Page 46 of The Christmas Wife

He looks me up and down, "Is that a… What are you wearing?"

I glance down at my pullover. "What?"

"Is that a reindeer with glitter on his nose?"

"Oh, you mean my Christmas jumper?"

His features take on an expression best described as loathing.

"Let me guess." I push a finger into my cheek, "You hate Christmas-themed sweaters."

He grunts, "And reindeer, and Christmas carols, and mulled wine…"

"What?" I stare at him. "You’re joking."

"Nope." He rolls his shoulders, "Can do without that shit, and anything to do with the festive season."

"But it’s the silly season." I stare at him, horrified. I mean, Mr. Grumpy McDick here is surely just trying his best to scare me off. "It’s not working."

"Huh?"

"This entire, alphaholish, man-about-town, who sacrifices baby goats to the devil and screams at little kids?—"

"And kicks kittens," he adds, "don’t forget that."

"That’s what I mean," I slap my palms on my hips. "You’d never do that."

"Because you’ve seen me tolerate Max?"

"More than tolerate." I scowl, "Why are you so intent on putting yourself down?"

"Why are you so intent on believing I am something I am not?"

"And what are you? Billionaire?—"

"Gazillionaire."

"Doctor."

"Surgeon," he corrects me.

"Someone who’s hiding away from the world because he has some deep-rooted hurt."

He laughs—a fake, hard noise that prickles over my skin. My stomach clenches.Shit,this is not the man who had pulled me on top of him and stroked my hair until I’d fallen asleep. This is not the generous lover, who’d dived into my pussy and eaten it out like it was creme brûlée.

"What happened?" I frown. "Why are you like a chef with a hangover."

"Maybe because I don’t like the look of your face this morning?"

My heart cracks a little; it fucking splinters.Asshole, jerk, clod.I glare at him, "Oh, you seemed to like me well enough last night."

"I was proving a point."

"What?" My heart begins to race and sweat beads my palms. It can’t be... He can’t be this…arrogant and mean, this ready to hurt me... Not after how he’d kissed me and touched me like I belonged to him.Does he do this to every woman he’ takes to bed? Does he make them all feel that special?Maybe, whichever female he’s with for the moment is made to feel like the center of his universe. "What point?" I insist, "Tell me."

"That you won’t get through the holiday period without sleeping with me. That all I have to do is look at you and you’ll open your legs for me. That you’re so needy, you’ll do anything for a touch, a kiss, little bit of attention, to make you feel special—you?—"

My hand connects with his cheek before the thought has time to form in my brain. Pain shoots up my arm and my palm stings. I lower my arm, my breath coming in pants like I’ve run a mile to get here… When I’d walked over to the shed in search of him, and overheard the last of the conversation... I don’t mean anything to him. Fine. I’m a transaction. That’s all right too. But this… Insulting me just out of spite… No, this is unacceptable.

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