Chapter 10
GRAYSON
I’ve replayed my words to Aoife over and over in my mind since I left her apartment. They, along with her tantalizing hips grazing mine and the dense scent of her in her apartment, kept me company in the shower later that day.
Then they wouldn’t leave me the rest of the week. I know there’s truth to them, but she doesn’t, and it’s not my place to push it.
Aoife watches the slanting snow dancing in the headlights of oncoming traffic. The anxiousness of the past week all leaves when she’s in my car. When it’s just the two of us in this space. I like her here.
I like her here with me.
I’m not sure why I used my night off to take her here, but it stems from my observation of her apartment, and then the realization I was being hypocritical. I don’t have a Christmas tree either.
She sits upright as the Christmas tree farm comes into view. Steely clouds stretch low, blocking out any starlight, but the place glows anyway. Strings of colored Christmas lights drape along the eaves of the corrugated metal roof, threading through the rows of trees.
Her eyes widen on the old blue building that grows larger as we approach. “Grayson …”
I smile, watching her and nearly running into another car backing out of a parking spot.
Her face is lit with joy, and it consumes me.
It’s not until I whip into the emptied spot that I realize there isn’t a space close for Ronan.
However, he proves undeterred as he parks perpendicularly behind me, blocking me in.
Well, I guess that’s one way to keep me from taking off with her.
Aoife bounces out of the car, looking over the frosted evergreens. The faint hum of “O Christmas Tree” plays on the speakers strung up on wooden poles throughout the yard, and when I exit the car, she’s singing along. I shove my hands deep into my pockets.
Shit.
Her plump lips part as awe twinkles in her lurid eyes, and I wonder if she knows she’s the only thing worth looking at amongst all this holiday cheer. I wonder if she knows I can’t look away.
She sucks in a long inhale. “Smell that? Ugh, all that pine scent is beautiful. How did you find this place?”
I take a breath, wanting to smell what she does. The pine in the cold air is sharp, and it ushers in memories. “My parents used to bring us when we were young. It’s been around a long time.”
My brother and I used to race through the rows of trees, spilling our hot chocolate and completely disregarding my parents’ instructions.
It was one of the few times my perfect brother would get into trouble with me.
Of course, they made us go to confession for our unruly conduct, which in retrospect was young-kid behavior, but to them it was a slight on God.
“I didn’t even know this was here. My dad used to have one delivered.”
Ronan steps out of the car, his leather jacket not looking warm enough, but he doesn’t flinch when a flurry of flakes blows across his cheeks.
“Come on,” I say. “The best part is getting to pick out your own tree.” Moving toward her, I usher her forward, placing a hand along her back. She shudders, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s from the cold or my touch.
“And whose tree are we picking out?” she asks.
“Ronan’s.”
She lets out another burst of laughter, this time not sarcastic but full of life. My fingers greedily flex around her hip, and I haul her into me. “We’ll pick out one for my place. It’s as you’d assume, void of any Christmas decorations.”
She beams at me as we walk past several families with kids running around, their own hot chocolate splashing over the sides.
But instead of reprimands, their parents giggle and laugh along with them.
Couples are scattered through the aisles of trees, pointing and arguing over which trees are the best. One is too tall; the other too “Charlie Brown.” Fresh hanging wreaths and garland dot the archway into the big building where the farm has its own store.
“So how big can you get?” Aoife asks, moving ahead of me and spinning between several precut potted trees.
I close my eyes for half a second at her words and shake my head.
Ronan shoves me between the shoulder blades, and I turn, cutting him a dark, venomous look. He steps back.
“I have eight-foot ceilings in my studio, so we can’t go any taller than that.”
We?
Aoife nods, gaze going serious as she inspects each tree down the row.
She leaps to the next one and bends down, checking underneath it.
The outline of her gun, holstered somewhere behind her, is such a dichotomy at the moment.
Her whirling excitement amidst such an innocent holiday like Christmas, and the butt of her gun pressing cold into her side.
If there were a metaphor for who Aoife O’Donnell is, it’s that one.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she kneels again at the next tree.
