Page 88 of Bargain with the Irish Devil
I shake my head at the Christmas tree she put in our room. It fits perfectly into the bay window and oval of space in front of the chaise lounge that’s usually tucked into it.
In our walk-in closet, I throw on a pair of boxers and find the two large paintings I’d stowed in here in the false wall. A good hiding place not only for weapons but Christmas gifts.
Out of the closet, her eyes go wide. “What did you do?”
“You have to open them to find out. This one first.”
Carefully, she tears the paper from it. “Oh my god, Declan. How did you…”
I’m at her side, she tucks her face into my neck and cries her happy tears. I don’t care if they’re happy—they still fuck with my chest. “Do you like it?”
Sniffling, she nods but doesn’t take her face away from me.
“Are you sure? Maybe you should open the other one to be sure.”
“Okay.” It’s muffled against the skin of my neck. She doesn’t move.
“Do you need me to get some tissues?” I ask into her hair.
She nods.
I let her go and grab the box of tissues that live on her bedside table. Taking a few, I give them to her.
Wiping her tears, she stares down at the painting. It’s of her parents, painted from a picture of them on their tenth wedding anniversary. They were young and still happy, looking at each other with the love they both felt for each other clear in the photo and the painting. She had a few pictures of her mother and father around the house. But it felt like they were tucked in among the ones she’d taken of me, my father, and my family in Ireland.
“Can you open it, please?” Her voice is a whisper.
“Sure, baby.” I tear the paper away.
This is one of her and her mother. It’s also taken from a picture she kept on the bedside table. She’s got her head in her mother’s lap. Her mother’s hand is running through her hair. They both look dreamy and content in the moment. She told me only a month later, her mother would find out she had cancer, then die less than two years after the photo.
Her arms go around my neck, and she clings like her life depended on hanging onto me. With our son between us, I do my best to hold her as she cries.
As the tears begin to abate, I run my hand up and down her back. “I think next year I’ll stick with lingerie and jewelry.”
She gasps and smacks my arm. “Don’t you dare. I’m sorry I’m all weepy. I swear?—”
My mouth on hers swallows the apology. I taste the love, sadness, and joy. Damn it, I end the kiss before it gets away from me.
A little mewl of frustration comes from her. “Declan.” Is a moan.
“Sweetheart, let’s get you into the shower. Guests are impending.” I remind her.
The growl of frustration has me laughing. “Fine. Darn it. Oh no, wait. It’s your turn now. And now I’m a little weirded out by how alike we think. Can you get it for me? It’s under the bed, my side.”
“I definitely don’t need?—”
Another smack on my arm. “Go get it.”
“Fine.” I sigh. Under her bed, I find a very large and heavy box. “I hope someone else carried this upstairs for you.”
“Of course, you bossy boots man. It was Colm. He took me to pick it up and brought it upstairs. Open it.”
The large box has two boxes in it. “Open this one first.”
I take out the box she pointed to. It’s filled with pictures of my mother in frames ready for us to hang. I ask in wonder. “Where did you get these?”
“Your gran. When I saw all the pictures of your mom she had in her home, it hit me how few there were of her here in the house—only two didn’t seem right.” Her eyes are a soft moss, wide with concern. “Is it okay?”
