Hooked: A Christmas Romance: The Doyles, Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  “Do you have a thermometer?” I ask. Really she should go to the hospital, but it’s more important to warm her up.

  Fast.

  He nearly drops the kettle, his hands shaking.

  “Danny, are you okay?”

  He lets out a sob. “Vinny, that’s my baby niece. That’s Sia. What was she doing on that boat?” He braces himself on the counter like he’s about to pass out.

  Not helpful.

  “She’ll be okay.” It’s not necessarily a lie but has a better chance of becoming the truth if he listens to me. “Can you heat up that tea? And do you have a thermometer?”

  He steels himself. “The medicine cabinet. Bathroom.”

  Once I find the thermometer, I stick it into Sia’s mouth. She’s starting to shiver a little now. She stares with those big eyes. Her hair is plastered to her head, and salt from the ocean water clings to her full lips, which are a touch less blue.

  We’ll need to get that rinsed from her skin so she doesn’t dehydrate, but first things first.

  The thermometer beeps. 94°F. Bad, but not as bad as it could be.

  A loud crash sounds from outside, and Sia flinches. Danny’s out with a mug of tea.

  “I’ll find out what that was,” he says. “Take care of her, please?”

  Like I have a choice.

  3

  Sia

  I think I’m cold.

  Hard to tell.

  I always run cold. My nose turns bright red when it drops below 40°F. My father says it’s because I was born on Christmas, just like Rudolph.

  Which, of course, is silly. Rudolph worked third shift on a foggy Christmas Eve to save the holiday.

  He wasn’t born on Christmas. But my father wouldn’t know that, not having time for frivolous things like watching Christmas movies.

  My brain is kind of foggy. I’m not sure where I am or how I got here.

  “Sia.” A warm voice pulls at me, deep and calm. Like it could tame those waves that were drowning us.

  Waves. Oscar? I look at my hands.

  No. Did I let him go?

  “Where is he?” My ears crackle from the water trapped inside.

  “Sia, you did great. He’s safe now. You’re at your uncle’s house. We need to warm you up.”

  A large man kneels next to me. He’s very handsome. Not vital data, but I can’t think straight.

  “You’re soaking wet,” I inform him.

  “I am. Bit stormy out there. Drink this tea.”

  I reach for the steaming mug, but my hands hurt. I can’t uncurl my fingers.

  “Nope, I’ll look at those in a minute,” he says, moving the mug to my lips. “Just sip it.”

  Too weak to argue, I drink it slowly.

  Cinnamon and cloves. Reminds me of Christmas Eve with my cousins. My parents always travel on Christmas. They’re high-powered lawyers and take very little time off. Don’t want to be stuck at home on the rare occasions they do.

  Don’t want to be stuck with me either, as I’ve never warranted an invite on their trips. Not even when I was too young to stay home alone.

  Time with just your spouse is so important to making a marriage work, Sia. You’ll understand when you’re older. Your uncle Murphy will be here to pick you up before long.

  “My uncle?” Which one? Danny, right. Did he leave too? Is he still angry with me?

  “He’ll be right back. Drink.”

  I hear the door open a few minutes later, and the oddest conversation ensues.

  “What are you doing with Taco?”

  “I’m sorry, Vinny. The wind took off part of the roof.”

  Vinny? That must be the man with the warm voice. Who has tacos?

  “Damn,” Vinny says.

  “We’ve got plenty of room. Oscar’s brother is tarping the hole now.”

  The lights flicker.

  “And your power’s out,” my uncle says, resigned. “Stay with us, please? I’d feel better if someone with medical training were with Sia, at least tonight?”

  Is he a doctor? A cute doctor is friends with my uncle?

  They’ve moved out of my hearing range. I shake uncontrollably, and it’s awful. How do I feel like I’m freezing but on fire at the same time?

  My uncle and Vinny return, and Danny kneels next to me, gently brushing wet hair from my face.

  “Sia, honey. What are you doing here? Aren’t you doing the big party with your cousins?”

