Christmas Eve by Molly O'Keefe

Author:Molly O'Keefe [O'Keefe, Molly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-01-19T05:00:00+00:00

It wasn’t like she didn’t know what was waiting for her out in that hallway. Dean was mad. Furious. And frankly, he had every right to be. And she’d had this stupid plan, which of course had gone wrong. Because really what she should have done was call him. Months ago.

But she’d wanted to get rid of some of the stuff between them. Some of her stuff.

“Just tell him, honey,” Marion said.

Trina patted the woman’s hand and followed Dean outside. Her feet were nearly numb from the cold floor, but anything was better than the devil shoes she’d been wearing most of the night.

She found him in the little waiting room at the end of the hallway, pacing between walls covered in watercolors of cowboys and dogs.

“What the hell is going on?” He spun on her when she stepped into the room.

“I didn’t think your mother should be alone.”

“That’s great, but when did you get to be honey?”

She blinked. This wasn’t quite the conversation she’d been expecting.

“She’s been really good to me. Always has been.”

He pulled off his hat and tossed it on the chair. His hair was all clumpy and sticking to his forehead. If she’d done things right, if she hadn’t been so angry and scared and dumb, she would have had the right to unstick his hair from his head. She could ruffle it and feather it back.

She could touch him the way she wanted.

Because he would be hers.

“Your mom’s been helping me since I left your dad’s company. I’m still fighting the pipeline. I’m just doing it away from your brother, who, I might add, is worse than your father could ever dream of being.”

“How is my mother helping you?”

“Money. Logistics. Making introductions to the right people. You’d be surprised by how politically connected your mother is.”

“Nothing about my mother surprises me.” His voice was cold. Hard. Don’t tell me about my mother, it said.

“Of course,” she said, uncomfortable and awkward. “She’s your mother.”

This was not how this all was supposed to go. There had been a plan. A dress. A fancy hairdo. She’d anticipated champagne. Olives. Not Cheetos fingers.

It was actually kind of amazing how awful she was at this. How every step she took was wrong.

“Those things…you said in there. About me.” He shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“No. Of course it matters.” She took a deep breath. “You matter, Dean. You’ve always mattered.”

“What am I supposed to say to that?”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

But please, please say something.

Only he took her at her word and turned away from her, to stare, silent and broody, out a dark window to the parking lot below. She twisted her fingers together and took a step closer to him. In the window she could see the reflection of his face.

He was watching her.

But from a distance. Or an angle.

It was just another way for both of them to hide. And she didn’t want that. He might reject her. He might laugh in her face and tell her she’d missed her chance, but she wanted to look him in the eyes when she told him.

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