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Things were about to go Revelations on their asses, and I was going to be the face of that, so, no, Aidan had no right to tangle my ovaries in a bunch. Seriously.
"Well, it’s a shame we’re staying in your parents’ place."
He arched a brow at me. "Why is it a shame?"
I gasped. "Well, we can’t have sex under their roof."
His brow arched higher. "We sure as fuck can. I’m not sixteen. As far as I know, you’re not either."
"Time hasn’t turned back on me," I confirmed. "You can’t expect me to make sex noises in your parents’ home. I’m loud. We both know this." I mean, I wasn’t usually, but yesterday, it’d been like the office in NASA when one of their rockets launched successfully.
"I’ll kiss you to keep you quiet. Last thing I want is anyone hearing you."
My eyes flared wide, and I squirmed some more. "I mean, I thought they were really traditional?"
"They are. But I’m not a kid, and it’s time they realized that. I’ll handle them. There’s no way the night is ending without you in my bed."
My lips curved. "Such a rebel."
"Oh, yeah, rebelling at forty-fucking-two." He rolled his eyes. "Tells you how under the thumb we all goddamn are." His hand tightened on the steering wheel. "Well, not anymore."
I gulped. "I thought the goal here was to make your father like me."
"It is. But if he doesn’t, it’s tough shit. I’ve decided."
He said that like it was a blanket statement. So, curiously, I queried, "What have you decided?"
"That I’m not accepting anymore of his bullshit." He grunted as he took a turn that would maneuver us off-road and onto a private street.
Nerves hit me, and I asked, "Are we almost there?"
"No. We’re ten minutes away. I want to head to my place first. My—Our," he corrected quickly, "gifts for the family are there."
I blinked, trying not to melt at his inclusion. "Why don’t we just stay here, then?"
He turned to look at me as we pulled up outside a massive set of gates. "Because it’s Christmas." Those words were uttered with the utmost severity. Like he was a kid awaiting Santa Claus.
"Okay, then," I said sheepishly.
Everything about this was crazy to me. We were heading upstate to the family estate for dinner today, and we’d spend Christmas Eve there, but we’d return to Manhattan for Midnight Mass, then drive back, and spend the weekend there.
Why we weren’t just staying in the city until Midnight Mass was beyond me. Not that my ecological-loving ass was complaining—even though I really was trying hard not to imagine how much gas this tank was guzzling—because I was too excited about meeting the O’Donnelly patriarch, but still, it was clear to me they took the holiday seriously.
The house itself was like a dream. Once the gates opened up, it revealed a garden that was pretty much landscaped to high heaven.
There were large patterns in the lawn that reminded me of regal crop circles, because they were all surrounded by privets, and they all stood in a deep cascade, high to low where the house was, to shield the property in a kind of manicured neatness that belonged in the Queen of Hearts’ yard in Alice in Wonderland.
Then there was the mansion.
I was rich. My family was rich. My dad had a sixty-two room property in Santa Clara, for God’s sake, but this place looked as if it had been dragged, brick by brick, from the UK to here.
The only way I could measure it was that it had fourteen windows across and was three stories high.
It was antique stone, had cast iron decorations, and more stone molding than Notre-Dame Cathedral. There were even gargoyles, for Christ’s sake.
At the front, there was a fountain, and it was a roundabout that he drove around to park.
"Holy shit," I breathed.