  He means my Doyle cousins, whom I usually spend Christmas with. The Fitzgeralds don’t spend much time together anymore. We really haven’t since Drew died, but even before then we weren’t close.

  “I thought we’d have it here. I told Kieran not to tell you. Wanted it to be a surprise. A grand celebration before the grand opening. I hope you’re not mad?” My teeth chatter so every word is stilted.

  “I’m not mad, sweetie.” He turns to Vinny. “She’s shaking. Should we take her to the emergency room?”

  Vinny sweeps a hand over my forehead and I take him in. His nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken. Deep chocolate brown hair, and his eyes match. He’s got a well-trimmed beard and mustache. Not normally something I like, but on him it looks good. Really good.

  Besides, if he shaves, I bet it grows back in under ten minutes.

  “It’s actually a good sign,” he says. “She’s warming up. I’d keep her here. Better to not take her out in the cold rain again.”

  “Honey, my little Seraphina. You’re such an angel to come back here,” my uncle says, stroking my face.

  Hardly anyone calls me by my full name. Drew used to when he wanted to tease me. My eyes prick with tears.

  My uncles do as well.

  Has he forgiven me for my part in Drew’s death? I’m exhausted but hope flickers in my chest.

  “I’m going to get something for her hands. Thanks for letting me stay, Danny.”

  Uncle Danny rises to his feet and pulls Vinny into a massive hug. Vinny’s body goes stiff, like he’s not used to being touched. Is it because he’s a guy? My Doyle cousins are the toughest guys I know, though, and they’re always hugging and wrestling with each other. Odd.

  “Thank you, Vinny. For saving her life.” He’s sobbing, and Vinny just stands there awkwardly, before tapping his back gently.

  “Not a problem,” Vinny replies. “I’ll be back.”

  I’m very glad to hear that.

  4

  Vinny

  After patching up Sia’s hands, grabbing what I could from the fish shack, and taking a much-needed shower, I’m out like a light.

  I wake up to someone singing.

  I look over at Taco. Not him: anyways, I picture him more as a smoky bass rather than the clear soprano I hear. Must be Sia. Guess she feels better.

  It’s a pretty voice. She’s singing a Christmas carol, one of the depressing ones about missing your loved one.

  Not something I’ve ever had a problem with. I’ve always found it easier to be alone.

  So I’d better work on fixing my roof.

  Carefully I ease out of the bed. My body’s a little stiff from the rescue operation, but otherwise in decent shape. The singing fades as I throw on some clothes then head downstairs to the kitchen. Sia hums to herself as she reaches for the kettle, but hisses in pain, dropping it with a shrill clang on the burner.

  “You need to let your knuckles heal,” I say.

  She startles, spinning around to face me.

  Her big blue eyes are still wide with fear, but she relaxes as she recognizes me. Her auburn hair cascades down her back in waves, still slightly damp from the shower. She’s wearing a ridiculously large shirt—Danny’s, obviously—and a pair of sweatpants that drown her.

  Maybe not the best expression to use.

  “Oh, hi,” she says, her cheeks flushing. Better than the cold blue of yesterday. Her lips are pink now, and my gaze lingers on them.

  My body reacts. Well then. Been a while since a woman did that to me. I walk over to
the coffee maker and pour myself a cup.

  “Vinny,” she says. “I just wanted to thank you. You and your crew who saved me and Oscar. He’s okay—my uncle checked in.”

  “Good to hear,” I reply, taking the kettle from her. Filling it up with water, I wait until it’s topped off and drop it on the stove. Oscar never should’ve gone out in the storm, and sure as hell shouldn’t have brought this woman with him, but what’s done is done.

  She’s looking down at her hands. Her knuckles are badly bruised and scraped. Nothing broken, but her hands will be stiff for a week or so.

  “It’s from the grip you had on Oscar,” I offer.

  And from my having to pry her hands open when they were wet. Skin tears more easily when it’s wet.

