“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” She sighed. “You finally realized you don’t want that life anymore, that maybe you never did.”
“I disagree. I would take back Danni if—”
“Staaaahp. Do you actually believe you would be content settling down in the suburbs with a wholesome little wife, an unremarkable job, and the same uneventful, unchallenging routine day in and day out for the rest of your boring existence?”
With Danni? He would’ve made it work. He would’ve been happy with her.
And miserable in every other aspect of his life.
“Something opened your eyes,” Rylee said. “Something or maybe…someone with a flair for tattoos, knives, garters, mystery, and danger.”
His groin tightened. “She’s a threat.”
“That’s not why you’ve been stalking her for fourteen months. Do you remember what I said to you when we met?”
“You said a lot of crazy shit.”
“A lot of crazy, smart shit. You remember.”
Yeah, he remembered.
If love comes for you again, it’s going to blindside you and knock you on your ass. You’ll deny it. You’ll fight it with every breath in your body. But having already experienced it once, you know it’s a fight you can’t win. So maybe, if and when it happens, give yourself a break. Don’t fight so hard.
“That’s not what this is.” He dragged a hand through his hair and started walking toward his rented apartment. “What she did to me is unforgivable. She can’t be trusted. Ever. She’s a goddamn risk.”
“If she consumes your mind, she’s a risk worth taking. Take the risk, Cole. Or lose the chance.”
“I already did that with Danni. I took the risk and lost the chance.”
“That’s why second chances were invented. It’s never too late to begin again, have a dream, and make her yours.”
“She already has someone.”
“That didn’t stop Trace when he went after Danni, and look how that worked out for him.”
“Ouch.” His jaw flexed. “Direct hit below the waist, Rylee.”
“Did it clear your head?”
“No.”
“Come home. If you don’t feel anything for this woman, bring your ass back to Colombia, spend the holidays with your family, and put some distance between you and this thing you’re wrestling with.”
“Not yet.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I can’t.”
“I didn’t think so. When you’re ready, we’re here. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Try not to take too much longer. We miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” he said quietly, uncomfortably. But he meant it.
“Night, Cole.”
“Good-night.”
An hour later, he lay on a cold mattress in an unfamiliar apartment and thought about Lydia.
He didn’t know her natural hair color. She wore it in every shade and style possible, usually wigs, always eye-catching. But he preferred it red, and that was how he imagined it every night when he wrapped a hand around his cock and beat off.
He thought of the thick, silken, blazing red mass of waves tumbling off her shoulders and curling around the pink peaks of her gorgeous tits. He thought of the hair between her legs, imagining it a lighter shade of red and glistening with her arousal as he penetrated her with his tongue, his fingers, and hungry cock. He thought about her rebellious little chin lifting toward him, her lips parting, begging to be kissed as he teased her, worshiped her, and gave her everything she wanted.
Christ, he was hungry. So fucking ravenous for her. He finished too quickly and continued to stroke, milking the final drops, trying to prolong the transient moment of pleasure.
When the sensation passed, and his body grew cold, he lay there in the dark, breathless, empty, and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life.
Dublin, Ireland
Three weeks later
If the idea of Christmas heaven was bundling up under layers of clothes and slushing through wet snow across cobbled streets in an epically festive pub crawl, then Dublin was the place.
Cole didn’t mind the cold, and frankly, nothing warmed the blood like a hot Irish whiskey in a cozy Irish inn. So in the dark hours of Christmas Eve, he sat in the quiet corner of a small pub off the beaten path and treated himself to a few of those hot toddies.
Outside, the wind beat against the windows in an icy serenade, forming frozen lace on the glass, delicate and jewel-like. Fire crackled in a nearby hearth, and periodically, the door opened with the draft of snow and incoming Dubliners.
Woolen hats pulled over reddened ears. Scarves wrapped around rosy cheeks. They arrived in pairs, small groups, but never solo as they stamped their boots on the entry mat and made a beeline to the bar.
For this small island of emigrants, Christmas was a time for family and friends. Many returned home to Ireland to spend the season with their loved ones. Others reconnected like the older couple across the room.
With their hands clasped together at shoulder height, they slowly danced in front of the hearth fire, smiling, swaying, locked in eye contact, and lost in their own private world.