They talk over each other, laughing and joking in their beautiful gentle accents, comfortable with each other because that’s what families do. They are all capable of following at least three conversations at once. Emmett’s mom Sinead ushers the boys back outside with the unlucky toad, while discussing the best month for a wedding with her sisters-in-law and asking Fianna to loan me some warm clothes for when we go out and collect the Christmas tree.
She fills a huge earthenware mug with tea and plies me with homemade gingerbread biscuits.
“She’ll need more than that.” Granny Mary, Emmett’s paternal grandmother, knocks back a crystal tumbler of liquid that looks remarkably like whiskey. “They’ve traveled halfway around the world to get here. The least ye can do is feed the poor girl.”
“I’m fine.” I honestly can’t eat with the thump-thump of my beating heart, but no one is listening to me.
“They’re feeders.” Fianna leans in and whispers in my ear. “Don’t even try to fight it. If you don’t eat my mom’s gingerbread, she’ll think you’re on a strange Hollywood-style diet, and the next thing you know they’ll be serving you extra roast tatties with your dinner to fatten you up.”
I like Fianna. There’s something serene about her, the way she doesn’t get drawn into the banter and the laughter. She’s the wallflower observing the loud and vibrant blooms in the center of the flowerbed. We could be friends, I think, in different circumstances.
I bite off the gingerbread man’s head—it’s soft on the inside and crispy on the outside, with the perfect amount of ginger, not like the brittle biscuits served in the generic cafés during the holidays.
“I knew it!” Emmett’s dad, Patrick, high-fives his brothers. “She went for the head first.”
They all look at me as laughter fills the massive kitchen.
“They’re talking about the biscuit,” Fianna says. “They probably had a wager on what part you’d eat first.”
Emmett hasn’t joined in the card game. He went outside with the twins to release the captured toad back into the wild, and since he came back, he has been leaning against the counter with a huge mug of coffee in his hands.
He’s holding back. At first, I assumed that it was because of me—he’s worried that I’ll say something I shouldn’t—but the more I watch him, the more I’m starting to think that it goes way deeper than our fake relationship. This is a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie, but he doesn’t know what role he should be playing. Has he spent so much time in New York that he has forgotten where he belongs?
No wonder his mom is so excited to plan our wedding. She wants her baby home. For good.
I wonder how she’ll react when she finds out the truth?
I feel a stab of guilt somewhere deep in my chest and try to soothe it away with a surreptitious mouthful of gingerbread. This isn’t my fault. He proposed to me to cover up the murder on the roof when all I was trying to do was mind my own business.
But the guilt goes way deeper too. I’ve never experienced this kind of Christmas before, but as a connoisseur of cheesy movies, I recognize a close knit family when I see one. It’s the kind of Christmas I’ve always dreamed of. A huge welcoming home, homemade fruitcake, beautifully wrapped gifts around a real tree that smells of pine. All we’re missing is snow, but I’m not ruling it out.
The only problem is, I don’t belong here.
“Come on.” Fianna stands and takes my hand in hers. “I’ll find you a warm coat and some boots. This is my favorite part of Christmas.”
In the mud room—they have an actual mud room in this house complete with a selection of heavy waterproof coats, wellington boots, and thick fisherman’s socks—Fianna chooses a bottle-green coat and matching boots for me.
“How did you meet Emmett?” she asks while I try on the boots for size and add an extra pair of socks.
Here we go. Storytime.
“At a party.” It’s mostly true.
“Did Uncle Emmett choose the ring?”
Ouch. This one is going to hurt. “Yes. I had no idea that he was going to propose.”
Fianna watches me coolly, and I already hate lying to her. “It’s just, I thought he would’ve given you Granny Mary’s engagement ring. Everyone knows the ring is going to be handed down to the eldest grandchild.”
My pulse is racing a marathon. Once you start lying, you get caught in a whole sticky web of them, and it’s only a matter of time before you start forgetting what you said to begin with. Why couldn’t he have just pretended I was a quick fuck on the roof instead of his fiancée? Would’ve saved us both a whole load of hassle.
“I-I said I wanted something simple.”
She eyes up the ring like the diamond is flashing the truth at her in Morse Code. “Granny Mary’s ring is a bit of an acquired taste. I’m glad I won’t have to wear it.” She smiles, and it’s so genuine, that the guilt adds another stab to my heart for good measure. “I never thought Uncle Emmett would get married, but I’m glad you’re here, Mary.”
You won’t be, I think.
We all pile into giant-wheeled 4×4 vehicles and form a procession to choose the Christmas tree that will take pride of place in the family living room. Fianna comes with us, riding in the back with me and Emmett while Dave follows Patrick’s car to the tree farm.
The engagement ring conversation has left me feeling a little uneasy. Perhaps Emmett hasn’t given his family enough credit; I think they understand him way better than he believes they do, and they’re not going to be easily fooled. It’s Christmas! He’s just gotten engaged to be married. We should be screwing like rabbits not eying each other up from opposite sides of the room.
I lean across him and peer out of the window. “Where are we now?” He flinches, and I feel like hissing in his ear, “Act, you fucker. This was your idea.”
He points out the tiny village of Laragh as we pass through. “Our closest village. There’s still a way to go.”
