Page 121 of The Christmas Wife

"You’re not." I lean forward and touch her knee. "Honestly, you aren’t. I appreciate your giving me the time to recover, and for the clothes."

"Anytime." She takes my hand in hers, "I like you, Amelie."

I laugh, "You’ve known me all of two seconds."

"I go by my gut, and unlike my brother, I actually heed what my instincts tell me."

"Too bad that idiot McDick has no such inclinations.” I take a deep breath, "Well, I guess I need to head off."

"Where will you go?"

"I need to call my friend Isla, make arrangements to stay with her. I also need my clothes, which are?—"

"Stay here."

"What?" I attempt to withdraw my hand, but she doesn’t let go. "I mean it," she says. "Stay with me, as my guest. We have the entire floor, and the guest room is free.

I stare at her, "But?—"

"We’d love to have you."

"You don’t need to say that..."

"I never say anything I don’t mean." Her features take on a haughty look, one so familiar, one I’ve seen on his face. Shit, staying here, surrounded by his family, where their every action would remind me of the man I need to try to forget? No, just no. Not that I don’t like Kirsten, but… To be so near him, and yet, not with him? Gah. I’d have to OD on chocolates to get through the ordeal, and that’s definitely not something I can afford, not if I hope to get through the festive season with some semblance of a waistline.

"Thank you," I turn my palm over and clasp hers, "but no thank you."

Her lips droop. She peers into my eyes, then lets out a breath, "There’s nothing I can do to convince you, huh?"

I shake my head.

"One night." She lowers her chin. "Stay for dinner tonight, meet Liam and Patrick."

I frown, open my mouth to decline, and she drops her gaze to my pajamas. "You owe me."

"You don’t play fair, do you?"Just like him.

"It’s genetic. Our father ingrained the habit of negotiation at the dining table, I’m afraid."

She rises to her feet.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"To get your things from Weston’s suite."

35

Weston

"You seem nervous, ol’ chap," Damian drawls at me from the screen of my phone.

"And you seem full of shit, as usual," I mutter, as I pace in front of the fire in the living room of my mother's home. I’d gone for a run, and when I’d returned, Amelie's clothes and bags had gone from the bedroom. Guess she’d left, after all.

I’d sat on the bed in a daze and wondered if I’d done the right thing.

Yeah, I had. Of course, I had. I didn’t need her staying and complicating the situation, aka the state of my feelings for her, further. I’d worked out at the gym after that, pushed myself as much as I could, considering I couldn’t do weights yet with my broken finger. Then I had showered and changed into formal clothes for the traditional family dinner at home.

I run my finger around the collar of my shirt. Not that I dislike suits… But hell, if I don’t feel more comfortable in scrubs. There is a certain freedom that comes from not having to pretend, when all the power and control is at your fingertipsas you perform a surgery, knowing the life of a human depends on you. It is the best adrenaline rush—a responsibility I never take lightly, walking on the edge of a thrill that I crave. One slip up and things would never be the same.Did I slip up with her?I scowl. Fuck that. I am not second guessing my actions, no way.

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