Chapter 19
Fallon
Basil presides from the center of my cocktail table like a leafy judge while I arrange my planning materials. With color-coded index cards and highlighters, one for each event, I make my presentation to the chairman of the board.
My boyfriend.
Rhys sits across from me on the sofa, arms folded like this is a tribunal. He hasn’t even touched the black tea I put out for him. A sure sign he’s terrified.
“Okay. Friendsgiving potluck.” I click my pen. “That’s the warm-up. Like running in place before a marathon.”
His mouth tightens. “Warm-up for what? A siege of elves?”
I giggle and slide him the detailed spreadsheet. He flinches at the several pages stapled together with notes and ideas.
“The holiday season,” I remind him.
I glance at Basil, and he shakes his leaves, but Ivy’s vines tingle, her signal of encouragement. Or maybe that’s the air vent.
“I vote we bring a skillet fried apple dish,” I announce.
‘Great, more screaming on the horizon,’ Basil grumbles about the apples that will need to be cut up and deep fried.
“Do I get a vote?” Rhys asks.
I cock my head. “We can vote, but it will be four to one.”
“Four?”
“Basil, Ivy, and Fern.” I point to my committee. “And me.”
“The plants... Right.”
I stare at Rhys, all six-foot-four of him. “What is your favorite side dish from Thanksgiving?”
He pulls his brows together. “I’m from Ireland, we don’t celebrate that.”
“Right.”
Rhys glances at Ivy. “Any suggestions about what I should wear to Potsgiving?”
I roll my eyes. “Friendsgiving. Potluck. But Basil says to wear your softest sweater, so people find you nonthreatening.”
He blinks. “And you know for a fact people usually find me threatening?”
“Yes,” I say, nearly scoffing. “Everyone does.”
Basil leans slightly toward Rhys as if to agree. Rhys looks at him like he might punt the poor thing out my window.
“Do you find me threatening?” Rhys asks me, voice low and husky.
I think about that and reach into my brain to the first time I saw him. He was rushing down the hall, head lowered and muttering into his phone: I’ll rip your head right off your fucking neck, mate.
“I agree that you look threatening.” I draw a breath. “But you’d never hurt me, would you?”
“No,” he says without hesitation, then stares at Ivy. “Any requests for color?”
“Themes, not color,” I exhale. “We’ll be matching. I’ll send you a text with the options. Santa, Rudolph, or a Christmas tree with bows.” I grip my chin, staring at the whiteboard. “I need to add outfits to this.”
“I feel like I’ve been conscripted,” he mutters.
“Holiday military uniforms,” I scoff and add that to the list. “See, you’re contributing. We’re doing this together.” I bend over and hug him.
He stiffens at first, but then gently hugs me back. “What if I don’t like any of the sweaters you pick?”
“Then we have to work in shopping days.” I walk back to the calendar.
“Just the thing I want to do during the holidays in Manhattan.” He sits back and crosses his long legs. “Go shopping.”
“Now the rules,” I add, handing him a new printout. “You must stand near me at all times. People try to talk to me. Sometimes they…touch me. I don’t… I don’t like that.”
His jaw tightens. “No one’s going to touch you. That I can assure you, or they won’t make it to Black Friday.” When he stands up and towers over me, chills go through me. “Only, I touch you.”
“I think we can agree to that one without a vote.” I go breathless, drinking in his stare.
I lean into the whiteboard and add a new box:
Personal Security: HANDLED.