Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
RIAN
Christmas at the Beckett’s is always an exciting affair, but thankfully this year’s excitement is my nieces and nephews wreaking havoc rather than someone breaking into our house to leave calla lilies.
It’s a long story. One we’d all rather put behind us.
Especially Killian and Avery. They’re curled up in front of one of the leather couches in front of the fire after a mammoth Christmas dinner.
It’s the one day of the year my mother insists on cooking herself.
All the staff—except security staff—have the day off.
Avery’s clutching a glass of my family’s champagne, Killian’s sipping my family’s whiskey. Whatever he whispers into her ear puts a giant smile on her face.
Jealousy stabs my sternum.
Not because I have any affection for Avery—not like that anyway.
But because I long for what they have. But with my heart so invested in a woman who’s already taken, it’s hard to imagine that’ll ever be a possibility for me.
My mother, Vivienne, and father, Alexander, are watching Scarlett and James sitting on the floor playing Monopoly—the Irish version—with their daughters, Harper and Halle, and Caelon and Ivy’s kids, Orla and Owen. James Junior is stuck to Scarlett’s chest. Caelon Junior is stuck to Ivy’s.
The sixteen foot Christmas tree twinkles from the corner of the room, flames lick and crack over the logs in the large open fireplace, and the scent of roast turkey and pine fills the air, but yet I still don’t feel festive.
Something’s missing.
Someone.
Where is she today?
Are they at Anthony’s parents’?
He normally calls me every Christmas. Has done since we were kids, but today, I’ve heard nothing.
Part of me wants to ring him, but part of me welcomes the distance forming between us over the past month.
I’m not sure if it’s because we’ve grown into two very different men, or because he’s starting to get the inkling I have feelings for his wife.
It should bother me, but today, I can’t bring myself to care.
I help myself to another large glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the sideboard and turn to Sean.
He and Layla are standing at the huge windows overlooking the frost dusted lawn.
I nod towards the babies at their mother’s breasts.
‘One thing about Beckett boys—we all love the boobs. I swear it’s innately woven into our DNA. ’
‘Rian!’ my mother scolds from across the room. Her eyesight might be wavering slightly but there’s certainly nothing wrong with her ears.
‘Is that all you ever think about?’ Sean snorts, and Layla shakes her head. Hard to believe this woman is the daughter of the King and Queen of England, even if they no longer recognise her as that. Despite being raised in a palace, Layla is so down to earth.
‘So when are you guys going to tie the knot?’ I motion to the giant diamond ring on Layla’s fourth finger.
‘We’re in no rush,’ Layla says, twisting her face up to gaze at Sean.
‘Well, if you need a best man.’ I shrug, ‘We all know that’s me,’ I joke, swirling my whiskey around the tumbler.
‘Yes, you’re an expert on all the best man duties—including shagging the bridesmaids,’ Sean says, shaking his head wryly.
‘Gross! At least he won’t be shagging your bridesmaid, Sean!’ Zara exclaims, appearing beside us. ‘Because we all know Layla’s going to ask me!’
Layla and Sean exchange a look. ‘I thought I’d left the politics in England,’ she laughs.
‘This is why we should run away and get married abroad. Rome might be nice,’ Sean beams at her, pressing a kiss to her temple.
‘Get a room, will you?’ I roll my eyes. My words come out sharper than I intend. It’s been happening more frequently lately. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up the persona. To be the joker. The life and soul, when my soul belongs to someone I can never have.
My phone vibrates in my pocket then. I pull it out and stare at the screen.
Anthony.
He hasn’t forgotten our tradition after all.
I swipe to answer, stalking out of the large living room and into the hall. Instinctively, I head towards the ballroom—the last place I saw Rebekka.
‘Hello?’ I hold the phone to my ear as I walk past family portraits and the gilded landscapes lining the walls.
‘Merry Christmas, Rian!’ Anthony’s voice booms through the phone, and with those three words I can tell he’s been drinking—a lot.
‘Merry Christmas, man.’ I reach the ballroom. It’s eerily quiet and empty in comparison to the last time I was in it—a bit like myself.
‘You having a good day?’ Anthony asks. Christmas music echoes through the phone. He sounds like he’s in a bar.
‘The usual.’ It’s hard to muster up any enthusiasm, but I try, for the sake of twenty-five years of friendship. ‘At my parents’ drinking with the brothers. What about you?’
I wince, preparing myself. As much as I hate the thought of Rebekka being miserable, imagining the two of them snuggling up on the couch like Killian and Avery are kills me equally as much. Imagining him touching her. Imagining them sharing the same bed.
My stomach twists.
I’m certain my friend will be putting on a good show of being a devoted husband in front of his parents and his in-laws, or whoever else is at the De Courcy manor today. It sickens me, knowing he’s been shagging his PA, and fuck knows who else all year. It’s bullshit. Utter bullshit.
‘Oh, I’m working this year,’ Anthony announces smugly.
