Page 102 of The Christmas Wife

Peter walks out. He glances down at the pink suitcase then at me,

"Keep this the fuck to yourself," I mutter. "Not a word to the rest of the Seven."

He chuckles, then schools his expression into one of indifference. "Of course, Sir, you can trust my discretion."

What-fucking-ever.I stalk forward, my progress somewhat impeded by the blasted tank on wheels that I pull along.

"Oh, Sir?"

I turn.

"The pink brings out the blonde in your beard."

Peter walks off.

Blonde hairs in my beard? I don’t have blonde hairs in my beard. The only blonde hair my beard has been close to…is her pussy hair. Those luscious lower lips of hers that had indicated that she was a natural blonde, and fuck me, if that hadn’t been a turn-on. My dick twitches in agreement. I pause. Nope, not going there. The last thing I need is walking in with a chub the size of England in my pants. I shake my head, and follow Max into the house. Of course, the bloody pooch has to lead the way.

He barks, tugs on his leash, which slips from my hand, He darts forward.

"Max." I quicken my pace.

Footsteps approach down the curved stairwell.

"Weston," a woman’s voice calls out.

I pause, turn toward the woman who walks down the steps, the first love of my life, the one woman who has my complete irrevocable devotion.

I smile up at her.

Her features light up, "You came."

28

Amelie

I hear the sound of barking, the patter of nails on the wooden floor. I turn as Max races toward me, his leash dragging behind. "Hey, you." I bend down to pet the little guy, who jumps up and licks my face as if he hadn’t done the same thing not five minutes ago. "Down, boy," I laugh.

Phoenix squats down to rub the puppy’s back, "Doggy," she squeals. "Love doggy." She holds out her arms to Max, who jumps on her; the two collapse on the floor in a flurry of arms and legs and doggy barks and little girl exclamations of delight. My smile widens so big that my cheeks hurt. Damn, I love this. What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and puppy dog tails. Ha! Why should only little boys have the right to dogs, huh? Talk about my own spin on the ol’ nursery rhyme.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I glance up to find Weston walking forward to greet a woman approaching him. She’s wearing a beautiful peacock-green colored dress that flows to below her knee.

He bends and kisses her cheek, "Mother."

I straighten, holding onto Max’s leash. So, this is his Mum? Guess alphaholes have parents too… I mean, of course they do; it’s just difficult to imagine Weston as a small boy…vulnerable and innocent.

She reaches up to touch his face, "Why do you look different?"

He frowns down at her, "It’s the beard, perhaps?"

She tilts her head, the gesture so similar to Weston’s, my throat closes. There’s no doubt about the blood relationship between the two.

"That’s not it." She steps back, takes him in, "It’s not the handbag you’re carrying either." She giggles.

He shuffles his feet. I blink. I mean, I’ve never seen him this uncomfortable before. I stifle the giggle that rises up. Trust a mom to put her son in his place huh?

He straightens and turns to me.

I stiffen. Not that I am doing anything wrong, but I bet it seems like I was staring at him, which I wasn’t. Okay, I was. I clutch Max’s leash. He whines, pulls toward Weston. "Shh, Max," I whisper to him, "Not now."

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