TWENTY-FOUR

Three nights after they left the lighthouse, on Christmas Eve, Bo stood in the living room of the Magnusson house, surrounded by twinkling candles, the biggest Christmas tree in Pacific Heights (surely), and twenty or so people—most of whom were Swedish and on the verge of being drunk on tulip-shaped glasses of akvavit spirits and mugs of cardamom-scented mulled glögg. And amidst the merry shouts of God Jul! and the lingering smells of the holiday smorgasbord—overloaded with ham, sausage, herring, potatoes, and the precious few Dungeness crabs Winter and Bo were able to catch that morning—Bo was experiencing a wealth of conflicting emotions.

Though few in Chinatown actually celebrated Christmas, he’d spent the last third of his life developing a taste for yuletide presents and singing “Jingle Bells” around a piano. And he was experiencing that familiar buzz of happiness now, watching Lowe and Hadley’s adopted five-year-old, deaf daughter, Stella Goldberg, grinning as she ran from Aida’s one-eyed mastiff, who was attempting to confiscate the almond cookie the girl carried in her hand.

But in the back of his mind, he was also worried that he could lose all this if his relationship with Astrid caused a family schism, and wondered wistfully if this was the last time he’d sit in this room watching Greta loosen her staunch Lutheran morals and get tipsy while Winter played horsey with his infant daughter on his knee.

And somewhere between the joy and worry was Astrid, who wore a dazzling sleeveless red gown that bared half her back, and was now working in tandem with Lowe to help the mastiff chase the merry, pink-cheeked Stella. How could two people live in the same house and never see each other? He hadn’t been able to skim more than a couple of passing kisses from Astrid since the lighthouse—what with the combined roadblocks of work and hovering family members who always seemed to show up at the wrong times. He’d come this close to stealing into her bedroom last night when he’d gotten home after midnight, but Aida had been up, and she’d stayed in the kitchen with Winter talking seriously until Bo gave in to sleep, waiting for them to go to bed.

It didn’t help that every time he looked at Astrid she was staring back at him with those fox eyes that left him grinning like an idiot and forgetting to keep his feelings masked. Watching her now made him want to drag her into his arms and feel her smile against his neck . . . and then haul her off somewhere private, find a pair of scissors, and split that red gown of hers right down the back.

He was in agony.

After little Stella finally tired, he made his way back over to the fireplace and stoked the logs, inhaling the fresh cedar and eucalyptus branches that decorated the mantel. Behind him, Jonte was coaxing Lena to take off her apron and dance; Christmas was the one time of the year that Greta allowed the staff to celebrate with the rest of the house.

“Meant to tell you earlier, Sylvia’s fender looks shiny and new.”

He glanced up to find Astrid smiling down at him, flames from the fire dancing across her face. “They did a good job. I would thank you for having it repaired, only you’re the one who hurt her to begin with,” he said, standing to brush off his pants and replace the fireplace stoker.

“You make it sound like I socked your best friend in the face.”

“Didn’t you?”

She tried to stifle a laugh and pinch his arm, but he grabbed her hand before she managed it. “I’ll throw you in this fire,” he teased. “Burn you right up. We’ll toast marshmallows over your hair.”

This time she laughed, loud and vibrant, but quickly covered her mouth.

“Tsk, tsk. You’ve had too much glögg, Miss Magnusson.”

“I’ve had no glögg whatsoever, Mr. Yeung. I’m the picture of tolerance tonight.”

He peered into her eyes—an excuse to lean closer to her face, really. “Why, you’re telling the truth. I think you and I might be the only sober people in the house. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone slipped akvavit into baby Karin’s cup.”

“Pfft. Winter hasn’t let go of her the entire night.”

He nodded slowly. “I asked him if he was going to start breast-feeding her, too, and came this close to being flayed like a fish.”

“Aida says he’s getting sentimental,” Astrid said. “Maybe he’d only paralyze you.”

“As long as it’s from the waist up.”

“Now that I’d drink to.”

He smiled down at her and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “I’m worried I might accidently paralyze myself from all the self-abusing I’ve been doing the last couple of days.”

Her cheeks flushed. She furtively glanced over her shoulder and murmured, “Now that’s a picture.”

“I’ll give you a theater-worthy performance if I can just find a way to be alone with you for five minutes.”

“Is that all it would take?”

“Honestly, I wish I could say otherwise, but yes. Maybe even two.”

Mischievous eyes slanted sideways toward his. “We could race.”

He sucked in a quick breath and was thankful his suit jacket was buttoned over the front of his pants. “Christ, I need you,” he whispered.

“I need you, too,” she whispered back.

Upon realizing he was still holding on to her hand, he reluctantly let go and checked to see if anyone was watching them. Not a soul. People were too sozzled to notice, anyway, so he slipped a couple of fingers between Astrid’s wrist and the bracelet-like band of her watch and tugged her arm closer. He was just about to suggest they accidently bump into each other somewhere in the house where there were fewer people when Winter stepped in front of the Christmas tree and got everyone’s attention.