be, I can’t avoid the yearning in her plea. She wants to dance withme?
Aoife sneaks my cigarette from my hand, snuffing it out against the glass railing before dropping it over the side.
“That’s littering,” I say, staring at her lips. “I could issue you a fine.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Better add it to my tab.” She hooks her arm through mine, and I lead us back inside. The warmth of the ballroom thaws out the stiffness in my fingers, and when we hit the dance floor, I wrap her up against me. Other couples drift across the floor, and some stare at us from their perches at the marble tables, but I don’t let her go. Not now.
The classic Christmas music is nothing but background noise at this point as I press her tight to me. Her hand fits in my palm perfectly, and I marvel at her dainty fingers threading through mine. I usher her close, like she belongs to me.
The way she moves catches me off guard. “Where’d you learn to dance?” I ask.
She widens her smile. “My dad used to cart me around our living room, or I’d sneak downstairs at night to watch Summer and him dance in the kitchen.”
I spin her, and she rotates into me, her skin under my fingertips responding to my simple touch. I tighten my grip, relishing Aoife’s body pressed into mine and following my lead. Part of me, the defiant part, wonders if she’d obey othercommands if I gave them. We move, her head falling to my chest as I push her deeper into my hold.
