A muscle in my jaw twitches. This feels like a death sentence wrapped in tinsel. I could say no. Ishouldsay no. She could’ve asked for money. Jewelry. A day at an expensive spa. A bloody car.
But all she wants…is me.
The thought makes my ribs tighten. No one’s ever wanted just…me.
The minute I tell Griffin and Shane that someone tried to kill me in my flat, and Fallon saw me gut him, they will haul her off to Connor’s torture tunnel for interrogation.
But I won’t let that happen.
I snap a photo of the calendar, shaking my head like that will stop this trainwreck. “I’m not sure I’ll survive the next thirty days,” I tell Basil.
The plant says nothing, smug as ever.
I make a mental note to cancel my flight to Ireland for my annual Christmas retreat in the Wicklow Woods. The only week I ever breathe.
Fallon beams at me like this is the happiest day of her life. She probably thinks we’re engaged now.
One dark, selfish part of me wonders how far I should take this fake relationship.Benefitswould be nice. But no. I would never take advantage of her.
Fallon’s mood turns dark. “I should warn you. My father will need to size you up.”
“Size me up?” My voice cracks. “For what? A bloody coffin?”
She blinks, genuinely confused. “No. To see if you’re strong enough to keep me.”
A cold hollowness slides down my spine.Challenge accepted.
Chapter 19
Fallon
Basil presides from the center of my cocktail table like a leafy judge while I arrange my planning materials. With color-coded index cards and highlighters, one for each event, I make my presentation to the chairman of the board.
My boyfriend.
Rhys sits across from me on the sofa, arms folded like this is a tribunal. He hasn’t even touched the black tea I put out for him. A sure sign he’s terrified.
“Okay. Friendsgiving potluck.” I click my pen. “That’s the warm-up. Like running in place before a marathon.”
His mouth tightens. “Warm-up for what? A siege of elves?”
I giggle and slide him the detailed spreadsheet. He flinches at the several pages stapled together with notes and ideas.
“The holiday season,” I remind him.
I glance at Basil, and he shakes his leaves, but Ivy’s vines tingle, her signal of encouragement. Or maybe that’s the air vent.
“I vote we bring a skillet fried apple dish,” I announce.
‘Great, more screaming on the horizon,’Basil grumbles about the apples that will need to be cut up and deep fried.
“Do I get a vote?” Rhys asks.
I cock my head. “We can vote, but it will be four to one.”
“Four?”
“Basil, Ivy, and Fern.” I point to my committee. “And me.”
