Dom booked us a place at a tavern out in Beverly. He said it’s supposed to give you the full Irish experience. We bum a ride in Colt’s Range Rover. On the way there, Nora wonders aloud if an Irish experience includes drinking yourself into a stupor after Sunday Mass and changing our names to Mary and Desmond. Colt tells her it is deeply stereotypical. He points out that Dom is Irish. Dom chuckles and says, “Half-Irish, half-English. Besides, we’re also known for being fantastic poets and generous lovers.”

Nora makes kissing sounds from the passenger seat, squeaking in delight. Colt pretends to be embarrassed by her while casually hiking his hand up her skirt. In the back seat, Dom hooks an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into an embrace. He kisses the tip of my nose.

“Care to confirm that, Everlynne?” Nora teases.

“Unfortunately, I’ve yet to read Dom’s poetry.” I dodge the question.

“For you, I’ll actually write some.” Dom starts peppering kisses down my neck. I squirm free and press a finger to his mouth. He wiggles his brows, pretending to bite it.

“That’s not fair,” he says, my finger still pressed against his lips. “What if I have something important to say?”

“You’ve already said plenty this car ride.”

Another round of giggles erupts from the front seats.

“And that’s before I’ve even had a drink.” Dom sighs.

Nora cackles. “He’s a keeper, Ev. I hope you know that.”

I think if Colt and I weren’t in the picture, she’d be the one dating Dom in a heartbeat. The way she looks at him, like he is the only guy in the room, I sometimes wonder.

“I have a question for you,” Dom murmurs through my fingers.

I remove my hand from his mouth. “What is it, Mr. Graves?”

“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to Christmas celebrations with my family, Miss Lawson?” He flashes me a sincere, honest-to-God good smile. “It is high time my parents get to know the woman in my life. Someone needs to tell me that I’m punching above my weight, and Brad Graves is just the man for the job.”

My knee-jerk reaction is to tell him that it is too soon. That it’s too big. Dom and I have been dating for barely a few weeks.

Then again, these weeks have been great. I’ve felt more during them than I had in the six years before them. And I’d been skimming the line of depression for a very long time.

I’m about to decline the offer politely, to tell him that I promised my dad I’d come home this Christmas—this is actually true—when Nora cuts in.

“She would love to! Wouldn’t you, Ever?”

“For sure,” I agree. “The thing is, I told my dad . . .”