Page 96 of The Christmas Wife

I nod. I’d remembered to charge my phone, and set an alarm, and woken up a few minutes before it had gone off. Guess those years of getting up before dawn and heading off to get my baking done for the day had come in handy. I’d switched off the alarm, crawled out of bed and out from under the weight of his arm.

He’d shoved aside the pillows at some point in the night and had pulled my body against his, and spooned me… No wonder I had slept well. I had turned and seen his features relaxed in sleep. His beard had seemed thicker, his pecs closer to a work of art, and that beautiful throat…that gorgeous throat… I’d moved in to inhale his scent at the base of his neck, where it would be the most potent. He’d stirred. I’d frozen. His muscles had relaxed and I’d scrambled off the bed. Lucky escape…

Was it, though? If he’d woken up then, would he have…taken me over his lap and spanked me? My sex clenches. I squeeze my thighs shut. Dip into my bag and pull out the tin—I’d emptied out the contents and repurposed it. I pop the lid and the scent of vanilla and chocolate, and the touch of cinnamon I’d sprinkled on at the end, fills the space.

He reaches for one; I slap the lid on his fingers.

"Ow." He pulls back, shakes out his hand, "Do you want to break a finger in my good hand?"

"Did I succeed?" I bare my teeth.

"It’ll take more than a batch of your cookies to bring me down," he retorts.

"Don’t bet on it," I scoff.

"Hmm," he glares at the tin, then at my face, "my mother doesn't expect gifts."

"It’s Christmas."

"My presence is gift enough."

My jaw drops, "Do you seriously believe that?"

"It’s what she insists, every time."

"Of course, she’d say that. She's your mom, after all. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get them anything. Besides..." I peer up at him.

"Besides...?" he prompts.

"Besides, after spending time with you, I can vouch that your presence is less a gift and more of an unwelcome surprise." I snicker.

"Har har." He scowls. "Feeling cheeky this morning, are we?"

"Feeling grumpy, as always, I see?" I shake my head, "You could collapse soufflé, just by your proximity."

He stares at me. "What-fucking-ever."

"That so eloquent. Impressive go-to-word for Mr A-holasaurus." I snort.

"Woman, your metaphors are?—"

"Stupid?"

"Creative." He nods, "I'll give you this round."

"Ooh." I hold up my fist.

He glares at me.

"Fist bump. Come on, come on," I coax him.

"Nope." He holds up his right hand, with the upright middle finger, "Injured, remember?"

"Aww." I deflate like the bloody soufflé I'd mentioned, and crap, now I'm hungry.

"Coming back to the topic at hand," he continues. "You could have bought my mother something on the way. We could have stopped at one of the stores in town."

"I believe in the personal touch," I retort. "Unlike you."

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