Page 47 of The Christmas Wife

I step back, "The deal’s off, you horrible man. All the money in the world isn’t worth putting up with the lies that pour out of your mouth."

He tilts his head as the outline of my fingerprints blooms on his cheek. "Leave then," he drawls.

"You think I can’t?"

"Do it. See if I stop you." His features close; those colorless eyes seem to grow darker.Is he hurt? Why should he be hurt? He provoked me. What did he expect?That I’d simply take it…because…of this attraction to him…that I’d hope would deepeninto something else? Ha! How stupid could I be. Or maybe, he thought I’d stay because of the money. Think again, asshole.

I pivot to walk away, and that’s when the world seems to explode. I slap my hands to my ears as a clanging sound overpowers the space.What the hell? What is that?All of my brain cells seem to knock together at once. I turn… "What’s happening—?" That’s when I notice the wall… No walls, plural, of clocks. Every single available space across the walls of the room is chockablock with clocks. Old clocks, antiques, made of steel, of wood, newer models made of glass and chrome… And every single one of them is mechanical. Their alarms clang out in different tones to indicate it’s nine in the morning. I blink…turn around in a circle, taking in the sheer variety of time-keeping devices. "Wow." I turn to face him as the last of the sound dies away. "Holy shit," I breathe. "What is this…place?"

"It’s mine," he says simply.

"But the cabin… I mean, that palatial house which you guys refer to as the cabin." I mutter, "It belongs to Saint?"

"It belongs to all of the Seven."

"Oh."

"The last person who had access to it was Saint. When I injured my finger, I told them I needed to borrow it for the duration of the season."

"Right, so he sent me here…"

"Knowing I was here already."

"Why would he do that?"

"To fuck with me?" His lips twist.

"But this place…" I glance around the walls again, "This is yours?"

"I built it in the backyard."

"You constructed it by yourself?"

"I employed an architect. And a builder."

"Of course." I walk up to a clock on my left. In the center is a horse, hind legs reared up in the air, its white mane caught as if in mid-jump. "And these clocks?"

"I collect them."

"Are they valuable…?"

"What do you think?"

I hear the humor in his voice, turn around to find him seated at the desk pushed up against the wall. I walk over, lean over his shoulder to find him looking through a magnifying glass at the guts of a clock.

"You repair them?"

He picks up what seems to be forceps, and which seem too delicate for his thick fingers to hold, and begins to tinker with the parts of the clock.

"You’re an uh, horologist?"

"I like to repair clocks. It’s a way to unwind."

I snicker, "Ha, you can be funny sometimes."

"Yeah, that’s me—a hoot," he says in a voice that signifies something to the contrary.

I stare at his bent head. His dark hair falls to about his shoulders, and is mussed on top. Has he been running his fingers through them? The locks had been surprisingly silky to touch yesterday when I’d held onto those ears and… I shift my weight from foot to foot.

---