Page 94 of The Christmas Wife

"Hey," she calls out. "What did you mean? Where are we going?"

I turn, glance over my shoulder, "To meet my family of course."

"It’s not yet Christmas." She rises to her feet and the water flows from her shoulders down her waist, to splash onto the almost-filled bath tub. Her blonde hair curls over her forehead, sticks to her shoulders. The scent of…chocolate—of course, what else—laced with something honeyed and spicy swirls through the air.

"It’s almost Christmas." I raise a shoulder.

"It’s not the same," she scowls.

"It is now,” I curl my lips, “because I say so."

She swallows, "And if I say no?"

"Are you saying no?" I glare at her.

She pales, opens her mouth.

I shake my head.

She purses her lips shut.

"Well?" I snap.

"No," she replies.

"What?" I growl.

“No, I’m not saying no.” She winces, "I mean, yes, I’ll come with you to meet your family. But that New Year’s Eve thing? You can forget that."

I glower at her.

She juts out her chin, snaps back her shoulders, and doesn’t blink.

Bloody hell, that sass of hers is back, thank fuck. Damn, if I don’t hate it when her spirit is cowed.

"Fine."

"Fine." She tosses her head.

I turn.

She calls out again, "But the roads, the storm..."

I can’t stop the grin that splits my face.

I wipe it off of my face, turn, "What storm?"

"Uh, the one that caused the roads to close and the electricity?—"

The overhead lights come on and she blinks. The brightness pours over us, envelops us, cuts the space between us as if it’s a barrier. How strange. Apparently, this time, the darkness had been kinder.

"Oh, and Princess?"

She angles her head.

"Shut off the tap, will you?"

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