Chapter 43
Fallon
After I wash my hands, Rhys sits me on his bed with strict orders to stay here.
“Please save the plants,” I murmur. “Our plants.”
“I’ll save them, I promise.” He throws on a pair of gray sweats and sneakers and leaves. Minutes later, he comes back with the sole survivor. “The pot is cracked, but hold this one while I clean up.”
I smell the earthy coriander before I see the stem and leaves. “Cory,” I say, and reach for him.
“Hold on, Fal. It’s going to be all right.” Rhys kisses my forehead.
The way he needs me to be strong toughens me up, and it’s easy to hold back the tears. “I got this. Go.”
“You got this. I have faith in you.” Rhys winks at me and heads back to the kitchen.
With the door still half open, the distant clatter of glass being swept, and furniture being dragged back across the hardwood floor, create a movie in my head about the clean-up.
The smell of soil drifts down the hall and clings to me like ghosts of the plants he’s trying to save. But every few minutes, I hear Rhys curse.
He drags a tarp filled with mounds of dirt into the bedroom. Lithe stems and their droopy leaves are flopped over, root balls aching for a new home. “I think I got them all. Talk to them. Tell them they’ll be all right.”
I gently lay Cory and his broken pot on a nightstand, then slither to the floor to assess the plants that we need to save. Leaves bruised, stems split, soil scattered like wrecked ships thrown against the rocks in a hurricane.
“I know you’re scared,” I whisper to them, sitting cross-legged in front of the tarp. My voice wobbles, but I smile to show them bravery. “That was scary. But you’re okay. You’re still here. Just like when I plucked you from the garden.”
Minty’s tiny leaf shivers when I touch her.
“You’re safe now,” I promise. “I’ll fix you.”
My ears are still ringing, not just from the gunshot, but from the fact that I pulled the trigger and killed a man.
That fades when somewhere down the hall, I hear Rhys’s voice rumble low on the phone. His tone is sharp, commanding. “I need the bone saw and more tarps. I’ve run out. Duct tape. And—” After a pause, he adds, “Small planters. Gloves and potting soil. The good kind. Top of the range, mate.”
My heart folds in on itself, hearing how important we are to him.
Sometime later, the front door opens, and the muffled thud of boots joins the rumble of sounds that I’ve lost track of. I have what matters right here in front of me. Except Rhys.
Male voices, low and clipped, sound like Blade and Jett. And they sound happy to be teamed up again.
Rhys keeps his voice calm and measured while handing out instructions. He’s the leader in this crisis.
I can’t fall apart. He needs me to be strong. I don’t want him to come back in here and see me curled up into a ball or a twisted mess like Cami’s roots.
Gently and carefully, I gather each plant and mold the remaining soil around their root ball.
“You’re okay,” I whisper to each. “A new home is on the way and more soil. I’ll give you fresh food and water. Stay with me. Rhys needs us.”
“Here, love.” Rhys brings in a small bag of potting soil and a stack of plastic pots. “They’re not the pretty ones. We’ll order more of those. Use these for now.”
Nodding, I take the low-grade planters and begin to fill each with fresh soil and a sprinkle of fertilizer.
For each survivor, I loosen roots, brush away shards of ceramic, and tuck them into the new temporary homes. The smell of fresh soil soothes me, and I hope my familiar hands soothe them.
“See?” I murmur to a drooping Little Basil, tucking his spidery roots into the new bed of dark earth. “Rhys wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”
With everyone safely in a planter and Cory’s pot taped up, I dress and venture into the living room. I slap a hand on my mouth at the mangled legs of the plant stand. But Rhys is crouched on the floor, head lowered, and tools scattered around him.
His big hands work gently to repair the broken shelf system back together, like he knows how much it matters to me. And now, all this matters to him.
Bill’s body is long gone. Hours seem to fold in on themselves until the apartment looks like nothing’s happened. The floor gleams, the stand is fixed with duct tape in some spots, but the plants are back where they belong, soaking up the afternoon winter sunlight.
