Chapter 18 Gideon
Gideon
Christmas Eve
If Valencia thinks I’m leaving her alone for Christmas, she’s out of her fucking mind.
I walk back to my apartment, letting the brisk December air cool my temper. I get what she’s doing, and why, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t abandon her.
I’m ... in love with her.
Which is what I should have said instead of all that agreement and deal crap. And maybe I would have if she hadn’t caught me off guard.
Truth is, she’s been catching me off guard since I spotted her in the club.
As I walk, I formulate a plan. Pulling out my phone, I open one of my rarely used social media apps and do a user search. Then I send a private message.
Two seconds later, a reply pops up.
What do you want, Knobble?
I grin. Bingo.
The next evening is Christmas Eve, and I’m waiting in front of the ornate limestone exterior of the Mulhollands’ Park Avenue apartment building when Valencia arrives on foot.
Her expression goes flat when she sees me.
“What are you doing here, Gideon?”
“Oh, we’re back to first names?” I shouldn’t fuck with her, but I can’t help it. When she called me Noble yesterday, she might as well have eviscerated me with a candy cane.
She sends me an exasperated look, but she doesn’t object when I fall into step beside her and enter the building.
The doorman recognizes her and they exchange season’s greetings before we get on the elevator. I’m once again reminded that she must have spent a lot of time here while she was dating, and then engaged to, Mulholland.
“Do not make a scene,” she hisses at me once the elevator doors shut and we begin our ascent.
“I won’t if he doesn’t.”
She heaves a sigh and casts her gaze toward the ceiling. Then she glances at me from the corner of her eye. “Should I take this to mean you’re not going to France?”
“As I told you and my mother, no, I am not going to Paris. I’m staying right here and celebrating Christmas in New York”—I glare at her—“with you .”
The tension in her face eases, and she seems to be on the verge of smiling when the elevator doors open.
When we approach the Mulhollands’ door and knock, it’s opened almost immediately by Fern.
Delicious scents waft toward us, but Fern shoots a look over her shoulder and steps out, shutting the door partway behind her.
“Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, et cetera, et cetera.” She plants a smacking kiss on Valencia’s cheek, then grabs the collar of my coat and pulls me down to do the same.
When she releases me, she turns back to Valencia and winces.
“Ev’s not here yet. I warned him that you were bringing a date, but I didn’t tell him who. ”
Valencia shoots me an accusatory glare. “I didn’t realize I was bringing him, either, or that you two are partners in crime.”
Fern’s tone is utterly unrepentant. “Look, babe, I’m chaotic-neutral at best, and my brother has been a little dipshit this year. He has it coming. I just wanted to warn you ”—she makes finger guns at me—“that Ev is a professional hockey player, and he’s kinda free with his fists.”
I clench my jaw. I’m not a fighter, never needed to be, but I’d make an exception here. Out loud I say, “I’m not worried.”
Valencia covers her face with both hands. “Fucking hell.”
“Should we get this party started?” Fern’s smile is a little too gleeful, but when she opens the door, we follow her in.
I’ve never been here, since Mulholland and I weren’t friends, but I lived only a few blocks away on Fifth Avenue, right across from the Met.
Despite being in the same neighborhood, though, our childhood homes couldn’t be more different.
This apartment is big and warm and colorful, bursting with people, music, and enough mismatched furniture to give my mother the vapors.
“Valencia, honey!” A short woman with caramel-blond highlights who looks like a Gen X version of Fern charges toward us.
She envelopes Valencia in a big hug, and it’s suddenly obvious why we’re here.
Maybe things didn’t work out with the son, but Mulholland’s mom cares about Valencia and clearly misses her.
Then Mrs. Mulholland turns to me, and her expression is one of stunned recognition. “Oh, my goodness, you’re Andrea Noble’s boy! Look how tall you’ve gotten. Remind me of your name, dear. Is it Gabriel?”
“Gideon.” I lean down to let her hug me, too, and something about this whole interaction makes me wish my own mother were here in New York, even though she’d call this level of effusiveness gauche. “Thank you for having us, Mrs. Mulholland. Merry Christmas.”
At my side, Valencia stiffens at the “us,” and I don’t miss the way Mrs. Mulholland’s eyes dart from her to me. But all she says is, “Please, call me Heather.”
There is apparently a whole crew of Mulhollands, and I’m introduced to the father—a stocky, balding man named Patrick—a pair of uncles, their wives, and too many cousins to count. Fern stands apart with a glass of eggnog, watching the proceedings with an anticipatory gleam in her eyes.
No one mentions Everett Mulholland.
Once we’ve made the rounds—and Valencia has handed Heather a bottle of homemade coquito—I pull Valencia into a quiet corner of the living room. “I need to tell you something.”
“Are you doing okay?” She sends me a concerned look.
“Fine. Are you?”
She gives a little shrug. “Could be worse. What did you want to talk about?”
I take her hands and sweep my gaze over her slowly. “I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.”
Her lips part in a bashful grin, and her cheeks turn an endearing shade of pink. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt tucked into a flared, red and black plaid skirt that hits below her knee. It’s tasteful and casual, but still stunning.
Then again, I think she’s gorgeous in a T-shirt and sweatpants.
“You didn’t need to say that, but thank you.”
“I wanted to say it,” I insist. “Just like I want to tell you how fucking strong you are for even entertaining the idea of coming here. You have a kind heart, Valencia Torres. Kinder than any of us deserve.”
Her eyes go soft and dewy, and she opens her mouth to speak. But before she can respond, there’s a commotion at the door.
Mulholland has arrived.
“Merry Xmas, fam!” he shouts, louder than is appropriate for an indoor holiday gathering.
And yes, he really says “Xmas.”
