Page 87 of Perfectly Complicated
She takes a breath, her shoulders lifting slightly. “And what’s that?”
“An extraordinary woman who doesn’t need to change a single thing about herself to belong anywhere,” I say, meaning every word. “Especially not on my arm.”
She blinks up at me, and for a moment I think she might cry. Instead, she rises up on her toes and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m so glad you’re here.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Rourke
As we turn through massive wrought-iron gates and drive up a winding path toward Mr. Marco’s house, Janie’s face is nearly plastered to the window, mesmerized by the dozens of evergreens wrapped in thousands of white lights lining the drive.
The sprawling estate is like a European palace, all limestone and gothic-style windows, with probably fifty rooms spread across multiple wings.
“This is where Mr. Marcolives? You could put ten families in this place and never see one another,” Janie says as we climb the curved steps leading to two matching double doors with stained glass. When we reach the top, she stares up at the mansion, which probably cost more than most people make in a lifetime and is decorated in more lights and garland than the entire Santaville festival.
“The man has four different residences, including one on his own small island,” I tell her. “Subtle isn’t really in his vocabulary.”
As we step inside, I swear I hear Janie gasp a little. The entry hall alone is bigger than my entire apartment, with a chandelier decorated for Christmas that could rival the one inThe Phantom of the Opera. Janie squeals with delight when she takes in the lavish Christmas display in front of her.
Every architectural detail in the home has been wrapped in something for Christmas: unending ropes of real pine garland, thousands of twinkling lights, deep red velvet bows around every banister of the dramatic curved staircase in the main hall. I count at least a dozen massive Christmas trees in the entryway alone, each decorated in a different theme—gold and burgundy, silver and blue, classic red and green, all flooded with lights and matching ornaments. Ice sculptures are tucked into spare corners—one with the Crushers logo, two more featuring hockey players, and a fourth featuring Mr. Marco himself.
A string quartet’s carols echo through the cavernous rooms as servers in uniform circulate with flutes of bubbly champagne. After helping Janie take off her coat, I rest my hand on the smooth skin of her back and guide her through the crowd.
Janie’s chin tips toward the windows in the vaulted ceilings, mesmerized by a line of wreaths decorated with perfectly tied bows.
“Rourke. This is…”
“Over the top? Completely excessive?”
“Magical,” she finishes with a wistful smile.
I press a kiss to her temple. “Of course it is. Because you love Christmas. I should’ve known this would be heaven for you.”
I guide her through the crowd until we reach the main ballroom, where most of the hockey team is gathered.
“There he is.” Brax points at me, grinning as he approaches with Jaz. Judging from their well-rested faces, I’m guessing that Rosie had a good night.
Lauren waves to us from across the room before dragging a reluctant Tate to our circle. He clutches a book, clearly engrossed in reading something from Mr. Marco’s library rather than socializing.
“You guys remember Janie,” I say to the group.
“Of course,” Lauren says, pausing between bites of her mini-cheesecake. “She’s already in the girls’ group chat.”
Tate glances up from his book, mildly alarmed. “What group chat?”
Lauren holds her cheesecake in the air. “The girls’ one. You boys have your secret club—we figured it was time.”
“You knew about ours?” Tate’s gaze narrows.
Jaz snorts. “Sheriff, everyone knows about your group chat. You’re not exactly subtle.”
“But those messages are private,” Tate says, his brow furrowing.
Jaz lifts a shoulder. “I’ve read them.”
“Me too. So has Victoria,” Lauren adds.
Tate blinks. “Even the one where Leo?—”
