by Alexa Rivers
“Of course you can,” she muttered, like his revelation explained everything. “Are you going to let me past? Or do I need to knee you in the nads?” She tried to step around him, but he shuffled over and blocked her path. She raised her left knee menacingly.
“No need to maim me. I’ll let you pass as soon as you tell me why in God’s name you were exercising at the ass-crack of dawn on Christmas morning. It’s a day for sleeping late and eating too much, not working on your bikini body.”
She shoved his shoulders. He backed up a little, knowing she could push him with all her strength and not move him thanks to years of playing lock on the rugby field, but he wouldn’t use his physicality to intimidate her.
“I do yoga every day,” she said as she brushed past him. “Christmas is no different. It’s a day like any other.”
“No it’s not,” he called after her. “It’s a holiday. Meant to be enjoyed.”
“So?” She paused in the doorway of the spare bedroom. “I enjoy yoga. And don’t be judgey, Irishman. I have Christmas traditions, too. Mine are different from yours, but that doesn’t make them any less valid.”
“Touché.” She had him there. Who was he to decide what was and wasn’t an appropriate way to spend Christmas?
Evie packed her yoga mat away and showered to rinse off the fine sheen of sweat left over from her routine. Though it was cool inside, when she peeped between the curtains, the sky was a vivid blue with fluffy clouds drifting across it. She dressed in one of her favorite scoop-necked tops and a skort—a pair of shorts with a wrap-around front that had the overall effect of resembling a skirt.
Opening the window, she leaned out and breathed in the fresh air. At this height, she could see clear over the surrounding buildings and down to the lake. It was too early for anyone to be up and about except for a lone woman jogging along the lake shore. The temperature was mild and pleasant, but the glorious summer sky promised a scorcher of a day to come.
From her suitcase, she grabbed a box of herbal tea and strode to the kitchen, determined to rescue her mood. As she entered the dining area, Davy’s broad back came into view. He stood at the counter, spreading cream cheese on bagels before smothering raspberry jam on top. When she flicked the kettle on, he handed her one.
“Eat up.”
“Thanks.” The simple gesture touched her heart. Other than her mother and one or two of her closest friends, no one had ever cooked for her. Certainly not any man.
Calm down, she told herself. It’s a bagel, not a declaration of undying affection.
Christmas carols played softly in the background. The kettle boiled and she poured hot water into a teacup, watching as pink diffused from the tea bag into the drink.
“My family is coming by for lunch,” Davy told her as he rinsed and dried a turkey. “It’s a tradition for us. Have a big lunch, then munch on leftovers all day.”
“I’ll leave,” she said, tossing out the tea bag and taking her breakfast to the table. “Get out of the way. Let you guys enjoy your lunch.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s Christmas. You’re welcome to join us.”
She nibbled on her lip, hesitant. “I don’t want to intrude.” She paused, thinking about how she didn’t actually have anywhere else to go, other than for a long walk around town. This was a large apartment, with plenty of room—she could stay out of the way. “Perhaps I could hang out in the bedroom and keep myself busy?”
He glanced up, looking dubious. “If that’s what you’d prefer, but think on it. We’re a family who firmly believes in the more, the merrier.”
She nodded, and finished her bagel and tea in silence while he mixed stuffing and shoved it into the turkey. “Thanks for the breakfast,” she said, getting up to wash and dry the plate.
“No problem.”
Back in the bedroom, she opened her ten-dollar bottle of wine and half-filled the teacup she’d brought with her, taking a sip and savoring the tingle on her tongue. Sparkling Moscato may be cheap, but it was her favorite. In her opinion, no hundred-year-old, pricey vintage could compete, although many of her friends disagreed. Clarissa, in particular, was a connoisseur.
The photo of her mother faced her from the bedside cabinet. Evie glanced away, unable to look at it for long. She grabbed a donut from the plastic carton stored in her suitcase and bit into it, loving the flakiness of the outside and the softness of the center. Cinnamon sugar coated her fingers and she licked them. Bliss.
