Fallon jumps out at me, holding a box cutter.
“Jesus, Fallon,” I hiss, leaping back instinctively, every muscle tightening. My mind flashes that there will be more blood in my future before I wrestle it down.
She ignores my surprise and slices the box open with a flourish, then pulls out a riot of color.
“They look so much better in person!” Glowing, she shows me a ceramic pot, glossy white with delicate red floral and green vines scrolls curling into little wreaths. They are holiday-bright, beautiful in a way that makes me feel like a mess all over again.
She would have been more excited to open these, and I ruined it by nearly killing the delivery guy.
“What are those?” I ask, hoping she forgets what I did.
“For the market!” she says, practically vibrating.
She whirls and taps her calendar with the blunt end of the box cutter.
I gently pry it from her fingers before my blood pressure kills me. “Market?”
“Bryant Park Holiday Market.” She smiles at me. “I prepare centerpieces for the seating.”
Another knot of tension loosens. “I thought we were shopping that day.”
“We are.” She grins. “After I drop these off.”
“What are you filling these with?”
“Christmas flowers, silly.”
Something twists hard in my chest. Possessiveness, sharp and irrational. My gaze drags over the greenery lining her bookshelves, her windowsill, her ceiling. “Not these?”
She gasps, offended. “Of course not! The ones I’m growing right now in my garden. These are family.”
Of course they are.
As I grab more boxes, a man from another flat opens his door to see if the coast is clear since it’s likely every resident on the floor heard someone getting beaten moments earlier. I meet his eyes, my hand planted firmly on the doorframe of Fallon’s flat.
She’s mine.
He looks away first. And I like that. Maybe too much.
Because as Fallon’s voice from inside floats to my ears, details about soil acidity and winter mulching schedule, something cold changes the air around me.
The thought I can’t dodge.
Can I break this off and walk away from her after the holidays?
The answer hits harder than my fist against that guy’s jaw.
God help me. I don’t think I can.
Chapter 28
Fallon
It’s just noise.
It’sonlynoise.
The words loop in my head as I lie under my blanket, knees pulled to my chest, breath stuttering. My phone glows blue beneath the covers, radar maps swarming with swirls of green and orange.
