Chapter 12 #2
In the hall, a massive, twenty-foot Christmas tree garners the attention of those strolling around outside the ballroom.
It’s wrapped in gold and ivory ribbons twisted together and trimmed with giant red ball ornaments the size of soccer balls.
Couples pose for the photographers in front of the fake wrapped presents under the tree.
I plow through the doors to the balcony, acknowledging another man leaning on the railing, cigar in hand.
I don’t have a fancy cigar, but I fumble in my pocket for my pack of cigarettes, pull one out, and light it up.
The inhale is therapeutic for a second, before I catch the top of her condo building in the distance.
Only a shitty-ass second—this woman goes beyond infecting my mind; it’s damn near sepsis positioning in my bloodstream. I snarl, sucking in another long drag.
Why is she here?
The cold, earthy air seeps into my bones as I lean over the glass railing, stories above the Boston nightlife.
It’s wet and sharp, but when I glance up looking for a star or two, the leaden charcoal clouds look like they’re about to break.
Which means we most likely will have sloppy sleet rain on its way.
If Aoife rode her bike here, I could give her a ride home.
As soon as that thought enters, I retract it. She didn’t ride here in that dress. That damn dress that fits her like a glove.
“Enjoy your evening,” the man with the cigar says, turning to head back inside. Normally, it’d be too cold to stand around fuming, but I find I’m rather hot. That is until the next voice sends ice trickling through my veins.
“Told you he’d be out here, Brad.” My mother’s voice cuts through the hum of Boston traffic and the pulsating wind as I’m mid-exhale. I stare toward the harbor, my jaw aching.
I don’t want to turn to look at her, but I do, offering a modicum of respect for the woman who birthed me.
“Mother,” I say. She lost the name Mom long ago.
Her black hair is twisted into a neat, tight bun, and her face slathered in makeup while diamond teardrop earrings drip from her ears. Rosy-red lips frown when she spots the cigarette in my hand.
“I told your father you’d be out here smoking.” She approaches, sizing me up. Her dress is emerald green, modest with puffy velvet sleeves, and when I catch my father striding after her in a suit with a matching-colored tie, I smirk.
“Mother. Father. It’s good to see you. I hope you’re enjoying the evening.” I grimace at my rehearsed words.
“Grayson.” My father comes to stand beside my mother. “Heard you were working on a serial case?”
I nod, unsurprised they’d ask about it. The media has been all over this.
The city is divided on whether we should be “wasting” department resources hunting a killer only going after organized crime in the city.
A few weeks ago, I’m not sure I would’ve put up much of a fight there, but now …
I’m not sure I’m ready to degrade myself with the rest of them.
Deciding murder is bad only when it’s someone we care about it.
“Well,” my mother chimes in. “You could have been sitting on the board of the firm by now.”
I clench my jaw until the muscles tic. She’ll never see me as anything but a disappointment for not worshiping at the altar of their money. “That’s why you have two sons, Mother. So, one can disappoint you, and the other can crawl up your ass.”
My mother’s mouth drops open, and she throws a hand over her chest. My father bristles.
I grunt, turning to take another inhale of my cigarette.
Aoife has me on edge; that’s the only explanation as to why I don’t just walk away.
Or maybe it’s because I’ve watched her in her own father’s shadow that I don’t want to leave anything unsaid anymore.
My parents hurt me. Their favoritism for my younger brother, who chose to work at my father’s law firm and perpetuate the family money and name.
It’s somehow more noble than sacrificing myself for the good of the city.
To protect and serve. I glance at each forearm, pretending I can see through my suit.
“You’ve traded legacy for scraps. You think that’s noble because you have a badge?” my mother spits.
I can’t help but wonder what Kieran O’Donnell would do if Aoife decided she didn’t want her legacy. But then I think of all the pictures I’ve seen, the way he checks in with her, loves her—Aoife feels like she belongs to the O’Donnell name because she does.
“And the Church … We raised you better. Raised you Catholic. Do you ever think of what this does to your soul? Dealing with degenerates and crime every day. Or have you abandoned your faith along with your family?” She gestures toward the smoke curling from my right hand and keeps up her beratement.
