It Must Have Been the Mistletoe(44)

But he knew better. People left. And it hurt. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, lingered longer than he should. “Merry Christmas, Layla,” he murmured.

He felt her grin against his lips. “You, too, Bryant. Good night.”

She slid quickly into her car and pulled away into the night.

A hollow feeling settled in the pit of his belly, one he instinctively knew was going to last for a long time.



LAYLA DASHED A TEAR FROM her cheek and allowed herself one last look in the rearview mirror before making the turn that would take her out toward the interstate. He was still standing there, looking more like a lost little boy than a badass security agent.

It killed her to leave him, made something in her soul screech and howl.

But this was the way he wanted it. He’d made the rules. He had to be the one to change them.

This was not a choice she could make for him, and until he decided to choose her, to take a chance with her, there was nothing she could do but get used to the pain.

Merry Christmas, indeed.





9




HE WAS A GLUTTON FOR punishment, Bryant thought as he made his way slowly down Layla’s parents’ street. An idiot. A moron. A fool. But while he was being foolish…

It had taken the private investigator he’d hired yesterday less than three hours to find his grandparents. His grandfather was buried in The Willows Eternal Rest Cemetery less than sixty miles from where he lived, and his grandmother was in an assisted-living nursing home within five miles of where her husband was buried. Under the guise of visiting from an area church, Bryant had gone to meet Elsie Walker. Thin and withered with perfectly coifed snowy-white hair and bright pink lipstick, his grandmother wasn’t the cookie-baking type granny he’d imagined. She was erect and regal, and while age had worn down her body, it had not dimmed her mind.

She’d taken one look at him and known he wasn’t who he said he was. “You look very familiar, young man,” she said. “I feel I should know you, but don’t.”

“I have that kind of face.”

“Maybe so, but you have my daughter’s eyes. What was your name again?”

He’d told her, and after she’d extracted a promise from him that he would visit again the following week, he’d left. Elsie Walker had some pictures she’d like to show him, she’d explained. Mostly she’d talked about her husband, whom she’d loved dearly. Staying power might not have been a genetic trait passed on from either of his parents, but it was reassuring to see that his grandparents had had it. Fifty-seven years, all of them happy, she’d proudly told him. She hadn’t much to say about her daughter, and Bryant suspected that, like him, Elsie hadn’t heard from her in years.

What the hell was he doing here? Bryant wondered as he looked for a place to park on the street. The sidewalk was full and cars were lined up on either side of the road for half a block.

The truth was…he couldn’t stay away. It had been little over twenty-four hours since he’d left Layla and it had felt like twenty-three hours fifty-nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds too long. Could he breathe without her? Yes.

But he didn’t want to.

He had no idea where this was going or whether or not it would end in disaster. He didn’t know if he could commit to a woman long-term, because he’d never tried—he’d never met a woman who’d inspired him to attempt it.

He wasn’t altogether certain he was inspired now…but he couldn’t stay away from her.

That’s why he was here, in her town, on her street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

Pathetic, but he didn’t care.

He slid in behind a sleek Lexus, exited the car and pocketed his keys. Shoulders hunched in his black peacoat against the cool Christmas Eve air, he followed the crowd on the sidewalk, waiting for his turn.

And there she was.

She was wrapped in a blue cloak, her blond hair covered by a hood, holding a squirming baby that was too big to be the infant Jesus, and looked largely entertained by all that was going on around him. It was the goat that held the child’s attention, Bryant realized, following the kid’s chubby pointing finger. Layla smiled and murmured something to the little boy, and as though she’d felt Bryant’s stare, she turned her head and looked directly at him.

She smiled then, a genuinely happy-to-see-him grin that made the bottoms of his feet tingle and his chest warm. Her older sister, sensing Layla’s preoccupation, followed her gaze, and the youngest one, Rita, gasped. She leaned over, and though he couldn’t hear what she said, he knew she was asking Layla what he was doing here.

Layla handed the baby off, gestured to another cloaked woman waiting in the wings, then picked through the audience and made her way to him. “Bryant,” she said wonderingly. “What are you doing here?”