Cole didn’t even understand it.
As the Brit wrapped up his arm, the TV on the wall streamed endless commercials, each one to the tune of a Christmas jingle. It was the first week of December, and the holiday season was choking the life out of the air.
Blinking lights, glittery ribbons, peppermint coffee, swarms of shoppers, singing, and laughing—the spirit of Christmas forced itself on everyone, everywhere. He couldn’t escape it. Not even here. Sitting in a dark, grungy tattoo parlor on the outskirts of London, he felt it jabbing under his skin.
He despised this time of year, for it only served to remind him just how goddamn lonely he was.
He’d turned thirty-eight this year. Thirty-eight Christmases, and he’d spent half of those alone. He should’ve been used to it by now. But he couldn’t forget the holidays he’d shared with Trace and one he’d had with Danni. Those were good times. The best.
Maybe that was why he hated Christmas so much.
“Hell of a time to be an American.” The tattooist nodded at the TV, which had switched to a world news report about American politics.
It was an election year in the states, and though the election had ended a month ago, the country was in an uproar over who had unofficially won. The President-elect wasn’t a politician. He was a business magnate, software developer, and philanthropist.
His presence in the White House promised to shake things up. Maybe that was what the country needed, but Cole didn’t hold out hope. He knew too much about the collusion and cronyism that existed within the U.S. political system.
“Can you turn that off?” He flicked a hand at the TV.
“Sure.”
Christ, he was in a mood. If he were honest, his head hadn’t been in a good place for months.
He needed to see her.
No, he needed more than that. He needed to feel Lydia’s warmth under his hands, taste her cherry lips on his tongue, and hear her husky voice whispering his name.
He longed to make contact with her, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t the only one watching her. Whatever she was involved in, people were hunting her. They would’ve been tracking him, too, but he kept himself hidden.
Until eight months ago.
In a total lapse of sanity, he’d approached her in that nightclub in Rome. He’d done it to protect her. Mike had left her alone with a damn assassin in the building.
Dancing with her had gone too far. He’d needlessly and recklessly indulged. Holy fuck, he’d indulged in every inch of her luscious body.
He couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t be seen with her. Couldn’t get involved.
He told her he wouldn’t help her, and he meant it.
When he finished his transaction at the tattoo parlor, he returned to Central London and walked the streets, soaking in the historical ambiance while evading the Christmas shoppers. He was looking for something, searching for a distraction from his thoughts.
Lydia was somewhere in the city. According to Romero, she’d arrived yesterday by train.
He told himself he wouldn’t walk by her hotel this time, that he wouldn’t watch her from the shadows. But he knew it was a lie. She was the only reason he’d flown in this morning.
Wandering aimlessly with his hands tucked in his pockets, he kept to the side streets, kept his feet moving, tried to keep his thoughts away from the object of his obsession.
Late into the early morning, the foot traffic died down, the tourists all tucked into their temporary beds.
Was Lydia out dancing in some dodgy nightclub? Or was she in bed, too? With Mike?
His stomach buckled, roiling with acid. The undetermined state of her relationship with Mike twisted him up. He tried not to think about it, but his imagination was a bitch.
So was his jealousy.
It awakened toxic memories. Memories of the months he’d shared Danni with Trace. He wouldn’t do that again. Not with any woman. No matter how fucking lonely he was.
His breaths quickened, forming angry white clouds in the chilly air as he strolled across Westminster Bridge. He stopped at the center with no one around and stared down at the inky water of the River Thames.
He needed to give up this pointless quest and return to the states. Better yet, he should go to Colombia and spend the holidays with his friends. His family.
For a moment, he tried to imagine it—sitting around some elaborate Christmas tree at the Restrepo headquarters, drinking, opening presents, and celebrating togetherness. He wanted that, longed for it, right up until everyone paired off