Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWIGGY
The entire cabin smells like sex and sin, and it’s well past noon before Bran finally lets me leave the bed.
My thighs ache in a way that feels obscene and satisfying, my skin is tender everywhere his mouth has been, and my core pulses with the lingering echo of him.
I pause in the doorway and glance back.
He’s sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung over his head, the sheet riding low on his hips. The harsh lines that usually live between his brows are gone, smoothed out into something almost boyish. Peaceful.
The sight twists something in my chest.
Those lines are there because of people like me. Because Kael sends him to clean up messes, guard liabilities, babysit trouble.
Because Henry Thurston decided he needed to put me in my place.
I shut the bedroom door quietly and stand in the middle of the little living area for a second, letting my brain spin.
If Henry had never come back.
If he hadn’t gone to Cotton’s farm.
If Miguel hadn’t—
My throat tightens. I shove the thought away.
Not for the first time, I wish the last week had gone differently. That I’d somehow seen further ahead. That my presence hadn’t painted a target on the people I love.
I walk over to the picture window and peer out at the ridge. Bare trees, gray sky, a thin scrape of snow in the shadows. Somewhere down the dirt road, Scully is probably dozing in his car, pretending not to be on guard duty.
I hate that they’re all here because of me.
Still.
I tilt my head, considering, as I pace back toward the sofa. It’s not entirely accurate to say “nothing good” came out of this.
Miguel is dead. Cotton is scared. Henry is out there.
But I got Bran.
That counts for something I don’t have a word for yet.
I don’t know exactly what this is between us, but I like it. I like the way he says Tallulah in that deep rumble, like it’s something worth saying. I like that he looks at me like I’m more than a brain attached to a keyboard.
What I don’t like is being in the mountains with no real connection, no full rig, no—
My rambling train of thought derails when my gaze snags on a bag by the door.
That looks suspiciously like my laptop bag.
I cross the room in three quick strides, heart kicking up, and unzip it.
A ridiculous little squeal escapes me when I see the familiar black rectangle inside. I yank my laptop out like it’s Christmas morning.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Hello, beloved.”
I have no idea when it arrived, and I don’t really care. What I do care about is why Bran didn’t tell me I had it. I could’ve been on it all day.
Which, now that I think about it, is probably exactly why he didn’t say anything.
“Neanderthal,” I mutter, dropping onto the sofa and flipping it open.
The screen wakes; the date down in the corner catches my eye. November 28.
Thanksgiving Day.
I freeze, fingers hovering over the trackpad.
I’d completely lost track of time. The last week has been this blur of sirens and blood and Bran and fear. Seeing the date is like someone yanking a curtain back.
It was only last Thursday that we’d just had Friendsgiving at Cotton’s…
just a week ago. All of us crowded around her long table, Sammy complaining that we’d never have enough mashed potatoes, Brodie stealing bacon off the green beans, Shy and Gunner bickering over who cheated at cards, Jack pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself half as much as he actually was.
Has it really only been a week since then?
Since laughter and pie and Henry Thurston still being mostly a file and a ghost, instead of a man at my window?
It feels like so much longer.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Work mode. Do something.”
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I scan for available networks. There’s a locked one from the rental company and another nearby. It takes me about thirty seconds to slide past their password protection and piggyback onto their signal.
“Hello, free Wi-Fi. I will not abuse you. Probably.”
Lucy Falls news sites. Social feeds. Local forums. Cop blogs masquerading as true-crime threads. I start opening tabs on autopilot, part of me already assembling timelines, looking for mentions of Miguel, of Cotton’s farm, of Henry.
“Why am I a Neanderthal?”
Bran’s voice right beside my ear makes me jerk so hard my laptop wobbles.
“Jesus,” I yelp, clutching it to my chest. “Wear a bell.”
He chuckles, warm breath brushing over the side of my neck as he leans in to press a kiss there. Goosebumps race down my spine.
“Why am I a Neanderthal, baby?” he asks, lips ghosting my skin. “I got your computer for you.”
