Page 58 of Santa Baby

“Well bred?” The glass actually shattered. I would have been impressed with my own strength had I not been so completely out of it with rage. “Do you hear yourself? Are we talking about women or show ponies? Well bred?” I choked out a bitter laugh, setting the remains of the glass on my desk. The whiskey burned into my skin, into the gash across the meat of my thumb. “Get out.”

“We’re not done here.”

“You can say all you want to say about my business, I don’t give a shit. But the second you bring my girlfriend into this, we’re done.”

“I did some digging on her family, Mason.”

“Of course you did.” I shook out my hand, curling my fingers into a fist to stop beads of blood from dripping onto the carpet. “Let me guess, you found a few parking tickets?”

“Her dad is part of the union.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, God, no. How will your reputation ever survive?”

“She isn’t our kind!”

“Because her dad worked for the city and her mom is a teacher?!” I shouted, turning on him. “Because she didn’t go to an ivy league school? Because no one in your circles knows who she is?”

“She’s in this for the money, Mason. You can’t be this naïve⁠—”

“I love her.” The words fell from my tongue as naturally as the air I breathed. Dad blinked, taken aback, his lips parting to argue but I shook my head. “I love her.”

“What does that have to do with anything? This is our legacy⁠—”

“Your legacy.”

“You are an O’Leary.”

“And she’ll be one, one day. One day soon, I hope.”

He frowned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” I straightened up, swallowing past the lump forming in my throat. “Fia is the best person I’ve ever met, the kindest, bravest, sweetest person that’s ever walked into my life. And the only thing that’s been on my mind this entire fucked-up week is her. I’d throw all of this away, Dad, for her. In a heartbeat. I’d go work behind a counter selling two-dollar slices and I’d be happy knowing that I’d be going home to her regardless of my status, of my reputation, because she doesn’t care about that. She doesn’t care about my money. The only person who cares about that is you.”

“You’re making a huge mistake,” he muttered, shaking his head. He turned to the door, which we had both been ignoring, and he stopped, his shoulders slumping.

So did mine.

Fia was standing in the doorway, panting, dressed in a black wool trench coat over a faded gray sweatshirt and jeans, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun that had seen better days. Her cheeks were flushed as she looked at us, her eyes round and full of shock.

Dad chuckled and flashed me a bitter look over his shoulders before he sauntered out the door. Fia stepped out of his way, watching him leave.

“How much did you hear?” I asked by way of greeting. Wincing, I sat on the armrest of the leather chair in front of my desk.

“A lot,” she whispered, closing the door. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine⁠—”

She padded across the carpet in her sneakers, wet from the snow. Her chilled hand unfurled my fingers and she hissed a breath. “You need stitches.”

“It’s not that bad.” The feeling of her hand cupping mine was everything I needed. It thawed the anxiety, the stress weighing me down, in an instant. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe. “Fia, I’m sorry⁠—”

“Don’t be,” she replied with a soft smile as her eyes met mine. “I do wish you’d told me what was going on, though. I thought—I thought you were ghosting me.”

“Ghosting you?”

“Going radio silent after we—after we hooked up.”

“No.” I wrapped my fingers around hers. “I wasn’t. I wouldn’t.”