And there she is. Leaning against her husband. Ava, sister to the Zervas brothers. A black op assassin in her own right, hiding in the military before Ares found her and dragged her back to New York to marry Griffin. To say she wasn’t happy about the match is an understatement. I heard she came at him with a knife when he found her. Two years later, they are the picture of happiness.
There is a happy-ever-after for assassins, I guess.
I hang back in the shadows, praying for invisibility. And it almost works. Until Griffin’s gaze snags on me. Then back to Fallon leading the knot of sugared-up children.
Then back to me, again in a slow, horrified, disbelieving gawk.
His lips part like he’s about to ask a question, but realizes he doesn’t even have the vocabulary for whatever the fuck this is. So, he shuts his mouth.
I’ve seen the man stare down machine guns with less confusion. The kids finish, and Ava drops a wad of money into the donation bucket. The front door closes, and the eight empire guards retreat.
My phone doesn’t ring, and my heart restarts. Surely, a call is being made to Trace.
Who the fuck cares…
Operation Death by Cookies
Ten days later, I’m light-strung into something called a cookie exchange hosted by one of the neighbors in my building.
I can’t get the smell of cinnamon and ginger out of my nose because Fallon and I worked on trays of cookies until late last night. We fucked like sugared-up elves while they were in the oven to pass the time. I’ve never had stamina like this. I can’t get enough of her.
Fallon is glowing with her trays of ginger treats made with the root she grew herself. Everyone else’s cookies look and taste like sawdust sprinkled with stale sugar.
The flat of the host, a wealthy banker, is a gallery of excess, and their tree is nothing short of obscene. Floor to ceiling, perfectly green, perfectly shaped, perfectly sculpted with some designer’s idea of a family Christmas tree.
One year, our Christmas tree in Waterford had an entire section missing. Trace and I strung popcorn and tinsel and sat for hours watching the train underneath go around and around.
This one has an entire miniaturized replica of Manhattan under it.
Yet, Fallon stares at it like it’s the Mona Lisa.
Then something shifts in her eyes, and my heart stops. Is there something she wants? I want to give her whatever the hell she desires. She deserves it.
“What’s the matter, love?” I brush my lips against her ear.
No point in hiding our relationship, she’s been telling everyone for years that I’m her boyfriend.
“It’s almost Christmas,” she whispers. “And I don’t even have a tree yet.”
She sounds devastated. And I feel guilty as hell because I’ve kept her busy. In my bed.
The banker swaggers over all smug when we’ve lingered in front of his treasure for too long. “Drove to Vermont, cut it down myself, paid a fortune, then hired a designer to decorate it.”
No kidding…
“It’s beautiful,” Fallon says.
The guy finally gets a look at her, past her strange clothes and her crazy chatter. Hesees it. Sees what I see. A gorgeous knockout with lips that suck my dick and make me come in her mouth better than any woman ever has. All while she’s naked except for Rudolph earrings.
I’m worried there’s something wrong with me that someone so quirky turns me on so damn much. But I’ve never been happier.
The banker’s wife sees her husband drawn to Fallon, too, and screeches his name from across the living room. He trots off like a trained poodle.
Smart bloke.
I stare at the tree and grin, making calculations. Height, width, ornament factor, and the location of the bedrooms. On the way out, I casually swipe a spare flat key from the bowl by the door.
In the elevator, I push Fallon against the back wall and kiss her.
