Page 330 of The Christmas Wife

His diamond-hard jaw grows more rigid. A nerve throbs at his temple. Fish on a tricycle, it should frighten me, but honestly, he’s too yummy-looking. He can glower at me any time. He can fix me with those intense golden eyes and make my panties melt with his smoldering gaze.

The tension coiled in his muscles thickens the air between us. I swallow around the ball of lust in my throat and attempt a smile. "Just so you know, I didn’t mean to imply you're ancient. I mean, you're, what, twenty years older than me?"

He scowls.

"Okay, fifteen, at least." I cough. "Not that I don’t like older men. I have a soft spot for them." I shuffle my feet. "No, no, not that kind of soft spot. I find older men much more confident. You know what you want, and don’t hesitate to get it. You guys have your shit together, you know?"

His scowl deepens.

"I don’t mean I find you attractive. Not that you’re not good-looking. You have that whole tall, dark, and intense look going on, which I admit, is a turn on. Not thatyouturn me on."

The blood drains from my face.

"Oh my god, I didn’t mean to say that. Also, whoa—you’ll have to dry-clean your suit. I’ll pay for it, of course."

Utter silence follows my proclamation. Even Tiny is quiet. Guess I shouldn’t have offered to pay? Maybe, I should have kept quiet. But his demeanor is daunting. Why is he standing there, silent, except for his body language, which screams his displeasure? A muscle works above his jaw. If he grinds his teeth any harder, he’s going to crack a molar or two. Why is he so annoyed? It was an honest mistake, after all. "At least the coffee was decaf," I offer.

Someone titters— then turns it into a cough. Someone else chuckles, then manages to stifle it. But the man in front of me stays silent. His shoulders are bunched, and the tendons of his neck stand out in relief. He might as well be carved out of stone but for the rise and fall of his impressive chest.

I shuffle my feet. "You’re not saying anything. Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you pissed-off? Oh god, you’re pissed-off. I'm sorry, you make me nervous. Can you tell? Haha, I tend to fill the silence when the person I’m talking to stays quiet. I do like to talk; ask anyone. The only time I clam up is in church, because it would be rude to talk while the—"don’t say priest, don’t say priest—"priest,"oops—“is talking…”

I hadnotmeant to say that out aloud.No shit, Mira. Why did you think of the P-word in his presence? You know you have no filter between your brain and your mouth, or where he's concerned, between that space between your thighs and your mouth. No, don’t think of how moist you are down there. Not right now.

Edward’s shoulders swell. The tendons of his throat are so pronounced, he’s beginning to resemble the Hulk. Only his face is utterly emotionless, which is, frankly, terrifying. I gulp. At my side, I sense Gio trying to smother her laugh, but I don’t darelook at her. I draw in a ragged breath and want to turn and run out of there. But one thing I’m not is a coward.

It’s why I didn’t run out on my family, either. That would have hurt them too much. Instead, I bargained with them—a few months of freedom in exchange for returning to the fold. Helplessness squeezes my chest. Any day now, I’ll get the call and have to go back home, to the arranged marriage that will follow. Until then—I can live life the way I want.

I found work at a preschool, made enough to rent my own apartment, and everything was going well. Until it went out of business. But I’m going to find another job soon. I’m not going to give up and go back home. Not until my father calls for me. I have the strength to face my uncertain future, knowing I won’t have control for much of it. But this, here? In this moment, I hold the power.

I straighten my spine. "I didn’t mean to talk about your past. I was warned not to. Not that I’m a gossip—" I pause. "Okay, maybe a little.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “And only because gossip is good for you. It helps to de-stress. And you look like it would help if you were to relax. I'll bet you keep it all locked up inside. Which makes you a prime candidate for a coronary. Not that it's any of my business. It’s your heart, after all."

"Heart?" he asks in a dark voice.

"The organ that beats in our chests? On the other hand, looking at your grim-faced countenance, I'm guessing you don’t have one." I squeeze my eyes shut. "I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I?"

When I look at him again, his expression veers between fascination, disgust, and anger.

"Okay, that’s it. I will not speak anymore. I’ll wipe you down and be on my way." I lean forward, then brush my scarf over the lower part of his jacket which covers his crotch. And again.His thigh-muscles coil. The fabric of his pants stretches until I’m sure they’re going to pop at the seam. I sense his gaze boring into the top of my bent head, but I don’t dare look up.

"You done?" he finally growls through gritted teeth. And his voice—it’s gravelly and hard, and carries the promise of all the delicious, unforgivable things he could do to me. And I want him to.

I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat. "It’s not getting any better, is it?" I ask in small voice. "No, it’s not. Am I making it worse? Of course, I am." I slowly tip up my head and meet his gaze. "Can I make it up to you?"

His lips thin, he looks ready to bite my head off, then a cunning look comes into his eyes.

"How are you at obeying orders?"

2

Mira

"Orders?" I blink slowly. "What kind of orders?"

Not the kind you read in your smutty books. Definitely can’t be those kinds of orders.

The skin around his eyes tightens. "What are smutty books?" he rumbles. My nerve-endings spark. Oh my god, that caramel-velvet voice of his brushes up against my skin, and every cell in my body seems to come alive.Also, no, no, no, did I say the S-word aloud?

"I meant, slutty books." I cover my face with my hands. "I said that aloud, as well, didn’t I?"

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