  “You held him above the water.”

  “I don’t really remember,” she says.

  “We got him out, but I couldn’t get you to drop that giant bag of yours. Probably weighed more than you did.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” she says, gently taking a mug from the cabinet. “It has a lot of important things inside. I’m just glad I’d weatherproofed it. Not everything survived, but enough did.”

  “Things don’t matter,” I say with a shrug.

  She folds her arms over her chest. An unwelcome image of her in bra and panties flashes through my mind.

  “Well, people matter far more.” She leans against the counter. “But I’m glad I salvaged something, with my other bags at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Too bad the one you saved didn’t have clothes.”

  It comes out meaner than I intend, but I’ve never understood the obsession some people have with material things. Who the hell cares? Clothes at least are useful. I can’t imagine that there’s anything in that tote that was worth risking her life for.

  “Clothes I can replace. But a good part of my business was in those bags. My portfolios, samples, catalogs.”

  The kettle starts to scream, and I move in front of her to take it from the heat. I snap off the burner and fill her mug.

  Catalogs? Everything’s online now anyway. And samples of what? Hope it’s something the fish can eat when the bags start to decay. Either way, it’ll put a damper on that party she’d talked about last night.

  “Too bad. I guess you’ll have to cancel your gala.”

  The tea’s giving her trouble. She can’t bend her hands well enough to hold the mug now that it’s full. If she’d sit down, she’d have an easier time. Instead, she puts the mug on the counter and flexes her hands.

  “No, not cancel. Just change. I’ll do something small and intimate. Maybe fifty guests. Something really authentic to the Vineyard.” She laughs. “My cousins and their partners make a sizable group on their own.”

  Dear god. Authentic to whom? The rich morons are mostly gone for the winter. “We have very different ideas of what intimate is. Well, good luck. It won’t be easy pulling something even that intimate together last-minute here.”

  “Doesn’t need to be easy.”

  Her cheerful determination is annoying. I need to go pick up some lumber from the hardware store. Get some alone time with my roof. Motivated by the thought of quiet, I finish my coffee and put the mug in the dishwasher.

  “Okay then. See you.”

  “Wait, are you going into town?”

  Damn. This is a trap. I should just lie or say I don’t have room with the lumber.

  “I am.”

  My mouth runs ahead of my brain. Not like me.

  “Do you mind if I go with you? I need to pick up some clothes that fit.”

  “There’s not much in town,” I say. “Not during the winter especially. But I can take you to Vineyard Haven to find something.”

  Did I really just make that offer? Only thing I hate more than ditzy, shallow women is shopping. Shopping with a ditzy, shallow woman is a level of hell I hadn’t imagined possible even in some of my darkest moments.

  “That’d be great, thanks. Maybe there’ll be one of those Christmas shops there too.”

  No idea and I could not care less. I need to fix my roof, not take Miss Christmas on a whirlwind tour of the island.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to head out.” My voice is grim. Better to get this over with as soon as possible.

  We’re in my truck in thirty minutes. If I hadn’t had to wait for her, I would’ve been on my way back from the hardware store already. It’s raw out. Cold and damp from the storm, with debris tossed every which way. Some holiday decorations have migrated from their original location. Homeless inflatable snowmen and broken “Santa Stop Here” signs litter yards and sidewalks. Tragic.

  “Do you have any family holiday traditions?” Sia asks.

  You have to have family to have family traditions.

  “Nope.”

  “You have anyone special to celebrate with?”

  I note the sheepish tone in her voice and glance at her in the rearview mirror. She’s blushing. Interesting. It looks good on her. Better than her uncle’s clothes for sure. She’s a beautiful woman, without a doubt, but this line of questioning is going to get us nowhere. Knockout or not, I’m not interested in a materialistic socialite.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh.”

  There’s one whole minute of blissful silence before Sia launches into a seemingly endless stream of chatter to fill the space: yule logs and champagne glasses, white birch, and pine. Tasteful glass ornaments. Boxes of family holiday treasures in the basement. My fingers grip the steering wheel and my knuckles are going white by the end of the drive.

