Her hand touches my forearm. “And this one?”
That brush of skin feels so damn good, I struggle to understand what she’s asking.
“Knife. I was young and stupid and spent time in underground fight clubs.”
Poppy’s hand smooths my marred skin, as if she can wipe away the memories with her touch.
She leans and strokes the scar that bisects my eyebrow. Interviewers always ask me about it. Fans debate whether it’s from a bar brawl, a stunt gone wrong, a car accident. But no one gets it right, and I’ve never talked about it.
“Lost a fight with a glass table when I was eight sleepwalking.”
I grit my teeth against the horrifying urge to tell her more. That my mom was passed out one night, from her usual cocktail of prescription medicine and alcohol, and I couldn’t wake her. That head wounds bleed like crazy. That I spent the night trying to stop the blood, praying to God, petrified I was going to die. The cut never healed right because it never got stitched up.
“Ronan,” she says softly. Just my name. But it’s everything.
I’ve never wanted to unburden myself to anyone before. But even though I keep the words in, it’s like she hears beyond my silence; she sees me and all I hold back. I close my eyes. There’s a string tightening between us, and I can’t stop the pull of her. Just a few more inches and our mouths will touch. I close my eyes and give in.
The fireplace gives a loud crackle, breaking our connection. My eyes pop open at the sound. Poppy’s eyes are wide. I can see every green and gold swirl.
“Poppy. Shit. I can’t—” I don’t finish the sentence because what can I say?
I can’t, even as I want to. I can’t kiss you, fuck you, be with you, even as I’m dying to with every inhale and exhale.
“Oh, um.” She jerks back and stands in one unsteady move. I jump up to balance her, my hands landing on the soft curve of her hips, almost encircling her. She lets out a gasp. I want to sink my fingers into that yielding flesh. Want to urge her closer, bury my face against her stomach and go lower.
I force my hands to drop away.
She takes a step back, then another. “It’s late. I better get to sleep,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry for pressuring you about Thanksgiving. I know you have other offers and better things to do. And I’m sorry for being nosy. I’m—”
“We’ll go.”
“What?”
“I said we’ll go to Thanksgiving.” I look at the hearth, at the strong, silent wood that blisters and burns and turns to ashes from the touch of a flame.
“Belle will enjoy it,” I add. Am I justifying the decision to her or to me?
“I’m glad,” she says. I think she’s going to say more, but she doesn’t. “Good night, Ronan.”
“Good night.” My eyes follow her departing figure as she makes her way up the stairs. When she disappears from sight, I turn back to the fire, wondering how long I can keep denying the heat between us.
CHAPTER13
31 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS
Ronan
It’s notthat I’ve never experienced Thanksgiving before. I’ve sat through my share of turkey and pie. But I prefer to pretend that Thanksgiving is just another day. I wish I could do so again this year, I decide, as I walk into Poppy’s parents’ loud, hot, crowded house.
Why is their house so small? And how does one person have so many cousins? I stoop to avoid a ceiling fan as Poppy introduces me to a litany of relatives.
The truth is, I’m not good with people, especially large groups of them.
Belle, however, is glowing. If she smiles any harder, she might crack open, pure joy pouring out. Poppy’s mother has already welcomed her with a big hug and introduced her to a crowd of kids.
I’m relieved. Earlier this morning, Belle had a tantrum while getting ready. I think she was nervous, but once we arrived, those nerves disappeared.
A smooth hand slips into mine and squeezes. Poppy looks up at me in encouragement, as if she can feel my unease, as if she is silently bolstering me. It works. I stop thinking about everyone else. My entire focus narrows into the electric space of our clasped hands, our eyes connecting, the heat of her body next to mine in the small hallway.
