Page 13 of His to Unwrap
“It’s good,” she cajoles. “It’s not Christmas without eggnog.” I’m about to tell her that I haven’t actually celebrated Christmas in years, but she continues. “My dad and I used to have eggnog every year when we decorated the tree. We’d get it all set up, all the lights and ornaments perfect, then he’d turn off all the lamps and we’d sit there in the dark with just the tree, drinking eggnog.”
Her expression shifts as she talks, going from happy, to wistful, to something that looks a little like despondent. Without thinking, I reach across the table and take her hand. It doesn’t look like it belongs in mine, all soft and small next to my huge ugly, calloused mitt, but fuck if it doesn’t feel amazing.
“Sorry.” She shakes her head a little. “I always miss him most this time of year.”
My stomach drops. “He’s not around anymore?” I don’t tell her that I already know the answer to this question. That in a weaker moment after she first showed up at the club and my obsession was fresh, I ran a full background check on her—pretty easy to do when you own a security company like mine.
“He died four years ago,” she says, and I get the feeling she’s working to keep her voice even.
Four years ago. My report had told me that she’d only been eighteen when he succumbed to cancer. She’s been on her own ever since.
Suddenly, she gasps, looking down at the hand holding hers. I move to take it away but she grips my fingers tighter, her other hand reaching for my sleeve, which has begun to slide up my forearm. A full body shudder goes through me when she pushesit up further, her fingers dragging over my skin. “Dagger and arrows,” she murmurs as my tattoo is fully revealed. Her wide eyes jump up to mine. “Were you special forces? A Green Beret?”
I nod. Just like her father.
“Wow.” Her voice is soft and she shakes her head, giving a watery laugh. “This is 7thGroup, right? That red tint on the dagger…
I nod again, already knowing why she recognized it so easily.
“My dad’s team was out of 7thGroup, too,” she says in a shaky voice. “A couple of his friends had tattoos pretty similar to that.”
“Best guys I ever knew came out of 7thGroup,” I tell her.
Her returning smile is more than a little sad, and I want nothing more than to gather her up in my arms and kiss it better.
I guess that’s why I relent when she once again pushes the eggnog in my direction. I manage a decent size sip but there’s nothing I can do about the grimace of disgust on my face. She cracks up, her laugh so loud a few people look in our direction.
Worth tasting that shit to make her laugh like that.
And I don’t shut down when she starts asking me questions—about my time in the Army, what I’ve been doing since I got out, whether I keep in touch with any of my former team members. I probably tell her more in fifteen minutes than I’ve ever told Cam, and he’s the best friend I’ve made since moving here five years ago to start a security company with an old Army buddy.
I just can’t bring myself to go quiet and cold on her, even if it’s what I know I should do. Not when I saw that look in her face when she talked about decorating the tree with her father. It had broken something in me, seeing that level of heartache in her beautiful blue eyes.
I know from my research that it had been just the two of them, no mother in the picture, no extended relatives except for an aunt who watched her when her dad was on deployment.They moved around a lot, typical life of an Army brat. That kind of shit bonds you with a person—being the only one each other knows in every new town.
She must have been devastated when he died.
I know the feeling. I don’t have much family myself. I first joined the Army to get away from my shitty, abusive parents and give myself a chance to get out of that town, out of that dead-end life they lived. But the guys on my team had become my family, the only brothers I’d ever had. And I’ve had to bury far too many of those brothers.
Suddenly, her friend Brittney and that asshole from earlier are next to our table. “They’re starting,” Brittney says, all excited. I don’t even try not to glare at the pencil dick, even though I should actually be grateful at him for interrupting. Nothing good can come from this level of intimacy with Noelle.
But I didn’t want to be interrupted, damn it. I want to sit here with her and watch her drink her disgusting eggnog (and mine) and ask her a million questions about her life, what she likes, what she thinks about, all the stuff I never would have been able to find even in the most thorough background check.
“Starting?” Noelle asks, and I think she might look a little annoyed at being interrupted too.
“Smutty Secret Santa!” Brittney says, bouncing on her feet in excitement as she points at the crowd beginning to gather around the Christmas tree in the center of the lounge. “You have to play! It’ll be so fun!”
“What the fuck is Smutty Secret Santa?” I mutter.
“So everyone gets a number,” Brittney says. “When it’s your turn, you get to pick a present.” She waggles her eyebrows, as if to indicate the presents are dirty. Yeah, like they’d be anything else in a place like this.
“If you draw a higher card, and someone else already picked something you want, you get to steal it,” the asshole at her sidecontinues—then he catches sight of my death glare. That shuts him up real quick.
“Noelle, seriously.” Brittney tugs at her shoulder. “You want to play this game. It starts all the fun!”
Noelle gestures around the room. “This hasn’t been fun?”
Brittney rolls her eyes. “This has been tame. Secret Santa is what gets people to go behind the steel door—you know, so they can play with their present.”