“Looking to see if they’ve predrilled these.”
I chuckle, then reach down to haul her up.
She pops up—too light for the force of nature she is.
She falls into me, and her breath hitches as I wrap an arm around her to keep her upright.
Those wide blue eyes stare up at me. Has she been this relaxed since I’ve met her?
Damn it. Has she been this untroubled since given her burden—because that’s what it is, a burden.
Inside, my heart snarls at Kieran O’Donnell for strapping his daughter with this life.
His beautiful, curious daughter saddled with a life of botched weapon shipments and the stress of keeping each one of her men and their families safe.
I hate him. I hate him for what he stands for and for what he saddled his own flesh and blood with.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, and I realize I’m scowling.
“Nothing,” I say, moving a piece of hair from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear.
Snow beads her lashes as she lowers them, and when she tilts her face into my touch, something inside me goes quiet and greedy all at once.
I want her lips on mine, but in this moment, I want to memorialize her expression even more.
My thumb lingers at the hollow of her cheek, learning the map of her warm skin against my cold fingertips.
I lean in, tasting the winter air between us.
Her breath puffs against my mouth, and she releases a tiny hitch when I press closer.
For a heartbeat, I can feel her mouth on mine.
Then I stop, forehead resting against hers.
Hell, I think to myself. Don’t make me want you like this.
Clearing my throat, I drop my hand. “Let’s get a tree. Looks like Ronan is freezing his balls off.”
Aoife blinks, a flash of disappointment running across her face before she smiles once more. “Okay. I think this one.” She points to a tree I’m almost positive will not fit in my studio apartment.
“It’s too tall,” I say.
“Nope.” She pops the p. “I measured it in my mind, and it works.”
“How about that one?” I point to a petite, weaker-looking tree.
Her face contorts. “What? No. That’s one of those Charlie Brown trees.”
As soon as she says it, my mind flashes to the couple from earlier having this exact discussion.
Hell. We sound like a couple. We could never be, but my mind wanders, allowing the thought to grow and tumble until it’s not just a snowball of thought, but a giant boulder careening toward a cliff.
This could be us every year, leaving work and driving through the snow to pick out a Christmas tree for our house.
Then it could be us and our son, taking him for the first time to pick out his tree.
He’d have hot chocolate, and Aoife would laugh at the brown mustache hovering over his lips, even as he used the collar of his shirt to wipe it.
We’d decorate it when we got home. I’d do the lights while Aoife poured us drinks and popped popcorn.
Then together we’d trim the tree with a wide array of ornaments, some new, some old.
After our son went to bed, I’d scoop her up and tease the stress of her day away in our bed, over and over and over again.
I snap straight, growling at my imagination spiraling out of control.
I laugh inwardly at myself. In what world could the leader of the Irish Mob and a washed-up detective at odds with his own family ever work together?
We could never create the life my brain conjured up.
My lip curls, and I look away. “Fine. We’ll get the tall one. I’ll go get someone to wrap it up.”
I dart away, bolting through the spindly branches that grab at my jacket and toward the barn where the scratchy music grates on my skin.
I push through the doorway, not paying any mind, and bump into a middle-aged kid.
He’s around ten years old, I’d assume, but the cup tumbles out of his hand and the hot liquid lands right on my sweater.
“Shit! What the hell!” I burst out.
“I-I’m sorry, Mister,” the kid squeals, his voice cracking. I blink when a few adults look my way, narrowing their eyes at me.
I rub my forehead and clench my jaw. “It’s fine.” Then, I reach into my wallet, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. “Here. It was my fault anyway.”
Slowly, he reaches for it, plucking it from my fingers. “Hey! Thanks!” He speeds off, back toward the hot chocolate stand for another cup.
I sigh. This was a bad idea. Why did I get the notion to bring Aoife here?
It was supposed to be a peace offering. A way to show her I, too, don’t have a tree and that’s okay.
Or was it to spend more time with her? I don’t know.
All I know is that I’m leaving here with a gut punch because of what I want, who I want.