She didn’t need an over-the-top Christmas celebration. All she needed was this: wine, donuts, The Little Match Girl, and her mum.
Mum.
A tear welled up and slid over one cheek. Another followed. It didn’t matter that she was upholding their traditions—Kahurangi was gone, and Evie didn’t want to spend Christmas without her. Her soul ached with loneliness. Her heart hurt from it. She remembered her mother saying, year after year, “We may not have fancy gifts, but we’ll always have each other, tamahine.” But they didn’t, not anymore, because she’d died and left Evie on her own.
This time last year, Kahurangi had been bedridden, and fading fast. Her skin had been unusually colorless, her energy low as her body used whatever supplies it possessed to fight the cancer. She’d known she was dying, but Evie denied it, preferring to cling to the hope of a Christmas miracle. Surely they deserved one after all they’d been through together. But no miracle came, and Kahurangi passed away days later.
Evie’s tears flowed quickly, streaming down her face and dripping off her chin. She pushed the donuts away and clutched the book to her, rocking back and forth. A sob tore from deep in her chest. A miserable, bitter sound she couldn’t contain.
It wasn’t fair. Her mum hadn’t even been fifty. She’d exercised regularly, not smoked, and watched what she ate. Why had the universe stolen her away?
Why had there been nothing Evie could do to stop it?
She’d wondered, so many times, whether her mum would be alive if only they’d caught the cancer earlier, or been able to afford a new treatment on the market. Sniffling, she wiped her leaky eyes on the bed sheet. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. None of that meant anything now. Kahurangi had died and left her alone for all the Christmases to come.
The tears started anew, and she cursed herself for being pathetic. She’d thought she’d finished crying months ago. But then, maybe her mother wasn’t the only reason for her tears. Maybe the stress of the last two days had caught up with her. In the end, it didn’t really matter why she was crying. What mattered was that she was without family on Christmas Day, for the first time ever.
Chapter 6
With the turkey and ham in the oven, Davy turned his attention to the vegetables and sauce. Heavy Christmas meals weren’t de rigueur in New Zealand because Christmas happened during midsummer, but his Irish family erred toward the traditions of the homeland. They loved New Zealand, but that didn’t stop his Mam from missing cold Christmases in Ireland.
As he began to peel parsnips, his playlist ended. He went to his phone, selected a new playlist, and was about to start the music when a strange high-pitched keening noise caught his attention. Frowning, he followed the sound into the hall. It was coming from the room Evelyn had claimed. Perhaps she was playing her own music.
But no, if she’d had her own sound system, she would have used it to drown out his Christmas carols.
Pausing outside the door, he put his ear to the wood and listened. The keening had stopped, but now he heard watery blubbering. Hell, she was crying. Absolutely bawling, if his ears could be believed.
What had he done? She hadn’t seemed upset with him during breakfast, but perhaps she’d taken his unwelcome and unexpected nudity harder than he’d thought. Could it be that he’d frightened her? God, he hoped not.
He chewed on his tongue. Dare he open the door?
If he’d truly upset her, he should make it right. But if this was his fault, wouldn’t he be doing her a favor by staying away?
Suck it up, boyo. Do t
he right thing.
Maybe it wasn’t anything he’d done. Maybe this was about her mother. He laid a palm against the door, reluctant to bust in on her, but with any other woman, he’d have entered already. He shouldn’t treat Evelyn differently because of their past. So thinking, he pushed the door open and peered around. She sat cross-legged on the bed, clutching a hardback book, a half-drunk glass of wine on the nightstand and a six-pack of donuts beside her. She looked up, and the miserable expression in her puffy red eyes hit him like a knife in the gut. Yeah, she was upset about far more than something stupid he’d done. This was raw grief.
“Go away,” she moaned, shutting her eyes as though she couldn’t bear to look at him. “Leave me be.”
