Chapter 49 Talbot
TALBOT
The text comes as I’m at the freight yard, searching for the train to jump that will whisk me across the snowy American countryside to the West Coast.
Hudson: Misty’s gone.
Hudson: You can come back now.
Hudson: God help me, but I’d like to have you around for Christmas.
Talbot: I’m at the train yard already.
Hudson: …
Talbot: I’ll meet you at Gracie’s.
Hudson and Gracie’s freshly renovated Victorian house shimmers like a movie set when I stomp up the wooden stairs, garland wrapped around the railings like it’s trying to strangle the whole house in cheer.
I know it’s freshly renovated because Hudson gang pressed all of us into helping him finish the house—we stripped floors, redid electrical, the whole goddamn HGTV nightmare.
When I buy a house, it’s going to be a big white box with no wood that needs to be refinished, no charm, no fucking crown molding, and definitely no plaster. Took years off my life doing all that plaster work.
Not that I’ll ever have a house. Not without her. Every time I picture it, I see Misty there—laughing at how serious I look when I cook, sitting at the kitchen table in one of my sweatshirts, feet in my lap, her corgi begging for food.
I’d come home to her. Every night. After a long, honest day of—
Right. Killing people for money.
Jingle bells peal when I ring the doorbell.
“You can just come in like a normal person.” Hudson throws the front door open. “You don’t have to knock.”
“The front door’s locked. I’m not coming through the back door. I’m not your hired help.”
“Someone’s in a fantastic mood. Loving that holiday spirit.” Elsa waves.
The house smells like cinnamon and pine and smug marital satisfaction.
Anderson glances up from the couch, where he’s sitting with Evie, his girlfriend. “You’re being a dick.”
“You invited me.”
He shrugs. “We regret it every time.”
“Bacon-wrapped green beans?” Jake offers.
“Again with the Thanksgiving food.” I crack my neck, shoulders tight.
Elsa is rocking on her feet, giant mug of coffee in her hands.
Jake’s eyeing her. “You drink caffeine way too late at night.”
“It’s not late. I didn’t sleep last night.” Slurp. “Okay, the waiting is killing me. You have to open it,” Elsa begs.
I shrug off my jacket. It’s too warm in the living room.
“Open what?”
Jake tosses a package at me. “Open it.”
“It’s Christmas... now!” The clock chimes. It’s midnight.
“Merry Christmas.” Gracie kisses Hudson.
I hesitate then take the box like it’s going to explode. With my knife, I carefully slit the gold-and-red paper. Inside is a sweater. Ugly, soft, hand-knit. There’s a tiny café embroidered on it in crooked thread. “Cheese Hub,” it says.
I’m still staring at it when I find the Polaroid at the bottom of the box.
It’s Cocoa Puff wearing a matching sweater, tongue out, blurry as she’s mid tail wiggle. In the background, Misty’s half grimacing, like she didn’t mean to be in the shot but didn’t move fast enough.
Made one for Cocoa too. She’s modeling it now, but she won’t remember when she opens it again on Christmas. Merry whatever. —M
I sit down hard on the edge of the armchair, sweater still in my lap.
“So, are you bringing her over for Christmas dinner?” Gracie asks.
“I—”
“Come on, you know you’re in love with her.” Hudson smirks.
I carefully fold the sweater. “I’m not. I mean, I am, but it can’t work. I have to be a hitman. And a hitman can’t run a cheese shop attached to a café,” I say desperately.
Hudson leans back, eyeing me like I’m an idiot—which, to be fair, I might be.
“That’s actually a perfect cover, dumbass. You were all over that last job. The press is scrutinizing the Langley job. You need to lie low for a bit.”
Jake nods. “You’re way too recognizable now. You need to disappear for a while.”
“So you can do it in Maplewood Falls, or I guess we can ship you off to Idaho or something,” Hudson says.
“Send him to Idaho,” Anderson calls from the kitchen. “So he stops stealing my bike.”
“You don’t appreciate that bike,” I shout back.
My siblings start squabbling.
I stare at that sweater. At the Polaroid. At the life I keep pretending I don’t want.
It’s just past three a.m. on Christmas morning. Maplewood Falls is dead quiet. No headlights. No footsteps. Just snow falling like a held breath outside and the scent of pine and sugar wafting from the warm, dark inside.
I slip through the window and into the living room without a sound.
And there she is.
Misty. Asleep in front of the Christmas tree, curled on the couch with a blanket pulled over her knees, and Cocoa snoring in a little lump beside her. Her face is tilted toward the lights, her mouth soft, one hand dangling off the edge like she fell asleep like a kid waiting for Santa.
My heart aches. Could she be waiting for me?
It physically hurts, seeing her like this.
