Page 34 of The Christmas Wife

10

Weston

"What the fuck do you have in them, stones?" I’d hauled her bag over the threshold of the house, and into the bedroom.

"Did you pack for a month?" I glower.

"I believe in traveling with everything I need.”

"Clearly," I mutter.

Grabbing a bottle of beer from the kitchen, I return and prop myself on the bed.

"What are you doing?" She drags her second suitcase into the bedroom.

"What does it look like?”

She dumps the bag in the middle of the floor of the room, "Why don’t you drink in the living room?"

"My house."

"It’s not yours," she huffs. “You co-own it with the Seven.”

"Semantics,” I grumble. “It’s more mine than yours, at any rate.”

She opens her mouth.

I shake my head. "What made you decide to become a pastry chef?"

She blinks. "Why do you want to know?"

Good question. Why the hell do I care?Except I am intrigued… Fine, I want to understand what makes this bundle of energy tick.

"I don’t care either way," I take a healthy swig of the beer, "but it’s the kind of conversation you women seem to love."

She opens and shuts her mouth, then straightens, "So this is your idea of being polite?"

"Nope," I finish off the beer, place the bottle on the sideboard, "but this is." I yank my shirt over my head, toss it aside.

"What are you doing?" she squeaks.

"What do you think?" I rise to my feet, drop my pants, along with my boxers.

Her indrawn breath fills the space. I don’t stop the grin that tugs at my lips. Buttercup can deny it all she wants, but the attraction between us is alive and kicking. It’s making this entire exercise a hell of a lot more interesting. It’s definitely the reason I’m allowing her to stay. If nothing else, to see how far I can go before I stop resisting her. I get back into bed, pull the covers up to my waist, then switch off the lamp on my side, leaving the room in darkness.

Silence for a beat, then another.

"How is this polite?" her voice cracks. She clears her throat, "Seriously, can you enlighten me here?"

"I’m sleeping on my side of the bed, aren’t I?"

"Gah." She makes a sound deep in her throat.

A chuckle rumbles up my throat. I swallow it. "You’re welcome."

I hear her moving around, then, "Why is this clock not working?"

I glance up to find her holding the digital timepiece in her hands. She turns it over, fiddles with the little compartment at the back, "Huh, it has no batteries." She turns to me, "Did you do that?" She frowns.

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