She wants to see her family.
A month ago—hell, a week ago—I never would’ve considered compromising. I don’t do sentimental shit like Christmas. Nor do I give a fuck about holiday traditions or family dinners or any of that.
But ever since the shooting, I’ve grown more… receptive to my wife. You could even say a littlefonder.
Simone helped clean me up when I was bleeding out on that dusty couch. There was deep concern etched on her face, and she seemed on the verge of tears when I turned down her pleas to call 911.
She was really worried about me—and horrified by all the blood—yet she stuck by my side.
That kind of loyalty means something to a man like me.
“How about a compromise?” I say reasonably. “Christmas Eve with your family. Then Christmas Day here. With mine.”
Her second attempt to fight off a smile fails. Her eyes sparkle, turning an even deeper golden shade of brown as her lips spread in a smile and she slides off the stool. She comes around the island before I can register what she’s about to do.
Rise on tiptoe and press a kiss to my cheek.
“Thank you, Ronan,” she murmurs breathily against my skin.
Damn near in my ear.
It sends a vibration straight through me, though I manage to hold onto composure on the outside.
Then she’s gone, slipping out of the kitchen and leaving me behind like I’ve been rendered motionless.
Just about have after the warm, soft feel of her lips on my cheek and the ticklish whisper of her words near my ear.
How could one woman have such a fucking visceral effect on me?
I never thought it possible.
I stare at the empty doorway, my mind spinning. Why do I even give a fuck if it makes her happy to see her parents for Christmas?
I still don’t want her—or anybody—as my wife. I don’t care about sentimental bullshit.
And yet…
My cheek tingles where her lips touched me. I bring my hand up, brushing my fingers over the spot, confused by the strange warmth spreading through my chest.
“I never thought my son could be so determined to be so daft.”
I glance over my shoulder.
Dad stands in the opposite doorway, the one leading to the family den and other parts of the house. He’s dressed in another one of his woolly argyle sweaters, hands at rest in his pants pockets. A fatherly presentation if not for the deep look of disapproval carved onto his face.
He steps into the kitchen, his footsteps heavy on the tile. “I heard you come home. Assumed you’d stop by to brief me on the latest about what the fuck’s going on. Instead you’re in here chitchatting with Oona and your wife.”
“Why don’t you ever say her name?” I counter.
He ignores the question. “I heard you went to Gossier’s for a sit-down with the Bratva.”
“Yeah. So. What about it?”
“It’s been three days since the shooting, Ronan. Three bloody days. From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re dragging your feet. What’re you doing about it?”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Last time I acted on a threat from Dren, you scolded me for killing Amar. You acted like it was rash. So what do you really want? Make up your fucking mind.”
He closes any last distance between us ’til we’re face to face and his cold eyes bore into mine.
