“So which one are we? Luck or fate?”

“I guess only time will tell, huh?”

He nods. “Yeah, it will. So, only a few more. This one is about me.”

He pulls a Santa out of its box. This Santa isn’t holding a bag of presents, he’s holding a glass of wine and standing behind of a wine barrel with grapes on it.

“Your dream of owning a vineyard. That one I know.”

“How about this one?” he says, taking another ornament out. This one is an adorable yellow Labrador retriever puppy.

“You want this kind of dog someday?”

“Yep. You cool with that?”

“Yeah, I love dogs.”

“Perfect. Last one. Hold out your hands.”

I do what he asks and close my eyes. I’m sure he saved the best for last. He puts it gently in my cradled palms.

I open my eyes and see a flat scene of a sandy beach, a palm tree, the ocean, and the bright sun. “St. Croix?”

“Damian asked our family to celebrate Christmas with his family there. I wasn’t sure what your plans are, but I’d like to spend the holiday with you.”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I need to talk to my mom about it.”

“I know. I just thought . . . I know they’ve been there before. Maybe your family could go too? I’d love to meet them.”

“I’d love for you to meet them, too. Aiden, I . . .”

I almost say it. Almost blurt out the truth. I want to tell him what happened. What’s going to happen. But I don’t. I don’t want to ruin this perfect day. I don’t want him to walk out on me.

It’s so selfish, I know. But there’s another big reason I can’t tell him.

He’d want to help, and I couldn’t take another photo of someone I love with the back of their head blown off.

“ . . . I, um, thank you for the tree. You have no idea how much this all means to me.”

“I’m glad. Let’s finish decorating.”

After we’ve decorated, we turn off all the lights except for the ones illuminating the tree and snuggle on the couch, staring at its beauty.

“Time for our bubble bath,” Aiden says about a half hour later.

I run the water, loading it up with bubbles, while Aiden goes to refill our wine glasses. He comes back in with a silver ice bucket and champagne instead.

I squint my eyes at him questioningly.

“Gotta have bubbly for the bubbles, right? I just corked the rest of the wine. We’ll have it tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, but if we’re gonna have champagne . . .”

“Wait, don’t finish that sentence.” He runs out of the bathroom and comes back with a little plate of chocolate truffles.

“It’s official. I do fucking love you,” I say.

“I fucking love you too. Now, let’s get naked.”

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10TH

Lied myself into a corner.

6pm

We shop all day and then head back to my loft. We had a ball picking out a bunch of crazy puppets for my sisters, secret Santa gifts, and all sorts of presents for our families and friends.

Aiden wouldn’t let me see what he was buying for his naughty Santa, but I will admit, I peeked at his list. Part of it was written in some sort of godly code, but there was an M next to the naughty Santa, so I know he drew Maggie.

I can’t wait to see what he got her. Well, mostly to see what he considers naughty.

I was fortunate that when I had packages shipped to France, I was able to say that I didn’t want to have to travel with them. I told Aiden that I’m spending Christmas with my family, but I’m not.

I shouldn’t be anywhere near them. I mean, if I were Vincent, I would assume that Christmas would be the one time I’d be almost guaranteed to spend with my family. I feel bad that I lied to my mom, too. But I just can’t risk it.

It sucks because I’ve basically lied myself into a corner. I told Aiden I was going to France. That my mom needs me. I can’t just be like, Hey, I think I’d rather come to St. Croix with you. I can’t think of any logical reason why I wouldn’t go home. And because there’s no way I’ll actually go to France and put my family in danger, it means I’ll be spending Christmas here. In my loft. Alone.

But, on the bright side, I get to film some of the movie with Tommy before he leaves. I wish I could bring Tommy to my loft, but I’m afraid someone would follow him.

Then I’d be screwed. And not in the good way that Aiden’s earrings suggest.

Aiden goes to change into something for tonight while I’m putting my purchases away. He sweet-talked me into letting him keep some of his clothes here. I know his goal is to help me fill up my closet, but I told him to put his clothes in a guest room closet. As much as I’d like to have all his clothes hanging next to mine, all I can picture is me dead and Aiden coming here to get them. At least if they’re not in my closet, maybe it will spare him some pain.

He won’t even have to come into my room. Won’t have to see where we’ve slept. Where we’ve taken bubble baths. Won’t have to see all the clothes I’ve been saving for the rainy days that will never come.

Okay, Keatyn.

Stop with the whole death thing. It’s slowing your roll.

Like, if I was on a roll.

Whatever.

I need to be positive that the plan will work, and I’ll get my life back.

But, just in case, I told Aiden to keep the key.

He gave me a big smile and a sweet kiss, acting like we’d gotten engaged or something. Like the key made us official.

And, evidently, I looked freaked out by this, because he touched his hand to my heart and said, As long as we’re in each other’s hearts, we don’t ever have to label our relationship.

And, yes, the irony of that did not escape me. All I wanted last summer was for me and B to be official so I could shout it from my social media. Now I realize they’re both right.

It does only matter what’s in your heart.

The problem is that more than one boy resides there. One who is all wrapped up in my journey home. The other who is showing me that home is where you make it.

Aiden and I are going ice skating, to see the Rockefeller Christmas tree, and then to a trendy restaurant.

And after the hotness that went down last night—pun definitely intended—with me not in the undergarments I wanted, I’m going all out tonight. I start with a pink bra and panty set with black scalloped lace and opaque black thigh highs.

Over it, a shimmering flirty skirt in a gorgeous ice pink patterned lamé and a silk chiffon Rebecca Taylor sweatshirt. It will be adorable for skating—provided I don’t fall down and scuff the lamé—and still nice enough for dinner. I pull on the most awesome Lanvin boots—black, ornately brocaded, and thigh high—and slide on an Henri Bendel crystal bangle. I grab cute black mittens with a heart graphic and my shiny pink Miu Miu bag.

