you stopping?” I asked, confused. I jerked in surprise when Blane grasped my chin, turning my face towards his.
“Kat, I've been talking to you and stopped when you wouldn't answer me.”
“I...I'm fine,” I stammered, alarmed and embarrassed that I'd apparently been so out of it I hadn't even heard him talking to me. “I'm sorry...I guess I just didn't hear you.” My excuse was lame and when my eyes met his, I knew I wasn't fooling him for an instant.
He studied me intently before finally saying, “Just tell me one thing. Would I have killed Avery, too?”
It was a loaded question. I remembered the man who’d tried to mug me and how Blane had beat him unconscious. There was little doubt in my mind that Blane’s response would have echoed Kade’s actions if it had been him there that night.
“Yes,” I said simply.
Blane studied me for a moment, then pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on top of my head. “I'm sorry I upset you,” he apologized. “We won't discuss it again, okay?”
I nodded. Blane's understanding eased my anxiety, and I was grateful at the concession he'd just given to me.
After a moment, I pulled out of his arms and self-consciously smoothed my hair. Clearing my throat nervously, I watched in my peripheral vision as Blane silently studied me before sliding behind the wheel and pulling back onto the highway.
“Do you have decorations somewhere for a tree?” Blane asked. It was obvious he was changing the subject and I gratefully latched onto it.
“I have some things of my parents' in storage from when I was a kid,” I said. “Christmas was a huge deal in our house.” I smiled, remembering. “My dad would fight the lights every year when he decorated the outside. He cussed a lot.”
“Did you have white lights or colored?” Blane asked.
“They started out white,” I said, “but my mom told me that when I was five, I insisted he put up multi-colored lights because I thought they were prettier. Apparently, I was quite persuasive.”
“I can see that,” Blane teased. The tension from earlier was gone, thank God, and I appreciated his effort to turn the atmosphere around.
“What about you?” I asked. “Did your dad hang lights?”
Blane shook his head. “Not himself, no. We had professional decorators that did the outside lights and the inside. There was a Christmas tree in nearly every room – each with a different theme.”
“Wow!” I said, impressed. “That must have been really pretty.” Professional decorators. Huh. Somehow I doubted his decorators would have approved of my homemade construction paper chains that had wrapped around our tree.
“It was,” Blane agreed. “The house was beautiful and perfect.” His voice was slightly bitter.
“I thought you said you came to this place we're going when you were a kid?” I asked, confused.
“Mona and Gerard brought me with them to get their tree,” Blane explained. “That was the Christmas tree I remember decorating – theirs, not ours.”
I wasn't sure what to say to that; it sounded so sad. Blane was matter-of-fact about it, the bitterness no longer present in his voice.
“One year we went the day after Thanksgiving to get our tree,” I finally said, “and it was perfect. The absolutely perfect shape for a Christmas tree. We brought it home and decorated it, which always took forever because my parents had been collecting ornaments for each other and our family since before they got married. We finally finished and were so excited to have the perfect tree. Unfortunately, it was dead less than a week later.”
“Dead?” Blane asked incredulously. “That quick?”
I giggled. “Yep. The whole thing had turned brown and needles were falling by the bucketful. I was crying because our Christmas tree looked horrible and dad was cussing a blue streak about getting ripped off at the tree place. We
“Kat, I've been talking to you and stopped when you wouldn't answer me.”
“I...I'm fine,” I stammered, alarmed and embarrassed that I'd apparently been so out of it I hadn't even heard him talking to me. “I'm sorry...I guess I just didn't hear you.” My excuse was lame and when my eyes met his, I knew I wasn't fooling him for an instant.
He studied me intently before finally saying, “Just tell me one thing. Would I have killed Avery, too?”
It was a loaded question. I remembered the man who’d tried to mug me and how Blane had beat him unconscious. There was little doubt in my mind that Blane’s response would have echoed Kade’s actions if it had been him there that night.
“Yes,” I said simply.
Blane studied me for a moment, then pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on top of my head. “I'm sorry I upset you,” he apologized. “We won't discuss it again, okay?”
I nodded. Blane's understanding eased my anxiety, and I was grateful at the concession he'd just given to me.
After a moment, I pulled out of his arms and self-consciously smoothed my hair. Clearing my throat nervously, I watched in my peripheral vision as Blane silently studied me before sliding behind the wheel and pulling back onto the highway.
“Do you have decorations somewhere for a tree?” Blane asked. It was obvious he was changing the subject and I gratefully latched onto it.
“I have some things of my parents' in storage from when I was a kid,” I said. “Christmas was a huge deal in our house.” I smiled, remembering. “My dad would fight the lights every year when he decorated the outside. He cussed a lot.”
“Did you have white lights or colored?” Blane asked.
“They started out white,” I said, “but my mom told me that when I was five, I insisted he put up multi-colored lights because I thought they were prettier. Apparently, I was quite persuasive.”
“I can see that,” Blane teased. The tension from earlier was gone, thank God, and I appreciated his effort to turn the atmosphere around.
“What about you?” I asked. “Did your dad hang lights?”
Blane shook his head. “Not himself, no. We had professional decorators that did the outside lights and the inside. There was a Christmas tree in nearly every room – each with a different theme.”
“Wow!” I said, impressed. “That must have been really pretty.” Professional decorators. Huh. Somehow I doubted his decorators would have approved of my homemade construction paper chains that had wrapped around our tree.
“It was,” Blane agreed. “The house was beautiful and perfect.” His voice was slightly bitter.
“I thought you said you came to this place we're going when you were a kid?” I asked, confused.
“Mona and Gerard brought me with them to get their tree,” Blane explained. “That was the Christmas tree I remember decorating – theirs, not ours.”
I wasn't sure what to say to that; it sounded so sad. Blane was matter-of-fact about it, the bitterness no longer present in his voice.
“One year we went the day after Thanksgiving to get our tree,” I finally said, “and it was perfect. The absolutely perfect shape for a Christmas tree. We brought it home and decorated it, which always took forever because my parents had been collecting ornaments for each other and our family since before they got married. We finally finished and were so excited to have the perfect tree. Unfortunately, it was dead less than a week later.”
“Dead?” Blane asked incredulously. “That quick?”
I giggled. “Yep. The whole thing had turned brown and needles were falling by the bucketful. I was crying because our Christmas tree looked horrible and dad was cussing a blue streak about getting ripped off at the tree place. We
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