He stepped cautiously into the room, his attention focused entirely on her. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that, Evelyn. Not when you’re hurting like this.”
“I don’t need your pity,” she mumbled, studying her hands.
He felt utterly useless. This was Evelyn. Usually flirtatious, always maddening, never one to dwell on the negatives. He wasn’t equipped to see her this way. He watched her dab her eyes with a fingertip, shoulders hunched. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, her gaze flickering to something on the nightstand. Davy crossed to her side, perched on the edge of the bed, and put an arm around her.
She didn’t shrug him off, which was telling in and of itself. From here, he could see the photograph displayed in a scarred wooden frame. It was of Evelyn and her mother. Sympathy twisted a knot in his gut. The women had always been close, and losing her must have been far more difficult than Evelyn ever let on.
“There, there,” he said awkwardly, stroking her silky hair. “Let it out. It will be okay.”
“You don’t know that,” she whispered, then screwed up her face as she realized she’d shown weakness, not something she’d ever enjoyed. “You can go. I’m fine.”
Davy didn’t budge. “You’ll have to be more convincing than that.”
She shook her shoulders, dislodging his arm, then took a deep, uneven breath, dried her eyes on the sheet, and bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile. “I’m okay,” she said. “Completely fine.”
Welp, he was convinced. Convinced that she was anything but fine. He took her hand. “Sweetheart, please let me help. I know I’m probably not who you want to be with right now, but unless you want me to call Sophie or Aria, I’m who you’ve got.”
She sniffed. “Don’t call the girls. I just need…” She trailed off. “I don’t know.”
“How about you come and help me prepare lunch,” he suggested, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. “I know it’s not exciting, but it might take your mind off things. Then you can stay and eat with us.”
She groaned and covered her face with her free hand. “I don’t know if I can handle being social right now. Why would you even want me intruding on your family lunch? Won’t they think it’s weird?”
He understood her hesitation. Though they’d dated in high school, she’d never met his parents, despite his wishes to the contrary. Meeting the parents had been “a little too real” for teenage Evelyn.
Yeah, that had stung.
He shrugged. “My family won’t mind a bit. They’d love to have company, and you aren’t just some random person. You’re you.”
She huffed, reclaimed her hand, and hugged her knees again. “Why do you call me that?”
He paused, caught off guard. “Evelyn? It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but nobody besides Mum ever used it. To everyone else, I’m just Evie.”
“I like the way ‘Evelyn’ sounds,” he said. “It’s a nice name. And you’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re beautiful and smart and intriguing, but I guess you already know that.”
“Never hurts to hear someone say it,” she replied, a ghost of a grin on her face. “Okay, I’ll join your lunch. I appreciate you inviting me.”
“You’re very welcome.” He stood, offered her a hand, and hauled her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she whispered, eyes glimmering with the remnants of tears. “For being so nice to me. I know it can’t be easy.” Then, to his complete astonishment, she planted a kiss on him. It was over nearly as soon as it began and she ducked around him and scurried away. He touched his lips wonderingly.
If he was sensible, he’d want nothing to do with Evelyn. She was the kind of trouble that could break his heart. But damn, she had the softest lips he’d ever kissed.
Why had she kissed him?
Evie’s mouth tingled where it had touched Davy’s. A mistake. She’d been overcome by gratitude toward him for being so kind, and it had just happened.
On top of that, it seemed she would be joining the O’Connors for lunch. Never mind that she wouldn’t add much to the holiday cheer, he seemed almost eager to have her there. While she hadn’t appreciated his interfering at first, now she was relieved she’d have something to do other than wallow in grief all day.
“Where are you going?” Davy called after her.
She turned. He stood in the hall, looking baffled. And strangely adorable. Not sexy at all, she reminded herself. For his sake, she couldn’t afford to be attracted to him. She didn’t want to risk hurting him again just because she didn’t know what she wanted out of her life anymore.
“We’re making lunch,” she reminded him, padding up the carpeted hall to the kitchen and dining area. Heavy footsteps told her he’d followed.