Asshole. He wants me to sit back and leave him alone, but he doesn’t get to make all the rules. Who does he think he is?
I rest my head on his shoulder, entwine my fingers with his, and yawn exaggeratedly. It has the desired effect. He can’t push me away without Fianna noticing, and he can’t go anywhere because he’s trapped in the back of the car with us.
Deep breath. He smells so goddamned good.
I check out his profile, the set of his clenched jaw, the lips pressed together, eyes fixated on the window, and anger blooms inside me. I move my lips to his ear, and whisper, “You smell good.”
He swallows hard. I can almost hear the debate being carried out inside his head. Ignore me or respond the way a lover would?
Finally, when I think he’s going with option one, he turns to me and plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “So do you.”
Is that it? Is that the best he can do?
I nuzzle his neck and this time, when I whisper, I allow my lips to graze his earlobe. “Later, after we’ve decorated the tree, can you show me around the house?”
He shoots a look at Fianna who is staring out the passenger window on the opposite side of the car. “Later.”
I’m going to hold him to that.
Choosing a tree is way more difficult than it looks in the movies. Sinead wants one with full branches; the men want the tallest one they can fit inside the house; while the twins don’t care what tree we get because they’re too busy trying to wrap themselves up in green webbing.
Finally, they settle on a ten-foot tall Nordman fir, which gets wrapped and strapped onto the roof of Patrick’s vehicle. The mood in the car on the way back is different, more electrified, the prospect of the tree’s arrival making even Emmett more vocal. He and Fianna talk about Christmases from when they were younger, telling stories of their dads getting drunk on Christmas Eve and eating the sherry trifle, and Ciaran pulling the tree on top of him one year, and smashing half the baubles.
Back at the house, the men carry the tree inside and set it up while the women start unpacking last year’s decorations from cardboard boxes. It puts the tiny fake tree in the living room of my apartment to shame. But I’m so absorbed with hanging sparkling snowflakes and icicles and angel’s hair from the branches, that I almost forget the reason why I’m here.
Almost.
Until Sinead mentions the food for the party. “Mary, you can stick the angel on the top this year. I need to start preparing the food or our guests will be arriving, and I’ll still be in my apron, elbow-deep in flour.”
“Can I help?”
“You’re our guest of honor. Fianna can show you to your room and sort out something for you to wear.”
“I can’t believe you still throw a party every year.” Emmett hasn’t been anywhere near the tree, still maintaining the aloof boss façade, even in front of his own family.
“It’s tradition. It wouldn’t be the same if we didn’t throw a big bash.” Sinead winks at me as she hands me the frothy white angel with translucent wings. “Besides, we have something to celebrate tonight.”
I stand beside Emmett and kiss him on the lips. “Smile,” I whisper so that no one else can hear.
My guest room is next to Fianna’s. I’ve never seen a home with so many guest rooms. My room is larger than my entire apartment in New York, with a bed that would sleep four people comfortably. It’s one of those high bouncy beds with an emerald-green comforter, and fairy lights strung around the metal headboard. I can’t resist flopping back onto it like Kevin McAllister in Home Alone, a goofy grin on my face.
Fianna’s room is equally as large as mine with a red comforter, a giant Christmas teddy on the bed, and tinsel woven around the headboard.
“How big is the big guest room?” I muse out loud.
“It’s like twice the size of this. My parents use it when they’re here.” Fianna opens the doors to a tall wooden wardrobe and stands aside, her gaze flitting back and forth between me and the rack of clothes hanging neatly inside. “Do you always wear black?”
“Um…”
I’m not often lost for words—I’m quiet because I choose to be, and not because I have nothing to say—but when it comes to clothes, I’m so used to trying to blend in that I don’t even know what suits me anymore.
“I wear black to work.”
“What about when you go out?”
“My idea of a night out is grabbing a pretzel and doing some window shopping on Fifth Avenue.”
“But you go out with Emmett, right?” Faint lines have appeared between Fianna’s eyebrows.
Fuck! It’s hard being someone who isn’t me. Someone who would attract a man like Emmett O’Hara and then keep him interested enough to propose.
“They’re usually dazzling events where everyone is dressed to kill.” I shrug nonchalantly, like I’m blasé about the kind of social life a lot of people would kill for. “But yes, I generally choose black.”
Her eyes narrow briefly, and I don’t know if she bought it or not, but she’s obviously too polite to press me further. “This is your night, Mary. You and Emmett. Auntie Sinead and Uncle Patrick will want to show you off, so I think we should give them something to talk about, don’t you?”
Do I? I’m not so sure Emmett would agree … so perhaps I do after all.
“Ye-es?” What the hell! I’m here now, no turning back. He wanted a pretense, and that’s what he’s going to get.
Fianna rifles through her clothes and turns to me with a mischievous grin. “We have two choices: we either complement your hair with brown or dark green or…” She pauses for effect. “We go all out and make sure everyone notices you.”
“I don’t know…” I can see her hand fluttering towards a dark red dress. “Red isn’t really my color.” It’s another lie—I’ve never worn anything red in my life.
Growing up, I had no one to talk to about style or fashion or what does and doesn’t work with red hair—it’s not a priority for kids in the foster care system—but I do know that red clashes with red. I mean, it’s basic dress sense, isn’t it?
“This will be, Mary, trust me.”
