Page 82 of Spying Under the Mistletoe
A few years ago, I fell in love with the Christmas farmhouse theme. Rustic wooden signs with sayings such as “Let It Snow,” “Merry Christmas,” and “Meet Me Under the Mistletoe” are scattered throughout the room, leaning against the wall and the corner of one bookshelf. Black-and-white checked cushions cover the couch, along with my favorite one with the close up of a reindeer’s face, as if he’s peeking into the camera lens.
The rest of the space is filled with pine boughs, small fake pine trees in tin containers, little red birds made from feathers, pillar candles with cinnamon sticks wrapped with pieces of twine and burlap sacks.
“Surprise.” I climb down from the ladder. “I figured since you don’t have any Christmas decorations, I’d put mine up.”
His gaze jumps from the wreath on the table to me, and his eyebrows crunch together.
I swallow. Hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you really don’t like Christmas decorations. I thought it was because you don’t have time for things like that. And because you’re a guy.” I shrug. “But if you don’t like them, I can remove them.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I reach for the reindeer on the mantel, next to the wooden sign that proclaims “Believe.”
“You drove to your apartment even though your life is in danger?” His voice comes out like high-grit sandpaper, and I wince.
“There’s a good chance I did.”
“Fuck, Chloe. I’ve been hired to protect you. That means keeping you from being killed. What part of that don’t you understand?”
My body bristles and my tone comes out as chilled as the San Francisco Bay water in December. “I understand all of it. I’m not an idiot. And I’m sorry for trying to bring a little Christmas cheer into your otherwise non-cheerful existence.”
Whiskey whimpers. At the heartbreaking sound, the memory of my father arguing with my mom flashes in my brain. Of him leaving the house.
That was the last time I saw him.
I turn away, so Landon can’t see the tears clouding my vision. It was shortly after the holiday season when my father left Mom and me.
When I look at Landon, he’s running his hand down his face. “None of that matters if something happens to you.” Unlike before, the words come out worn, splinted—much like a block of wood that has been chopped into pieces.
My heart squeezes. What the hell happened for him to react that way?
I have a weird feeling it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with something that happened in his past.
I take a deep breath, fighting back the pain. The pain of my past. The pain inflicted by his reaction. “Look, I’m sorry you’re upset. And yes, you have every right to be annoyed with me. But nothing happened.” Other than meeting a guy who wants to go out with me, but I decide to skip that little detail.
“Just because nothing happened doesn’t mean it couldn’t have. Just because I haven’t screwed up my knees playing hockey doesn’t mean that when I play my next game, it won’t happen. You can’t predict what’s going to happen. All you can do is minimize the risk. And going to your apartment, on your own, doesn’t do that. It increases it.”
I pick up the twelve-inch, wooden Santa from the mantel. He’s flat, other than the nose, mustache, and the arm holding a small Christmas tree against his body. His vintage, gnome-like appearance makes him look adorable, just like it did the day I found it.
My stepfather and I picked him up at a farmers market while looking for a Christmas present for my mom. I’d fallen in love with it, and my stepfather bought it for me.
I run a finger over the small chip in the paint on his round nose. “I’m sorry.” I’m not really sure to whom I’m saying it: Landon…or my stepfather, since my mom and I weren’t what he had wanted in the end.
Or maybe he’d discovered that my entire family was more than he had bargained for. For all I know, he discovered the truth about their links to the Russian mafia, and left to avoid being dragged in.
Can’t say I blame him for that.
I sniff back the forming tears. “The last good memories I have of my father and stepfather are from the holiday seasons prior to them leaving. At least I’m lucky in that respect. They could’ve decided not to wait until after Christmas. I could have turned into someone who hates Christmas and the holiday season because I lost someone who meant the world to me. I didn’t want that. I might go over the top with the holiday season, but that’s due to having so many fond memories of that time of year. Memories I never want to lose.”
A tear drips onto the Santa-gnome’s face. I wipe it away with my thumb.
Warm, strong arms encase me and pull me into an equally warm, strong body. I stiffen for a second before the pain eases slightly, and I let myself melt into him. It’s been a long time since I’ve admitted to myself why the holiday season is so important to me. Why it’s so important for me to make it the best it can be for those around me.
And why I want to make sure the seniors in the retirement home have a wonderful Christmas, especially those individuals who aren’t surrounded by their loved ones at this time of year.
With his arms still wrapped around me, Landon kisses my temple. I peer up at him to find him studying me, his face full of anguish that I know deep down isn’t because of me.
“You’re one of those people, aren’t you?” My voice is hoarse from unshed tears. “Something happened to you around Christmas, and that’s why you’re the way you are. You don’t hate Christmas, but you don’t exactly embrace it the way so many other people and I do.”
Landon doesn’t say anything at first. He simply removes the Santa from my hands and studies it for a moment. Vulnerability shines in his eyes. A vulnerability that the tall, strong alpha man in front of me doesn’t want to feel or reveal. To me. Or to anyone.