He tapped her shoulder. “What was that?”
She didn’t turn. “Nothing. Now let’s get cooking. Don’t worry, I won’t mess anything up. I’ve worked in a few cafes and restaurants over the years.” She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the space. “Where do you want me?”
A pregnant pause came on the heel of her words. She winced. She should have phrased the question differently. Fortunately, he didn’t make the obvious joke.
“Can you finish peeling the parsnips and carrots?” he asked, coming around to stand beside her. “I’ll focus on the sauce.”
“Easy.” She grabbed the discarded peeler and set to work. “Is this what an Irish Christmas lunch looks like?”
“Traditionally, the Irish celebrate with Christmas dinner,” he said in his pleasant lilting accent as he moved to the stovetop to check the sauce. “We changed it to lunch, but otherwise yes, this is more or less what a traditional Christmas meal would include.”
She scanned the kitchen. “Where are the potatoes?”
He grinned. “Believe it or not, we’re not all about the potatoes. Although you can’t deny, they’re a versatile vegetable. They make chips and crisps, you can roast them or bake them, and they’re the key ingredient to vodka. Potatoes are a bloody good time.”
“Okay, Mr. Potato Head.”
“You laugh,” he said, grabbing a spoon from a drawer, “but it’s true. I challenge you to name one other vegetable you can do all those things with.”
Evie thought for a moment, then with a smug grin, replied, “Kumara.”
“Aha! Otherwise known as sweet potato.”
The smile vanished. “Completely different thing.”
“One and the same,” he countered.
“Does anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”
“Only when they know I’m right.”
She rinsed the parsnips, then turned her attention to the carrots. “How big is your family? Seems like there’s enough here to feed a small army.”
“Not that big. Just big eaters. There will be four and a half people coming over.”
She laughed. “A half?”
Davy laughed with her. “My nephew. He’s only two, so I don’t think he qualifies as a full person yet.”
“That’s Angus’s kid? He’s younger than you, right?”
“He’s twenty-two.”
Young to have a two-year-old, but old enough to be a good parent. She tried to recall his face. He’d been a kid himself last she’d seen him. Gangly and
ginger, with a big mouth and a chip on his shoulder, willing to take on anyone who mocked his hair or accent. Hard to imagine him as a father.
She finished with the carrots at the same time Davy took the sauce off the stove and set it aside to cool. She leaned over the pot and sniffed. It smelled good. Sweet, yet tart.
“What next, Chef?”
“Can you whip some cream for the trifle?” he asked. “It’s in the fridge, and there’s vanilla paste and confectioner’s sugar in the pantry.”
She pulled a face. “I should have known you’d be one of those people who pollutes their cream.” Nonetheless, she searched for the ingredients he’d specified. As she reached for the vanilla paste on the top shelf, it struck her that her tears had dried and, however unlikely, she was having a good time.
“Too short, pipsqueak?”
She bounced off the floor and closed her hand around the tube. “I’m Goldilocks,” she said, waving her fist in triumph. “Just right, smart ass.”
He glanced over his shoulder and down at his backside. “Why, thank you for noticing.”
She hid her mouth behind her hand so he couldn’t see her smile. “Oh, the gems keep on coming.” After emptying the ingredients into a bowl, she searched the cupboards until she found an electric beater, and started it up.
Davy, who’d begun chopping a collection of summer fruit, jerked in surprise. “Give a guy some warning.”
She pointed to her ear and mouthed, “I can’t hear you.”
“Sure you can’t.”
She shrugged helplessly.
“Evil Evelyn, that’s what they should call you.” Turning away, he continued dicing fruit. Evie finished whipping the cream and shimmied across the kitchen, bumping him with her hip. She swiped a piece of strawberry, popped it between her lips, and licked the juice from her fingers.
“You sneaky little thief.”
She sashayed away and stored the whipped cream in the fridge. “I feel no shame. Custard next?”
