Page 52 of Keep Me In Your Heart

He tilts his head and gives me an unamused expression. His hair is pulled half into a bun at the back of his head, and I notice the rest falls past his shoulders. For some reason, I find myself reaching out to brush it with my fingers.

“You need a haircut,” I say.

His eyes follow my fingers and then settle on my face, probably as confused as I am as to why I wouldtouchit.

Naturally, he reaches out and tugs on one of my unruly curls. “So do you.”

“Want to give each other haircuts?” I ask with a playful tone.

What is happening right now?

He gives an uneasy chuckle. Even he’s confused. We’re standing here teasing each other in a casual conversation without slinging insults. I think finding that book yesterday has somehow morphed my perception of Killian. I’m not exactly sure how. It’s almost like curiosity has overpowered the hatred.

“Okay, well…if you’re sure you don’t want to come…” I awkwardly head toward the stairs, and I swear I spot a hint of hesitation on his face.

For the first time in three months, I almost feel bad for leaving him here alone.

“Have fun,” he mutters, leaving his back to me as I walk down the stairs toward the front door, where Peter, the driver, is waiting for me.

I carry that feeling of guilt with me during the entire drive into the city. And even as I shop, it’s there. Nothing interests me. There’s a street full of stores and restaurants, and along the center of the pedestrian road are stalls selling holiday things like baked goods and ornaments.

I was never much for Christmas back home. New York City makes it hard not to feel the spirit though. But this is different. There’s no Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, but there is something more quaint and comforting.

After coming out of a clothing store, I stop at one of the stalls. It’s handcrafted leather goods, purses, belts, and other things. My eyes catch on a very large pair of brown leather gloves. The leather is soft, and I pick them up, letting my fingers graze the surface.

I think about Killian’s hands. I remember the weight of themas they rested in mine on our wedding day. And then again that night, bandaging the open gash across his palm.

Then I feel them around my arm—and around my waist.

It’s a memory, but it’s burnt into my mind like an iron brand. I can still remember how they felt as they pinned my hands to the bed. So much larger than mine. Capable of so much, but never used harshly against me. Even when he held me back, there was care in his strength.

“Would you like to buy those, dear?” the woman behind the booth asks.

I press my open hand to the gloves, noticing the size difference. The long fingers dwarf my tiny thin ones.

“Yes, please,” I murmur as I look at her with a smile. Reaching into my purse, I pull out my wallet and hand her two bills to cover it. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you,” she replies sweetly. Then she offers me a bag for the gloves. “Happy Christmas, dear.”

“Happy Christmas,” I mutter in response.

The gloves don’t replace the guilt still souring my insides. What the hell has gotten into me? Why would I feel bad for coming into town? It’s not like he really wanted to come. If he wanted to, he could have said so. I literally asked.

Besides, he wouldn’t want to come withme. I’m sure someday Killian will be able to get over his fear of leaving the house, and it will probably be to attend a rugby match with his uni friends. It certainly wouldn’t be for shopping with an American girl he can’t stand.

“Sylvie?” I glance up from the cobblestone ground to see a familiar woman standing near a storefront.

“Claire,” I reply with hesitation.

As she smiles at me and crosses the passing crowd to hug me, I quickly try to decipher how I’msupposedto feel about this woman. Because my natural reaction is that I think she’s a lying, cheating home-wrecker who tried to fuck my husband. But Killian is not really my husband, and that’s not really my home.

Still, I hate her.

When she pulls away from our quick hug, she holds my shoulders and gives me a cheesy grin. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I reply, unable to meet her level of forced enthusiasm.

“How’s Killian?” she asks, and my smile fades.

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