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When I hear the front door of the building slam, I pillow my head on my arms and cry.

Chapter 18

Gideon

Christmas Eve

Day 12: Dinner with the Mulhollands

If Valencia thinks I’m leaving her alone for Christmas, she’s out of her fucking mind.

I walk back to my apartment, letting the brisk December air cool my temper. I get what she’s doing, and why, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t abandon her.

I’m ... in love with her.

Which is what Ishouldhave said instead of all thatagreementanddealcrap. And maybe I would have if she hadn’t caught me off guard.

Truth is, she’s been catching me off guard since I spotted her in the club.

As I walk, I formulate a plan. Pulling out my phone, I open one of my rarely used social media apps and do a user search. Then I send a private message.

Two seconds later, a reply pops up.

What do you want, Knobble?

I grin.Bingo.

The next evening is Christmas Eve, and I’m waiting in front of the ornate limestone exterior of the Mulhollands’ Park Avenue apartment building when Valencia arrives on foot.

Her expression goes flat when she sees me.

“What are you doing here, Gideon?”

“Oh, we’re back to first names?” I shouldn’t fuck with her, but I can’t help it. When she called me Noble yesterday, she might as well have eviscerated me with a candy cane.

She sends me an exasperated look, but she doesn’t object when I fall into step beside her and enter the building.

The doorman recognizes her and they exchange season’s greetings before we get on the elevator. I’m once again reminded that she must have spent a lot of time here while she was dating, and then engaged to, Mulholland.

“Donotmake a scene,” she hisses at me once the elevator doors shut and we begin our ascent.

“I won’t if he doesn’t.”

She heaves a sigh and casts her gaze toward the ceiling. Then she glances at me from the corner of her eye. “Should I take this to mean you’re not going to France?”

“As I told youandmy mother, no, I am not going to Paris. I’m staying right here and celebrating Christmas in New York”—I glare at her—“withyou.”

The tension in her face eases, and she seems to be on the verge of smiling when the elevator doors open. When we approach the Mulhollands’ door and knock, it’s opened almost immediately by Fern. Delicious scents waft toward us, but Fern shoots a look over her shoulder and steps out, shutting the door partway behind her.

“Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, et cetera, et cetera.” She plants a smacking kiss on Valencia’s cheek, then grabs the collar of my coat and pulls me down to do the same. When she releases me, she turns back to Valencia and winces. “Ev’s not here yet. I warned him that you were bringing a date, but I didn’t tell him who.”

Valencia shoots me an accusatory glare. “I didn’t realize I was bringing him, either, or that you two are partners in crime.”

Fern’s tone is utterly unrepentant. “Look, babe, I’m chaotic-neutral at best, and my brother has been a little dipshitthis year. He has it coming. I just wanted to warnyou”—she makes finger guns at me—“that Ev is a professional hockey player, and he’s kinda free with his fists.”

I clench my jaw. I’m not a fighter, never needed to be, but I’d make an exception here. Out loud I say, “I’m not worried.”

Valencia covers her face with both hands. “Fucking hell.”