“Do you enjoy pretending you don’t come from money? It’s embarrassing, and I for one—”
“There you are!” Aoife’s words overpower my mother’s as she makes her way onto the balcony, no coat.
The whip of the icy wind doesn’t seem to faze her.
She holds my stare, not sparing my parents a glance as she comes up to me, grabbing my tie.
Adjusting it, she leans in, her Chanel perfume assaulting my nose.
“You promised me a dance.” She places a chaste kiss on my cheek before finally turning to acknowledge my mother and father.
“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Holtz. Pleasure to see you again.”
I stiffen. Again?
My mother looks sidelong at my father, and he clears his throat. “Miss O’Donnell. As always, a pleasure.” My father stutters. Stutters. Brad Holtz doesn’t trip on his words, not that I’ve ever known.
Aoife grins and leans into me, and instinctively, I wrap an arm around her waist, widening my fingers over her hip.
“Well, we will let you enjoy your night. As always, you’re welcome to join us for Christmas Eve Mass. Emily will be there.” My mother stares down her nose, daring me to say no like I always do, especially since she’s sweetened the pot with my niece’s name.
“I have to work,” I lie.
“A son who won’t stand with his family in the Church is no son at all.”
Aoife shifts in my arms with my mother’s words, and I grip her tighter while she glares at my parents. My father distracts himself with his ugly tie, avoiding eye contact with Aoife. My mother plasters her overused disgusted expression across her face.
“Come on. Let’s go.” My father ushers my mother away, and I flip around toward the harbor before they’ve exited the balcony.
“Friendly folks,” Aoife jokes when it’s just the two of us.
Although I know she’s trying to make light of things to cheer me up, I only grunt in response.
I glance at her as she leans across the railing next to me, and the only thing I can think about is her smile while dancing with the mayor.
“Had enough of Carroway?” I ask, resenting that it’s all I can think about.
“Business per usual. Want to dance?”
“No.”
She grabs my arm. “Grayson, look at me.”
But I can’t. I look away, afraid my face will sabotage the way I want this woman. The way I’m angry with her for looking this good, and dancing with the damn mayor.
She pulls at me. “Dance with me, Grayson. Please.”
Her timid “please” has me stopping short. I turn to her, and she looks sad. No matter how mad I want to be, I can’t avoid the yearning in her plea. She wants to dance with me?
Aoife sneaks my cigarette from my hand, snuffing it out against the glass railing before dropping it over the side.
“That’s littering,” I say, staring at her lips. “I could issue you a fine.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Better add it to my tab.” She hooks her arm through mine, and I lead us back inside.
The warmth of the ballroom thaws out the stiffness in my fingers, and when we hit the dance floor, I wrap her up against me.
Other couples drift across the floor, and some stare at us from their perches at the marble tables, but I don’t let her go. Not now.
The classic Christmas music is nothing but background noise at this point as I press her tight to me. Her hand fits in my palm perfectly, and I marvel at her dainty fingers threading through mine. I usher her close, like she belongs to me.
The way she moves catches me off guard. “Where’d you learn to dance?” I ask.
She widens her smile. “My dad used to cart me around our living room, or I’d sneak downstairs at night to watch Summer and him dance in the kitchen.”
I spin her, and she rotates into me, her skin under my fingertips responding to my simple touch.
I tighten my grip, relishing Aoife’s body pressed into mine and following my lead.
Part of me, the defiant part, wonders if she’d obey other commands if I gave them.
We move, her head falling to my chest as I push her deeper into my hold.
“You’ve met my parents before?” I ask, breaking the spell, but unable to get their meeting out of my head.
She unleashes a vivid grin. “Of course. Visited them after that late night at the diner. He’s in law, Grayson, but he doesn’t have any qualms about not following it.
Don’t for one second think you aren’t enough.
” Her gaze probes me, imploring, and as serious as I’ve seen Aoife yet.
“They’re the ones with disingenuous convictions.
They’re the ones deceiving themselves by going to confession only to spit on their own beliefs.
I’m sorry they’ve hurt you, and that you can’t see your niece, but don’t think you’re missing out.