  I try to tune her out, but she grates on me. The orchestration of perfection. The projection of a fake image of a happy family.

  “Does it matter to you that it’s not real?” I ask.

  She stops talking again. Now there’s a Christmas miracle.

  “You can dress reality up however you want, but when it comes down to it, most families hate each other. The holidays are the worst because you’re supposed to force a greeting card façade when you’d rather be eating Chinese food alone.”

  I shoot a glance to her. She’s shrinking into the giant coat borrowed from her uncle. Very Tiny Tim. At least she’s consistent. She pales a little, and I wonder if she ever gets her worldview challenged.

  “That might be how you see it,” she says, finally, her voice tight. “But I think that’s cynical and sad. Christmas is when you’re supposed to remember why you love each other. Why family, why tradition, matters.”

  “What about people who don’t have families?” I can’t help but push things. She turns to me, looking far more guileless than any grown person should. She never would’ve survived my childhood.

  “It doesn’t have to be blood relatives, Vinny. Chosen family is just as important.”

  My early years were spent desperately hoping to be someone’s chosen family. With every new foster placement, I prayed that some family would want me. Keep me. But I always got sent back to the State, usually with new scars, literal or figurative. Hope is dangerous.

  “Some people don’t get chosen.” I shrug. “I don’t expect you to understand that. You’re a beautiful woman from a wealthy family who obviously loves you.”

  She’s pissed now. It’s too satisfying to leave there.

  “You can spend time with silly things like deciding which exact shade of red bow matches your picture-perfect poinsettias because you’ve never had to deal with the uglier things life offers up.”

  She stares straight ahead, her cheeks flushed. When we finally get to Vineyard Haven, she fixes me with a pointed stare.

  “You make a lot of assumptions, Vinny. About me, and I’m guessing about yourself, too. Thank you for the ride. I’ll get an Uber back. I know you have work to do on your house and I don’t want to keep you with my silly endeavors.” She climbs from the truck with difficulty. The bulky coat and her stiff, sore hands slow her down.

  She shuts the door behind her and drifts off into one of the sto
res.

  I feel slightly guilty. Well, not exactly guilty, but it’s better this way. If we’re sharing a space, I need her to direct her Christmas ramblings elsewhere. It’s a waste of time, and I won’t get caught up just because she’s beautiful.

  She’ll be gone before long anyway.

  5

  Sia

  That presumptuous son of a bitch.

  I can’t believe he had the gall to say that to me, as if he knows anything about me. I asked my uncle about him this morning. Not a doctor, like I’d guessed in my hypothermic brain haze, but a friend of Kieran’s from their Coast Guard days who operates a fish shack on my uncle’s land.

  A bit of a loner, Uncle Danny had said. But a stand-up guy.

  Before that car ride from hell, I would’ve agreed. Maybe no one invites him to parties because he’s a sullen asshole.

  Ugh.

  Okay.

  He’s not going to spoil my plans. In fact, I’m going to make it impossible for even that Grinch to resist the Christmas spirit.

  But first I need to get something to wear.

  Walking into the fancy boutique, I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, except I’m the hobo to her sex worker. A young woman with shiny black curly hair sits behind the counter looking bored as hell. She raises one finely groomed eyebrow when I enter.

  “Hi,” I say. “As I guess you can see, I’m in the market for some clothes.” Thank the sweet baby Jesus my wallet and phone had survived their trip in my newly sainted zip-top Frye leather tote bag.

  “We have plenty of those,” she replies, gesturing around apathetically. Obviously fashion is not her passion.

  “I’ll level with you.” I trip on my uncle’s giant loafers. God. “I’m here for a week. My clothes are in a bag at the bottom of the ocean. At least I think they are. I have nothing beyond what I was wearing yesterday, but even when those are back from the dry cleaner’s, I’m going to need a few more things to get me through.”