I tip my head to glare up at him, which is less effective when my pulse is doing cartwheels.
“And then you failed to tell me about it because you were too busy screwing my brains out,” I accuse.
“You loved every minute of it,” he says, entirely without shame.
I make a face. “And that’s the only reason you’re forgiven. Be happy you have a good dick.”
His mouth curls into a wicked, dimpled grin. “I have a fecking great dick,” he corrects, moving around the back of the sofa to drop down beside me. “What are you doing?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.” I drag in a breath. “I just needed to do something, you know? Check on things in Lucy Falls, make sure the world didn’t implode without me. Did you realize what day it is?”
Before I can click into my first tab, his hand comes over mine, big and gentle, and he very deliberately closes the laptop.
“I do know,” he says. “And I also know you’ll drive yourself mad with that screen if I let you. Let’s go for a drive. Get some Thanksgiving dinner. I know a place that serves a great one.”
I eye him dubiously. “And I can log back on later?”
“Of course.” No hesitation, no patronizing caveat. Just a yes.
“Okay, then.” I snap the laptop shut myself this time. “That sounds nice. Just let me get some clothes on.”
I stand, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt.
His gaze follows the movement, heat sharpening his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I kinda like the T-shirt.”
“Cretin,” I mutter, but my cheeks are hot as I flee back to the bedroom.
The restaurant Bran takes me to is the kind of place you only find if you know exactly where it is—half-hidden down a side road, parking lot full of pickup trucks and a few beat-up sedans.
Inside, it’s dim and warm, all wood paneling and mismatched holiday decorations.
A tiny artificial tree lists in the corner under the weight of too many ornaments.
The air smells like turkey and sage and pie crust, the clink of silverware underscored by low conversation and the occasional burst of kids’ laughter. A country song hums quietly from a speaker near the bar.
Our waitress seats us in a back booth, away from most of the noise. The vinyl sticks to the backs of my thighs through my leggings, but the wine is tart, the rolls are soft, and for the first time in days, my shoulders start to unclench.
I’m mellow when the question slips out.
“Do you really go to the bar on Christmas?” I ask, then wince and clap a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. If you’re in a bar on Christmas, you probably don’t want to talk about why.”
Bran shakes his head, expression easy. “It’s all good. It’s like I said—the Irish are my family now. With my parents gone, it’s just another day.” He shrugs. “Easier than sitting in an empty house, staring at walls.”
I nod, pushing a piece of turkey through gravy. “Yeah. Empty houses are overrated.”
He takes a sip of his drink, eyes flicking to me over the rim. “What are your Christmases like?”
I chew slowly, considering how much to say. There are things he probably already knows, just from being tied into Kael’s world. The broad strokes. Not the details.
“You know my father died just a couple of years before my mother, right?” I ask.
“Yes.” His voice goes quieter. “Heart attack?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, looking past him, back into a living room lit with white Christmas lights and the glitter of glass ornaments. “He died on Christmas Day. We didn’t have the greatest relationship. He was very focused on my talents. My intelligence, and how it could be utilized.”
His brows pull together; he starts to say something, but I wave a hand, cutting him off.
“It was a long time ago,” I say. “It’s just that I felt guilty for a long time for feeling kind of relieved that he was gone, you know?
The thing was, my mother refused to let his death ruin the holidays for me.
She made it her mission to make them more special.
Like…she was determined that when I thought of Christmas, the first thing that came to mind wasn’t the EMTs in our driveway. ”
The restaurant blurs a little at the edges as I talk, replaced by memory.
“She did it all,” I say softly. “She cut pine boughs and gathered holly from the edges of our property. Hung mistletoe in every doorway. Wrapped presents exclusively from Santa so I wouldn’t see her handwriting and connect it.
Baked sugar cookies and let me drown them in sprinkles.
We’d hang icicles on the tree last so they’d catch the lights. ”
In my mind, she’s there, holding up the tiny blown-glass hummingbird to the window, tilting it so the winter sun turns the living room walls green and blue.
