Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“You’re not staying,” I tell her.
“You’re very polite, Damian. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“It’s one of my many talents,” I mutter, raising an eyebrow.
“I brought you some Christmas stuff,” she says, almost shy. “Decorations. Some treats. Julian said you don’t celebrate Christmas.”
When I don’t reply, she rushes on. Something in me twitches at how earnest she is, but I shove it down.
“And I wanted to check your injuries. People mess themselves up when they don’t take care of things after… after we do our work.”
She stops, breathless.
A smile almost hits me. I feel it twitching.
“Are you done?” I ask.
She crosses her arms. “You could at least say thank you. I didn’t have to do this. Julian wouldn’t tell me why you don’t celebrate Christmas. He said it wasn’t his place.”
“He was correct.”
“So…”
I laugh darkly. Not really a laugh. More of a choking noise.
“Is something funny?” She demands, her cheeks flushing.
“Celine, you did your duty. Look at me—this is healing. It’ll leave an ugly scar, sure, but I don’t mind. Keeps people the hell away. Julian shouldn’t have told you where I live.”
She looks around the entranceway, at the clean tiles, the neatly stacked sneakers. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Just…” She hesitates, getting a look in her eyes like she doesn’t fully know why she’s here. As if an instinct led her here, and now she regrets it. “I think people should celebrate Christmas. I know, okay. I know how cheesy that sounds. Blame the long hours! They’re messing with my head.”
She turns, then turns back, flustered.
“It’s the first of December tomorrow.”
“You say that like it matters.”
“This is the only time of year when we get a built-in chance to be happy. A free pass.”
I take a step forward. Then another. She stares up at me like I’m some kind of unhinged animal. Maybe I am.
“When I was thirteen—before you were born—my parents died in a car accident. Christmas Eve. That’s why the holiday doesn’t mean shit to me. Now we’re done.”
Softness flickers across her face, quickly shuttered. She pouts—not cute, more… frustrated. And it hits me.
Makes me feel like an asshole.
“I guess so,” she mutters. “Should I leave the hamper?”
“Take it.”
Another huff. “Fair enough. Coming here was probably a mistake, right?”
Her disappointment hits harder than it should. “The thought is what counts, Celine. So, thank you.”
She gives me a small, shaky smile. “You’re welcome. And I’m sorry.”
“Forget I said anything.”
Oversharing isn’t my thing. Hell, sharing at all isn’t my thing.
“Well… see ya.”
She carries the hamper out. I shut the door quickly and watch through the peephole. Her hips sway under the weight, and I look too long. Too damn long.
When she glances back at the house and bites her lip, something kicks in my chest I don’t want to name.
I run. Actually, run back to the gym.
She’s too soft. Too innocent. And I’m too far gone already..
CHAPTER 2
CELINE
Iknew it was a bad idea. But when Julian finally admitted that Damian was alone for Christmas—hating every second—something in me tightened. The image of him sitting there by himself wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t just do nothing.
Mom once called me a Christmas elf. Most people would take offense—me? I practically requested the title.
But it didn’t go how I planned. His cut is healing well, a crescent moon on his cheek, fading but noticeable. Somehow the scar only makes him look rougher… meaner… annoyingly hotter. And he’d answered the door in a sweat-soaked shirt, muscles on full, accidental display.
And when he told me about his parents… the sound he made wasn’t a voice. It was a wound speaking.
I know I should let this go. I’ve been very good at letting things go for most of my life. But something about seeing my brother’s best friend covered in blood–getting even a sliver of a look into the world I’ve avoided my whole life—shook something awake in me.
Plus, well… everyone deserves to enjoy Christmas.
Two days later, and I still can’t get him out of my head. Not him, but his house. The outside pretends to be a ruin, while the inside is all sleek, expensive, icy perfection.
I can’t stop wondering who shot him. Who cut his face? Whether he’s in hiding. He’d acted like someone was watching the street that day—like he needed me inside before the world saw I was there.
I try to stop thinking about it. I lie awake one night, sleep refusing to come, thinking of Damian with his shirt stuck to him and an entire universe of rage behind his eyes.
Maybe that’s why I’m doing this.
Hamper hugged to my hip, I approach his ramshackle—a word that feels invented just for him—house and press the doorbell.
He answers after one ring this time. He’s wearing a sleeveless gym shirt, all carved arms and flexing muscle, the faint bullet scar still angry on his skin.