You do more for this city, for Boston than all of them combined. ”
I’m so stunned, we pause our movements. “Why do you say that? What did you offer them?”
She sighs. “They’re not as on the straight and narrow as they appear.
Like most people. That’s one thing I love about this life, my position.
I don’t need to pretend to be anything because my role already dictates it for me.
And others, like your father or the mayor?
Pawns. All I see are desperate men, shackled to their own ambition.
It owns them. And they’ll gladly roll around with the likes of me if it means getting ahead.
You’re better than them, Grayson. I don’t have that effect on you. ”
I cage her in, both arms wrapped around her as she turns, back flush to my chest. My hand spreads over her stomach, and naturally, I graze her with my thumb.
Back and forth, back and forth. Tucking my lips against her ear, I say, “You have more of an effect than you know.” I palm her closer to me, allowing her to feel what she does to me. Her breath hitches.
Then, because we’re surrounded by people staring, I haul her around and pick back up where we left off in our dance. Her eyes are wide, and she tugs her lower lip into her mouth, but she shakes it off to allow her casual smile to grace her expression.
We dance in silence for a bit. She doesn’t seem to care about anyone else, and I’m shocked at how someone with such a prominent reputation can be so unruffled.
“What’s your trick to remaining calm in a room full of people who either look at you like a snack, in disgust, or as a meal ticket? ” I ask, curious.
“I wear fun underwear.”
I choke out a laugh. “What?”
“My undergarments have Christmas cats on them.” She’s serious. Dead serious. And that’s dangerous because all of a sudden I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be with her somewhere in private.
I blink. “Please tell me this is a joke. Because now all I can think about is your damn underwear, Aoife.”
She leans forward, her hand coming up to my nape and offering a gentle squeeze. “Good,” she whispers in my ear. “Have a good night, Detective.”
Before I can wrangle her, she’s out of my arms. She steps away from the dance floor, and I stand there. With my hands shoved in my pockets, while couples waltz around me—I continue to stand there, trying to forget the image Aoife forced into my mind.
When I finally get my act together to actually remove myself from the floor I’m stuck to, she’s gone. I jog around the ballroom like an idiot. I check the balcony, the bathrooms, and take the elevator to the lobby to see if I can catch her. Gone. She’s gone.
Abruptly ended our dance and left.
I’d say hunting her was a waste of time, but that wouldn’t be the case if I had found her, so I chuckle to myself and decide it’s time to call this charity event quits anyway.
When I make it to my car, the clouds have opened up.
A slushy mix of sleet and hardened rain hisses as it strikes the sidewalk.
It’s cold and relentless, and I’m glad I left when I did because driving home in this mess would be gross and risky.
Huffing, I plop into my seat, shaking the mess off my head and slamming the door. I start my car, eyeing more people leaving the hotel in favor of their cars and Ubers. I glance in the rearview mirror and—
What the hell?
A scrap of red sways from my mirror, smug little Christmas cats in Santa hats sipping cocoa, grinning at me from the fabric. Her underwear is dangling from my—
My jaw tightens, and for a breath, heat floods my system as a sharp laugh shakes loose from me. She would do this. Only she would do this. Hell, how did she get into my car?
But as my laugh fades, under the humor of it, is something else.
A challenge. Does she want me wondering what she’s wearing now that her red thong is hanging in front of my face?
Does she want me imagining? My knuckles fist the wheel, remembering her body made for mine as I held her close.
Why does it feel like she knows exactly what she’s doing?
I throw the car into drive and take off the short distance to her condo building.
It’s quick, probably too fast. There’s no time to cool off, to think, or to reason.
When I pull in front of the entrance, I ignore the parking signs and rip her panties from my mirror.
Clenched in my hand, I stride inside, showing my badge to the doormen as I bulldoze past them.
Mad and soaking wet, I ride the elevator to Aoife’s floor. When I get off, her two guards straighten and eye me warily as I approach her door and pound my fist on it. Twice.
Almost instantly, she answers.
Her hair is damp, her red dress still clinging to her frame, and I drag my eyes down.
“I have to know …” I pant, hanging my head. “I have to know.”
“Know what?” she whispers, resting a hip on the threshold.
“If I have these, what are you wearing now?”