I want to wake her up, kiss her in a frenzy, tell her I’m sorry, tell her I’m home.
Instead, I place the carefully wrapped box next to her on the floor.
Elsa makes extra money over the holidays wrapping presents at the Harrogate Christmas market. I had to promise her I’d bring her fresh oysters back from Seattle if she helped me wrap the little cooler.
I should have just bought a big gift bag. How the hell am I going to smuggle all those oysters?
It’s stupid. Sentimental. A snowman made of burrata, carefully wrapped in parchment and tied with twine. Peppercorn eyes. A carrot nose. A scarf made of basil.
I should go. I mean to go.
But I kneel down next to her, let myself look at her maybe for the last time.
I’d like to think it’s me that makes Cocoa’s nose twitch, but it’s probably the cheese.
The dog wakes with a yip.
“The cinnamon rolls—” Misty snorts awake, sees me there, screams, kicks.
I pounce on the box before she can send it tumbling.
“You’re a hard person to Christmas shop for,” I whisper to her in the low light from the fire.
She watches me warily as I add another log.
“You know,” I tell her, “I did actually change. A little. Where it matters. But not for you—for me. Because I want to be the type of guy who can make a girl like you happy.”
I look at the flames. The log catches, and the fire lights up the room.
She squints at me. “You’re wearing my sweater. I thought you hated me.”
“I know you’re distracted by my handsome face, but I’m insulted that you were just sexualizing me and not actually listening, Gumdrop.” I trail my fingers along her cheek. “I told you. Part of your heart is always mine.”
“I thought you had a job in Seattle. I thought I was never going to see you again.”
“You know I can’t leave you.” I rest my chin on the armrest, stare at her.
Her hand comes up, hesitates, then she strokes my hair, cups my face. I nuzzle into her touch.
“I’ll do it in the New Year. If Fitz calls, you tell him you have no idea where I am, though.
” I kiss her fingertips. “Then I’m supposed to lie low a bit.
Let some of the heat around Austen die. Thought I might hole up in Maplewood Falls.
I saw Bert’s mug shot on Facebook. Sounds like your granny needs a bartender.
If you think you might want to date a part-time hitman, I’d like to take you ice skating.
With the snow and the hot chocolate and the kiss on center ice. All the clichés.”
“So you didn’t just come here to fuck me?” she whispers in the dark.
“I’m not even going to kiss you.” I give her a crooked smile.
“I just wanted to tell you I fell in love with you when I saw you skating. Like you were flying. And I realized, that’s it.
That’s my future. And I’ll do anything to have it.
” I shrug off the jacket. “And I really thought you might beat me to death with a hockey stick, so I’m not prepared for you to be this receptive, or I’d ask you to marry me. ”
“I think I’ve had enough weddings for a while.” Misty laughs sadly.
“I love you, Misty,” I whisper to her in the dark.
“You do?” she breathes.
“Take me back. I want to be your real boyfriend. I could say I want to be your Nutcracker Prince, but I’m probably more of the Rat King. But rats have lots of babies, and I can totally do that. We’ll name them after all the reindeer then act offended when people call us out on it.”
She leans down, cups my face, and presses kisses to my mouth.
“You are a prince. A dark, tattooed one. But it turns out you’re perfect for me.”
“You sure?” I trail my fingers up her thigh under the blanket.
“I love you,” she whispers against my jaw.
I bask in the feel of her. “Never letting you go.”
The firelight dances across our skin as we come together on the old couch, the Christmas tree lights casting everything in warm gold. Her fingers trace the tattoos on my chest while I kiss her neck, tasting the sweetness of her skin mixed with the lingering spice of cinnamon.
Only then, I let myself kiss her mouth.
“Fuck, I missed your cock.” She grabs the collar of my jacket, almost hauling me onto the pillows.
Cocoa yelps, falling off.
I try to reach for her.
“She’ll survive. She needs to exercise anyway, and I need you.”
She kisses me filthily, all teeth and tongue, and I grip her hips and slide my hands up the back of Misty’s shirt.
She bites at my lips and licks the roof of my mouth.
I groan and lift her shirt right off, annoyed at the fabric being in the way of miles of her warm skin.
Misty pulls at the hem of my shirt, and I oblige, pulling it off and over my head.
“Yeah, this is what I need. Wine makes me horny.” She giggles, going for my zipper.
“Shit, Gumdrop.”
“I was seriously thinking I might have to give in and use the sex toy I’m sure Granny Keagan was going to put in my stocking and that expensive sperm off the internet was going to be my future.”
“Well, fuck. I do have condoms, but—”
“My mom”—she pulls back—“will literally kill me if I have a baby if I’m not married. And we’re not eloping. I’m having a nice goddamn wedding for once in my life.”