Then his face transforms into a ferocious scowl as he spots Valencia and me holding hands.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” He roars it, and his mother is on his ass in a second, telling him to shut up, but her words have no effect.
Mulholland storms over. He’s big—not as tall as I am but built like the professional athlete he is, with hands the size of dinner plates.
Otherwise, he’s regular-looking with sleepy eyes, short brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and an overlarge nose that’s clearly been broken since the last time I saw him.
I don’t want to fight with this guy in his mother’s living room, but I’m also not letting him get through me to Valencia. I step in front of her, but she, of course, has other plans, and steps in front of me .
“ Him? ” Mulholland sounds apoplectic as he jabs a finger in my direction. Everyone in the room tenses, but I don’t flinch. “This is your date? Gideon Fucking Noble?”
“Everett!” Heather shrieks from the kitchen doorway. “Watch your mouth.”
Mulholland ignores her, but when Valencia snaps, “Lower your voice,” he seems to calm somewhat. He reaches for her, so I reach for him , but Valencia neatly sidesteps his touch and blocks me from grabbing him.
“Whatever you have to say to me, Everett, you can do it in private.” Her tone is prim and professional, and I can suddenly imagine her in court.
“Fine.” He appears to be grinding his teeth as he stomps down a hallway with Valencia two paces behind him.
It takes every ounce of my self-control—and Fern’s hand on my arm—to keep from following them.
Fern watches them go, her brow pinched. “They need to have it out. This has been a long time coming.”
I grunt. “Does it have to be now?”
She sighs. “Now or never.”
But despite leaving the room, their voices carry. Mulholland seems incapable of speaking in a normal volume, something I vaguely remember from school. Valencia’s voice is strained but louder than usual.
“What the fuck, V? You used to hate that guy.”
“I never hated him, and that was a long time—”
“So, what? Is he your new boyfriend?”
“I’m . . . I’m seeing him.”
“ Seeing him?” Mulholland’s voice drips with scornful disbelief. “Fucking him, you mean.”
All the assembled relatives suck in a collective breath, but before anyone can speak, there’s the sound of a slap. I lunge for the hall but Fern grabs me and yanks me back. Mr. Mulholland—Patrick—is already on his way.
Mulholland sounds flabbergasted. “I can’t believe you smacked me!”
“You deserved it.” Valencia’s reply is angrier than I’ve ever heard her. “Who I fuck is none of your goddamned business.”
“It is when you fuck him in my apartment and bring him to my parents’ house!”
Patrick barks, “Apologize to her, now .”
But it’s Valencia’s voice that comes through loud and clear. “Fuck you, Everett. I gave you nine years of my life, and what did you do? You cheated on me and then said it was my fault. You have no say in what I do with my life, who I do it with, or where.”
There’s a gasp, and I see Heather clutching the front of her ugly Christmas sweater. I guess the cheating thing wasn’t common knowledge. I certainly didn’t know.
It makes me hate the guy even more.
Next to me, Fern knocks a phone out of her teenage cousin’s hand. “If you live stream this, I will end you.”
There’s a pause from the hallway, and Mulholland’s voice borders on contrite. “Look, V—”
“No, you don’t get to say anything else to me.” Valencia’s words cut like a knife. “I’d hoped we could be civil for the sake of your family, whom I love very much, but apparently I was wrong. Goodbye, Everett. And go to hell!”
I want to applaud. That’s the love of my life, standing up for herself and telling that jerkwad where to stick it, but when Valencia reappears with tears streaming down her face, everything in me goes cold.
“I’m sorry, everyone.” She dashes at her eyes. “I never meant for ...”
Heather is at her side in an instant, and I’m only a second behind her. I’m vibrating with the need to take Valencia in my arms and spirit her away, but Heather is embracing her, and I don’t want to interrupt.
“Don’t apologize, honey. You’re family. And sometimes families have ups and downs.” Heather pulls back to look Valencia in the eye. “I’ll always be here for you. You know that, don’t you?”
“It’s really nice to hear it.” Valencia’s whisper is high and tight. She’s holding on by a thread. I have to get her out of here.
I’m already stepping forward when Heather turns to me. “Take care of her, won’t you?”
I nod solemnly. “I will, ma’am.”
Fern is waiting at the door with our coats. We’re on our way out when Mulholland reappears, his cheek red and his mouth twisted in anger.
“One more month, V,” he shouts. “And then you better get your skank ass out of my apartment!”
I turn right back around, fists clenched, but two Mulholland cousins grab me by the arms. A red haze clouds my vision, and I’m barely aware of Fern shoving at my chest or Heather Mulholland screaming at her son.
“Don’t do this,” Fern hisses. “Valencia needs you now.”
That gets through to me like nothing else could. Without a word, I swing back to Valencia and usher her into the hallway with an arm around her shoulders.
Fern follows us out, her expression full of regret.
“I’m so sorry, Valencia.” Fern pulls her into a hug. “Part of me knew there was a chance he’d punch Knobble here in his pretty face, but I never thought Ev would be like that to you .”
“He’s always had a temper.” Valencia says this with hollow resignation, and Fern and I exchange a concerned glance. This little display has provided some alarming insight into Valencia and Mulholland’s past relationship.
“You’ll never have to see him again,” Fern promises. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The elevator arrives and Fern passes me a tote bag, which appears to be full of hastily packed food. We murmur our goodbyes to Fern and step on. The second the doors close, I haul Valencia into my arms and hug her with everything I have.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” I grit out, kissing the top of her head. “But you didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way. Please tell me you know that.”
She lets out a shuddering breath and sags against me. I’m all but holding her up.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“I’ll always be here for you,” I say, but this isn’t the place for grand declarations, so I order a car to bring us back to my apartment, where I can bare my soul to her in privacy.