Page 159 of The Christmas Wife

"Didn't see you complaining earlier when I had you pinned on said dickhead," he snaps back.

"Don't change the topic."

He opens his mouth to speak.

I hold up my hand, "What did I say, to get you all hot under the collar, huh?" I scowl. "What's wrong with my asking you about the incident that clearly impacted you so much you're having nightmares to this day?”

He draws himself up to his full height, which only draws my attention to the width of those beautiful shoulders, those eight—no ten-pack abs—ten pack? I mean, who has a ten pack? Is that even a thing? Apparently, yes, I have the evidence right here in front of me.

He widens his stance, "You can't see it, can you?"

"What?"

"You're so involved in your emotions, your need to find out all my secrets. You have no idea how much it hurts to bring it up, do you?"

"If we are..." I pause.Say it. Should I say it? Whatever.I have nothing to lose, except my future... Yeah, fine, if I can't say what's on my mind with him, then this, whatever is between us, is worth nothing. I draw in a breath, "If we are going to have a future, then I need to know about this."

"That's where you are wrong."

My heart begins to race.

Don't say it. Don't say it.

"I said I loved you," he rolls his shoulders, "doesn't mean we have anything keeping us together."

Turning, he leaves.

46

Weston

Nice one. Get right to the heart of it, twist her guts and deliver her a sucker punch.You're a piece of work, you know that?Fuck! I stalk out of the apartment block. My bare feet hit the sidewalk. Huh? I'd forgotten to put on my shoes, apparently. I drop my shoes on the concrete, reach for the socks. And, of course, I've forgotten them. I shove my feet into my shoes—take a step forward, the backs of the shoes bite into my heels. Great, I’m sure to get blisters. Good. I deserve that...and more, much more for what I just did. What the fuck happened there? She asked me a simple question and I freaked. Not that I hadn't discussed the goddamn incident with the Seven in the years since—and with the shrink my mother had insisted I see. I'd hated it then...but they'd taken no shit from me. Good for them. I thought I'd dealt with the aftermath of what had happened...but apparently, not.

First, I'd frozen when my mother had collapsed...

Then the realization that I love her—fuck! I stumble, then right myself. I love her.

I've fallen for her.

When had she snuck up under my skin, coiled her scent around my heart, wormed her way into my every waking thought? Somewhere between her walking in on me naked at the cabin and apple-pie gate, I'd opened myself up to her in a way I had never done before. Her sass, her ability to hold her own against me, the way she fights to hold onto every inch of her dignity, that need inside of her to be dominated in bed, even as she blazes forward, trying to build her business.

She is a smart cookie, my woman. Takes no shit from anyone, and that includes me. It's one of the things I love—the fact that I can be myself with her, secure in the knowledge that she'll give back as good as she gets. Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair... I left her and haven't stopped thinking about her. How can I already miss her? Her laughter, the way she wrinkles up her nose when she’s thinking, how she talks in her sleep... How her features scrunch up before she climaxes, how she draws herself up to her full height, tips up her chin and assumes that haughty ice-princess persona when she is pissed off with me.

How her features had crumpled when I'd told there was nothing keeping us together. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Why the hell had I said that? Bloody ego of mine. No way, could I stand to share my weakness with her, huh? Would it have been so fucking terrible to tell her what had happened during the time I had been held hostage as a boy? Why the fuck is it so difficult to talk about it still, huh? All the bloody therapy in the world had clearly not helped. Maybe there is a part inside of me that’s broken and nothing can fix it—except her. She could have, had I given her a chance. But I'd opted to lash out at her—at the one person who is more important to me than life itself. Fuck. I rake my fingers through my hair, move forward. My foot connects with something on the ground. There's a dull thud. I look downto find coins spilled on the ground, and next to it a steel can is overturned.

"Sorry." I bend, scoop up the money and drop it back into the container.

"Got a cigarette?" a voice asks.

I glance up at the homeless man seated behind the receptacle. He has a Santa hat perched on his head. Had she actually nicknamed me Alpha Claus? I smirk. Talk about being kinky. But hell, if my North Pole hadn't been a snug fit in her stocking. I shake my head. The hell am I thinking?

"Oy," he waves his hand in front of my face, "got a smoke?"

I blink, shake my head, "Huh? Nope, sorry."

"Spare some change instead?" He peruses my features, "You okay there, man?"

"Sure," I mutter, shove my fingers in my pants pocket, come up empty. Search the other pocket and pull out my phone. Huh. "Guess I forgot my wallet." I glance back at her apartment block—okay, technically my block. But fuck, if I am going back there, not after that scene. Best to give her time to cool off, and then what? Beg her forgiveness? Fuck that. If she can’t accept me the way I am...then too fucking bad. Her loss.And yours.A fine curvy, gorgeous, love-of-my-life-sized loss. "Fuck," I swear aloud.

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