The silence on the way back to my apartment isn’t the subdued kind one cherishes when comfortable and content. No, it’s aggravating and pinched between us in an unsettling way. Add to the fact that Ronan is on my ass, his lights blinding me as I overthink everything.
I’m falling for Aoife, and not in the she’s pretty-cool-and-gorgeous type of way. It’s in the mind-numbing I-can’t-think-of-anyone-else way.
When I finally pull into the parking space, tree strapped to my roof and all, I turn to her. “I know it’s late.”
She glances at the clock. 9:08 p.m. Then she looks back at me, lifting my cigarette carton and handing it to me. “I get it, Detective.”
My brow creases. What does she get? And why does she always call me that when she’s putting up walls between us?
Despite my internal torment, I still want her to decorate the tree, but it may have to be another time, some other night.
“I still need to get Christmas lights to put on this thing,” I say.
“I hadn’t thought of that until we pulled up to the farm that I realized I’m flying off the cuff on this one. ”
“I get it, Grayson. I’ll have Ronan take me home.”
I snatch her hand. “No, you don’t get it. Let me—”
“You’re right. It’s late, and I have an early morning call with—scratch that. Not something I should say in front of the law.”
I frown. She’s shutting down, and I’m ruining the evening I’d pictured. “When can I see you again?” The question bolts from me before I can suffocate the words.
“I’ll see you around, Detective. Thank you for taking me to pick out the tree. I needed the break, more than you know.” She scrambles out of the car, and before I can swallow the thick knot in my throat, she’s hopped into the SUV and is gone.
I sit stunned at the whirlwind of the night.
Opening my box of cigarettes, I take one out, light it, and pull in a long, measured drag.
The ember flares to life in the darkness of the car.
This is getting complicated, and I need to put this to bed before I can’t turn back. Aoife O’Donnell is not mine to have.
I repeat that to myself as I get out of my car and as I haul the tree into my apartment by myself.
It’s a studio, stripped down to the basics, so I easily drag the tree across the scuffed wood floor.
Needles fall over the gray rug that delineates the living room from where my bed is smushed against the wall.
The one thing I do have for the tree is the stand, and I shove it in there, growling when the tree top bends at the ceiling because it doesn’t fit.
I told her it was too tall.
I can actually hear her pop that little p of hers in my mind.
It takes several seconds of my standing there, glaring at the tree, to snap out of my engrossing thoughts of Aoife, and my phone dinging is the only reason I do.
Grabbing for it, I stumble over the steel-legged coffee table and plop onto my overly flat couch.
There’s a quiet jolt through me as I open my messages.
Aoife and I have never spoken or texted on the phone, so I’m not sure why I respond as if it could be her.
I glance down.
It’s not.
REED
Did you know the Irish have twice as many men as any other crime organization in Boston?
I contemplate his message. No, I didn’t know that, but I’m also wondering why he felt the need to text that tonight. I respond with a quick huh, then ditch my phone on the couch and move into my kitchenette.
It’s not fancy, not like Aoife’s place. My fridge hums between gray cabinets, and the puny sink inside the quartz countertops fits about two plates and a pan.
My parents have been here once, and their only comment was that perhaps God was telling me I could’ve done better if I’d listened and honored my parents. They never came again.
I glance out of the bay window at the brick building nestled next to mine.
It’s pointless to have blinds when the view is a patchwork of rust-red and brown.
Next to the window is a thin desk, wide enough for my computer and a stack of case files I wasn’t supposed to remove from work.
Above it, I’ve pinned a Boston PD calendar to the wall.
Thick black Sharpie marks down the days in December, the remaining ones dwindling.
Opportunities to get answers on this case before Christmas are also dwindling.
I glance at the weekend with the charity ball, which is in sizable red letters.
My parents will be there. A charity ball has the Holtz name all over it. I sigh.
Focusing on this case needs to be my priority, Reed’s priority.
I don’t have time to be chasing a fantasy about spending time with Aoife.
Picking her up for random adventures, keeping her safe in the front seat of my car, or having her as mine.
If she could even be mine. No, right now, I don’t have time to feel anything but alone.