Now, if I can just manage to ice skate gracefully.

When I come out of my room, ready to show off my new outfit, I am literally stopped in my tracks at the sight of Aiden.

He’s playing pool, wearing a plain white t-shirt, dark jeans, a scrumptious black leather Burberry Prorsum motorcycle jacket that I recognize from an ad, and the gunmetal Burberry aviators I got for his birthday.

He looks bad.

Do-me-on-a-motorcycle bad.

He looks so good it’s practically criminal, especially since he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. That scruff is perfection.

It revs my motor just looking at him.

He pushes the glasses down his nose and checks me out.

“You look different,” I stutter out.

I get a smile and the result is devastating to my insides. A bad boy with a brilliant smile and gorgeous, blinding white teeth.

He sets his pool cue across the table, holds his hands out, and looks down at himself. “You don't like it?”

“Oh, I like. Why don't you dress like that for school?”

“Because we can’t?” he says with a smirk. Then he struts over and touches the tops of my thigh highs, his hand brushing under my skirt and giving me a thrill. If I didn’t know him, I’d so be running the other way.

After I did him. Probably.

Doesn’t every girl need a bad boy at least once in her life?

“These are such a turn-on. It kills me when you wear them with your uniform skirt. All I can think about is . . .”

“Is what?”

“Getting under it.” He tilts his head at me. “It’s cold out.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s been cold all day.”

“It’s warmer here,” he says, both his hands sliding up my skirt.

And it does suddenly feel very warm, like I stepped into a sauna of the hotness that is Aiden. I swear, he looks amazing in everything he puts on. Suit, school blazer, football pads, white shorts, sliders, and nothing at all. But this—this almost beats nothing at all.

So hot.

No, so fucking hot.

“So, you don’t want to ice skate?”

“How about a game of pool first?”

“Sure, but I’m warning you. I suck at pool.”

He lets out a throaty laugh that starts out as a cough. “Even better,” he says, his eyes holding mine as his hands continue to wander. He slides his knee between my legs and his firm chest pushes into mine. “I was going to suggest a friendly game of strip pool.”

I quickly calculate the number of articles of clothing it will take to get him naked. Two shoes, jeans, sliders, t-shirt, jacket, watch, maybe sunglasses. Seven. For me, two boots, two thigh highs, skirt, top, underwear, bra, necklace, bracelet, and, if I wear my mittens, that’d be twelve. Pretty good odds.

“Sure, why not? But I’m leaving my mittens on if you get to keep your glasses on.”

“You can even put your coat on, if you want.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re as good at pool as you are at every other sport?”

He shrugs. I start to move away from him, eager to get started, but he grabs me tightly and kisses me hotly, his stubble rough against my chin.

“No sampling the goods just yet,” I say. “You have to win first.”

He gives me a smoldering look, then says, “You’re so going down.”

I think about how I went down last night. “Is that what we’re playing for?”

“What?”

“Going, um, down?” I say, glancing at his pants and thinking that if he says yes, I’m going to cheat.

He pushes he glasses back into place, covering his eyes. “Sounds fair to me.”

“This isn’t poker. Your eyes aren’t going to give your hand away.”

“I think you like the glasses.”

“I like the whole package,” I say, then gulp, realizing what I just said.

“You like my whole package, huh?” he teases.

“You talk too much. I’ll rack,” I say as I line the pool balls up. “You break.”

He bends down, slides the cue across his fingers, and blasts the balls apart, sending two in, both stripes.

“Oh, you can’t do that,” I say.

“Can’t do what? Be awesome?”

“No. If you sink two balls of the same kind on the break it’s illegal. You have two options. Replace a solid with the stripe or just add one back to table. Which do you want to do?” I say, messing with him. I hold both striped balls in my hand, rubbing my thumbs across them for effect.

He licks his lips, looking at me like I’m a snack. “Leave it off the table, and I’ll only make you take off your shirt.”

I shrug. “That’s cool.” I slide my silky sweatshirt over my head, tossing it to the ground.

“Red, corner pocket,” he says, effortlessly sinking another and stifling a grin. “Take off your skirt.”

Shit. I’m in trouble.

“No one said that you get to choose. I’m taking off a mitten.” I pull if off and toss it on the table.

He takes two big strides, his face now close to mine, and says very seriously, “My score. My choice. Take off your skirt.” Then he takes my mitten and throws it into the other room. He pushes me back against the pool table. “You lose that one for disobeying. Time for me to shoot again. You’re going to be naked in no time.”

He quickly sinks another ball.

“That didn’t count. It’s supposed to be my turn,” I quickly say, grabbing his cue stick from him.

“No, it’s mine.”

“Nope. You just made a bunch in a row. It’s my turn.”

“Since when? Have you never played pool before? You have a pool table.”

“Yeah, because I thought it would be fun for parties and stuff. Guys like to play pool. And I’ve played. Sort of. A few times.”

“And how did you do?”

“Honestly, usually when I got to play, I’d shoot a few times, and my boyfriend would make me quit.”

“Because you were so bad?”

“No! Because he said all his friends were looking up my skirt. He was a gentleman.”

“He the gay one?”

“Shut up!”

He squints at me. “On second thought . . .” He slowly pulls my other mitten off. “Leave the skirt on.”

“You know, it’s also probably illegal to play strip pool without doing a few shots.” I’m feeling strung out. Like a crack addict badly in need of her next fix. Plus, I’m nervous.

And freaking excited.

And nervous.

I already said that.

“So, what did you do at parties when you weren’t playing pool?”