“I already looked up the different types of trees.” Allegra kicks her feet onto the dash, clad in pristine white designer sneakers. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt again today, holding my phone above her lap, but I can’t relax.
The red lipstick is back.
“Apparently balsam firs are the ones that smell really good. We want that, right?”
Uh. Yes? “I assume so.”
Our car winds slowly through the suburbs, carefully matching the speed limit. The car heaters wheeze out warm air, and the roads are empty. Good.
“Get an opinion, Dr Ossani. This is our big December outing.”
It’s wretched of me, but anytime Allegra refers toouranything, my heart skips in my chest. I cover my flash of longing by frowning out of the windshield. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“How noble.” Allegra slides down an inch in her seat, falling quiet, and I wish I could stuff those words back in my mouth. I like her chatter. It soothes me.
At the Jameson & Friends Christmas Nursery, Allegra waits in the car while I secure the farm. I’m thorough, checking every nook and cranny, but there’s no tension in my neck; no hairs rise on my arms beneath my sweater. My instincts say: no danger.
That’s good, obviously, but that guilt twists through my insides when Allegra finally climbs out of the car, pale and tired. I did this to her. Me and my paranoia.
“Pick whichever tree you like,” I say, as though her brother isn’t one of the wealthiest men in North America. As though a single tree could make up for all our years of awkward tension. As though I could ever atone.
Her reply is flat. “You got it, doc.” Allegra strolls across the gravel lot and between two rows of Christmas trees, the ends of her dark hair fluttering in the breeze.
Heads swivel after her wherever she walks. Up and down the rows of Norwegian pines and balsam firs, Allegra strolls with her shoulders thrown back, up and down, drawing every man’s eye. Each time some asshole in a thick flannel shirt or puffer vest stares after her, I tense, my heart pounding faster.
They could be dangerous. Could be the threat we’ve been waiting for.
Or I could be a jealous idiot.
And each time, Allegra strolls on, unhurt and perfectly safe.
That’s our pattern: she wanders, they stare, I tense. Over and over until my muscles are aching like I’ve had a hard round at the boxing gym. Sick with worry, and a heartbeat away from slinging her over my shoulder and beating my chest like a caveman.
I keep closer than I need to, close enough to catches lungfuls of her scent. Close enough to block any attacks, and to give any men who get too near the stink eye. Same difference.
And fuck. I’ve never been a jealous man before, have never been a victim of my biology… but right now, if another country bumpkin licks his lips at Allegra—I’ll burn this Christmas tree farm to the ground.
* * *
“Are you ready to head back, Allegra?”
Mine. Mine. Back off, she’s mine.An hour later, the world’s least helpful chorus is still circling through my brain.
There’s a green, bristly tree wrapped and tied to our car roof, we’ve both had lukewarm instant coffees from the tin shack selling them from the parking lot, and Allegra’s wandered to the bathroom three times. She’s stalling, trying to eke out a few more minutes in the fresh air, and I hate to cage her again.
Allegra sighs, picking at her thumbnail.
We’re sitting together on a lopsided bench, crammed like an afterthought in the corner of the Jameson & Friends parking lot. It’s objectively a miserable place to sit, with the cold wind slicing clean through our clothes and no view except a few trucks and the coffee shack. It must have snowed here recently, but it’s sparse and dirty, melting away in big heaps.
But Allegra gazes around us with so much longing, you’d think we were lazing on a beach in the tropics. I shuffle an inch closer, hating my own weakness, but Ineedto be near her.
It’s the safe house. All these hours spent in close quarters, far from Santo’s watchful eye. My control is eroding.
“I changed my mind about the tree,” Allegra says. “I want a different one.”
I bite back a smile. “Bullshit.”
She huffs a pained laugh, dropping her chin. “Five more minutes, then. The safe house can be… stifling.”