Nodding, I take the low-grade planters and begin to fill each with fresh soil and a sprinkle of fertilizer.
For each survivor, I loosen roots, brush away shards of ceramic, and tuck them into the new temporary homes. The smell of fresh soil soothes me, and I hope my familiar hands soothe them.
“See?” I murmur to a drooping Little Basil, tucking his spidery roots into the new bed of dark earth. “Rhys wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”
With everyone safely in a planter and Cory’s pot taped up, I dress and venture into the living room. I slap a hand on my mouth at the mangled legs of the plant stand. But Rhys is crouched on the floor, head lowered, and tools scattered around him.
His big hands work gently to repair the broken shelf system back together, like he knows how much it matters to me. And now, all this matters to him.
Bill’s body is long gone. Hours seem to fold in on themselves until the apartment looks like nothing’s happened. The floor gleams, the stand is fixed with duct tape in some spots, but the plants are back where they belong, soaking up the afternoon winter sunlight.
“You mates can go,” Rhys says to Blade and Jett, holding me by the waist from behind in the kitchen as I make last-minute adjustments.
Blade claps Rhys’s shoulder on his way out. “Merry Christmas, man.”
Jett waves from the door, grinning. “Don’t forget the milk and cookies for Santa.”
The words slam into me. Rhys’s eyes widen like the same thought just hit him.
“Oh, no,” I breathe. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
Rhys stares at his phone and swears under his breath. “What time are we supposed to be at your dad’s house?”
Swallowing, I say, “We’re supposed to be in Ashbourneby three.”
The moment shatters when he shows me his phone.
12:47 p.m.
Panic rushes through us like a flash flood, and we are on the move.
Fast. Scrambling. Frantic. Arms bumping. Rhys shoves clothes into a duffel while I grab whatever I think he needs from his bathroom.
Next, we move to my apartment, my bare feet slapping down the hall.
In my living room, Rhys pulls me in front of the whiteboard calendar. “Look, we did it. All your events. Done, complete.”
Seeing glittery checkmarks everywhere stabilizes my panic attack.
“One left.” I circleChristmas with Daddyin red.
“And then we have our whole life.” Rhys holds me.
“We need to shower,” I tell him, since we’re covered in sweat, dirt, plant food, and likely blood.
My shower steams up quickly, filling the air with the scent of my peppermint shampoo and Rhys’s masculine bodywash. He strips off what’s left of his clothes, steps under the spray with me, and it’s impossible not to kiss him.
My world narrows to the heat of his skin and his sweet breath. With a hungry mouth, he kisses me back. Next, he spins me around and takes me from behind, but we’re standing up. My arm wraps around his neck while one of his hands holds my breasts. The other circles my clit.
Rhys fucks me fast and desperately, our bodies tangled together. We make the kind of love needed to burn off tension from what we survived. And not just this morning. This whole month.
We towel off in silence except for nervous laughter from our exhaustion, and dress in our pre-planned holidayclothes, toned down on purpose. My father hates my loud style, and he needs to see Rhys as a strong protector. He wears dark jeans and a casual but sophisticated button-down shirt, and I wear my green velvet dress with a crochet poncho, boots, and a belt.
I kiss my plants goodbye, who are oddly silent. With my weekend bag and his duffel in hand, Rhys steers me to the elevator and out of the building.
The cold hits me like a slap when we burst onto the sidewalk. No time to adjust my coat or scarf, we hoof it to his garage in a hurry.
An attendant has Rhys’s Audi warm and waiting and purring with life. Rhys juggles our bags and a travel snack kit into the car while I juggle my sanity.