“You mates can go,” Rhys says to Blade and Jett, holding me by the waist from behind in the kitchen as I make last-minute adjustments.
Blade claps Rhys’s shoulder on his way out. “Merry Christmas, man.”
Jett waves from the door, grinning. “Don’t forget the milk and cookies for Santa.”
The words slam into me. Rhys’s eyes widen like the same thought just hit him.
“Oh, no,” I breathe. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
Rhys stares at his phone and swears under his breath. “What time are we supposed to be at your dad’s house?”
Swallowing, I say, “We’re supposed to be in Ashbourne by three.”
The moment shatters when he shows me his phone.
12:47 p.m.
Panic rushes through us like a flash flood, and we are on the move.
Fast. Scrambling. Frantic. Arms bumping. Rhys shoves clothes into a duffel while I grab whatever I think he needs from his bathroom.
Next, we move to my apartment, my bare feet slapping down the hall.
In my living room, Rhys pulls me in front of the whiteboard calendar. “Look, we did it. All your events. Done, complete.”
Seeing glittery checkmarks everywhere stabilizes my panic attack.
“One left.” I circle Christmas with Daddy in red.
“And then we have our whole life.” Rhys holds me.
“We need to shower,” I tell him, since we’re covered in sweat, dirt, plant food, and likely blood.
My shower steams up quickly, filling the air with the scent of my peppermint shampoo and Rhys’s masculine bodywash. He strips off what’s left of his clothes, steps under the spray with me, and it’s impossible not to kiss him.
My world narrows to the heat of his skin and his sweet breath. With a hungry mouth, he kisses me back. Next, he spins me around and takes me from behind, but we’re standing up. My arm wraps around his neck while one of his hands holds my breasts. The other circles my clit.
Rhys fucks me fast and desperately, our bodies tangled together. We make the kind of love needed to burn off tension from what we survived. And not just this morning. This whole month.
We towel off in silence except for nervous laughter from our exhaustion, and dress in our pre-planned holiday clothes, toned down on purpose.
My father hates my loud style, and he needs to see Rhys as a strong protector.
He wears dark jeans and a casual but sophisticated button-down shirt, and I wear my green velvet dress with a crochet poncho, boots, and a belt.
I kiss my plants goodbye, who are oddly silent. With my weekend bag and his duffel in hand, Rhys steers me to the elevator and out of the building.
The cold hits me like a slap when we burst onto the sidewalk. No time to adjust my coat or scarf, we hoof it to his garage in a hurry.
An attendant has Rhys’s Audi warm and waiting and purring with life. Rhys juggles our bags and a travel snack kit into the car while I juggle my sanity.
We take off toward a side street and merge onto the West Side Highway.
And come to a dead stop.
It’s bumper to bumper, and red brake lights stretch like a snake into infinity.
I sink into my seat, heart still rattling from the last twenty-four hours. I half-expect Rhys to explode in rage, turn this Audi around, and go back to sleep for a week.
But he doesn’t.
He just exhales calmly, like it’s the best thing in the universe to be stuck here with me.
“Let’s listen to some music while we crawl to Ashbourne.” He reaches over and flips on the radio.
A cheery male voice croons, Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus…
Rhys grins. Actually grins. He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. Laughing, he kisses my knuckles.
Then he starts singing along. Off-key. It’s deep and rough and ridiculously sincere.
“We are going to be really late, but I don’t care!” I raise my hands and start singing the next song.
We laugh, the sound cracking out of me like a spark of sunlight.
“Hey, look.” Rhys points. “Traffic opens up after we get past that dosser blocking the right lane.”
“Yay,” I say sardonically, preferring to keep this stolen time with Rhys when he’s not off doing scary assassin stuff.
And I’m not marking and updating the calendar.
The traffic fades. The fear fades. The last twenty-four hours of smashed plants, dead bodies, and betrayals all fade away.
More holiday music fills the car, and Rhys’s thumb strokes over my palm. It feels perfect.
Daddy can be tough, but I think he’ll love Rhys. Man to man. He’s a better man than Kosta. Daddy will see that.
Then the dread sets in…
What if he doesn’t?