‘Working?’ I splutter. ‘It’s Christmas Day.’
‘Yeah, not in Dubai, it isn’t. I’m closing a deal with one of the banks here. It couldn’t wait. Hang on a second, Ri.’ A muffling sound follows, then, ‘Two more sex on the beach, please.’
Yeah, sounds like my friend is doing a lot of work today.
More rustling follows then, ‘Sorry, I’m back now.’
‘I’m surprised you got that one by your mother.’ No more than my own parents, Marianne De Courcy is a very traditional woman.
‘Oh, they decided to go skiing for three weeks, so that got me off the hook. Nothing worse than stuffy family dinners, playing happy families and all that bullshit, right?’
‘Hmm…’ I happen to like family dinners and all that bullshit.
Mainly because my brothers are my best friends, and even though my nieces and nephews make a lot of fucking noise, they’re kind of fun to hang out with.
‘So, how’s Rebekka enjoying the sun?’ Something deep inside screamed at me to ask, even though I’m not sure I’m ready for the answer.
‘Rebekka?’ Anthony scoffs. ‘I’m pretty sure she’s enjoying twenty-four degrees of the penthouse’s finest underfloor heating, unless she got off her ass and built herself a fire. I’m here with Sorcha—I’m working, remember.’ His low laughter drifts across the miles.
I knew he was an asshole, but this is a brand new all-time low, even for him.
Rage rises in my ribcage, swirling like a fucking riptide. ‘You what?’
‘Ah, come on, Rian, you know what it’s like.’ He chortles again.
‘Actually, I don’t. Fucking hell, Anthony. It’s Christmas Day, for fuck’s sake.’ I pace the ballroom, my shoes thwacking off the marble floor then bouncing off the walls. ‘A holy day, and you’re away with your fucking mistress,’ I spit.
‘Fuck’s sake, Rian,’ Anthony’s tone sharpens. ‘When did you become so fucking religious?’
‘I’m not religious, and you damn well know I’m not.’ I rake my hands through my hair. My fingers are actually fucking shaking with rage. ‘But if I had a wife like yours, I’d fucking worship her.’
‘But you don’t have a wife, Rian, because no one forced you into marriage at twenty-four. So mind your own fucking business. Merry fucking Christmas.’ The phone goes dead.
‘Fuck,’ I shout at nobody, my curse echoing off the walls.
My pulse thunders through my ears, but not loud enough to drown out the voice niggling me inside.
Call on her.
Check on her.
Wish her a Merry Christmas at least.
I’m scrolling through my contacts before the thought has even finished rolling through my brain.
I hit dial, barely daring to breathe as the phone rings and rings and rings.
Eventually, it connects. ‘Baby Beckett,’ Rebekka slurs. Her voice hits me like a punch to the chest.
I ache for her.
I ache to be with her.
I ache for everything that we can never have.
But despite everything, despite the hurt inside, even hearing her voice brings a smile to my lips. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she says.
‘Merry Christmas, Rebekka.’ I clear my throat. ‘I thought we dispelled the baby myth, though?’
‘Ha!’ She laughs, and I wonder exactly how much she’s had to drink. ‘Maybe I keep saying it because I’m still hoping you’ll make good on your threat and show me.’
‘Careful what you wish for, sweetheart. It’s Christmas after all. Wishes tend to come true this time of year.’ A grin splits open my face. This woman.
‘Not mine,’ she sighs then, the full weight of the sadness in her tone strikes me like a sledgehammer.
‘Maybe, I can help you with that. Make a wish, and I’ll see if I can make it happen for you.’
‘Okay,’ she pauses, and I think I hear her take a drink. ‘I wish I was married to you instead of that asshole working in Dubai. Can you make that happen?’
My heart splits open, for both of us, but in true Rian style, I use humour to hide the hurt. ‘Are you proposing to me, Rebekka? Because that’s what it sounded like.’
‘I think I am, you know.’ She hiccups. ‘There’s just one teeny, tiny, insignificant—and believe me, I mean insignificant—problem.’ She pauses for effect. ‘I’m already married to somebody else.’
‘He doesn’t deserve you.’ I drop into one of the velvet couches pressed against the far wall.
‘I know, right?’ She laughs, a small, bitter laugh. ‘But I’m learning the hard way that we don’t get what we deserve in this world. We get what we’re given.’
‘Or, we get what we take for ourselves,’ I muse.
‘You going to come over here and take me?’ There’s a daring, flirtatious edge to her tone. It must be the alcohol. Or maybe she’s just finally done with being a good girl while her husband is the baddest bastard around.
‘Sweetheart, if I were to come over there,’ my voice drops dangerously low and husky, ‘I would take you every which fucking way invented.’
A tiny gasp slips from the phone. ‘Maybe we should continue this conversation over FaceTime.’
‘FaceTime isn’t going to cut it, sweetheart,’ I growl. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’