A bit of magic, Tally, she’d say. Even in the coldest month.
My voice drops to a whisper. “It was…special. It felt like the whole house turned into this little pocket of magic she built just for me.”
“I’m sorry, Tally,” Bran says quietly. “I know you miss her.”
I blink hard; a tear threatens at the corner of my eye, and I swipe it away before it can fall.
“Mom died a couple of years ago,” I say.
“Metastatic breast cancer. She fought it for a long time—years of chemo and remissions and ‘we think we got it this time,’ and then…she didn’t.
By the end, she was so tired.” My throat tightens, memory and grief twisting together.
“She still tried to hang the hummingbird, even when she could barely stand up. I had to help her loop it on the branch.”
I can hear the little chime of glass as it bumped the lights.
“She told me to make sure it went on the tree every year,” I finish, voice thin. “Said as long as it did, some part of her would still be there. Watching.”
The last word cracks.
Bran’s hand reaches across the table, covering mine where it curls around my fork. His palm is warm and broad, thumb rubbing once along my knuckles.
He doesn’t say I’m sorry again, or it’ll be okay. He just holds on.
We sit like that for a moment in the quiet bubble of our booth, the sounds of other people’s holidays muffled around us.
“I have an idea,” he says eventually.
I sniff, dragging in a shaky breath. “Uh-oh.”
“Let’s get a tree,” he says. “With all the bells and whistles. Lights. Tinsel. A place of honor for your hummingbird. I’ll send someone to get it, bring it here.”
I blink. “What?”
“A Christmas tree,” he repeats, lips quirking. “You just spent two minutes telling me how your mother alchemized the worst day of your life into something magical. Seems only right to keep that going, yeah?”
I hesitate. The idea sends a little flare of warmth through my chest and a corresponding stab of guilt.
Because I know what tomorrow is.
“I need to tell you something,” I say. “About tomorrow.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “That tone doesn’t sound good.”
“Can we get the tree for my house instead?” I ask.
“We need to stay here—”
“We can come back.” The words tumble out in a rush. “I promise, we can come right back. I just…I need to go back to Lucy Falls. Just for a day or two.”
His jaw tightens. “Why?”
“Because I gave my word,” I say, shoulders squaring. “Mrs. Yates at the toy shop downtown? She asked me years ago to be one of Santa’s helper elves for Black Friday. She said I was short and skinny and looked like an elf, and it kind of stuck. I’ve done it every year since. The kids expect it.”
I huff out a breath, the ache I’ve been ignoring all morning sharpening.
“I realized earlier that it’s tomorrow,” I say. “Black Friday. If I don’t show up, they’ll be swamped. And the kids will be disappointed. I can’t…after everything else that’s happened this week, I can’t add myself to the list of things that let them down.”
“Santa’s helper, huh,” Bran says slowly. “Like…for kids?”
I roll my eyes. “No, for fucking grownups. Of course for kids. I sit on a stool next to Santa and hand out candy canes and tell them their drawings are masterpieces, and once in a while somebody brings me their broken toy to see if I can fix it, and I—” My voice catches; I crush my napkin in my fist. “I love it. The look on their faces when they see Santa, the way they light up when you remember their names.”
He watches me, something complicated moving behind his eyes.
He heaves a resigned sigh. “I’m going to say yes,” he says. “But only because kids are involved. Not because I can’t tell you no.”
Relief floods me so fast it makes me lightheaded. I duck my head so he doesn’t see the stupid smile tugging at my mouth.
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but there’s no real heat in it. He glances at his watch, then around for the waitress. “We’d better get on the road, then, if we’re going to make the drive back before it’s too late.”
He catches the server’s eye and lifts a hand.
“Check, please,” he calls.
As she nods and disappears toward the register, his fingers find mine under the table again, squeezing once.
We’re going back into the lion’s den.
Back to Lucy Falls. Back to my apartment and my sad little tree and the hummingbird waiting in its tissue paper.
Back to a town that feels less like home than it did a week ago.
But I won’t be walking into it alone.