Page 57 of The Christmas Wife

14

Amelie

"Cold spell, is that what they’re calling it? More like, the Beast from the East," I grumble.

The wind whistles through the gaps in the shutters. I shiver, pull the shawl around my shoulders tighter. I’m sprawled out on a cushion, near the fireplace. Sir Grumpy Dickface here, had hauled in wood from the woodshed… Yep, this place has a freakin’ designated space where the wood blocks are stocked. All chopped by minions before the onset of winter. To my surprise, Alphahole here, had hauled enough wood in on his own—broken finger notwithstanding—and without protest. Okay, so maybe that’s unfair.

He’d helped me with my luggage, hadn’t balked about carrying the bags of groceries to the car and then to the house... He’d even ridden, without complaint, in the cramped passenger seat. Unlike the journey through the grocery shop, which had been interesting. In fact, I’d been half-expecting that he’d have called his own driver to ferry us to the village, but he hadn’t. Huh?

I shoot a sideways glance at the stony-faced man reading Harry Potter, Max at his feet. His hair is tousled—a perpetual just-rolled-out-of-bed look, which suits him too bloody well. He’d changed into a Henley and jeans, with soft moccasins on his feet, when we’d gotten home. Dinner had been…without incident… Actually, he hadn’t said a word. And that had been…a relief…or not. Maybe I prefer his alphaholish behavior…to this lack of communication which…seems uncharacteristic.

I clear my throat, then glance toward him. His head is bent over the book. He raises his cigar to take a puff. The scent of cloves and pinewood deepens.

I’d wanted to buy a Christmas Tree but I hadn’t raised it with him… Well, given how he’d blown his fuse at my talking with Hunter… It had been cute, actually, that fit of jealousy he’d exhibited. Not that he’d admit to it. He had nothing to be jealous of, of course, but it had been refreshing to see him show some semblance of human emotion, after that rather brutish start to our relationship. Relationship? Are we in a relationship? Nah.

He blows out another puff of cigar smoke, that almost-Christmassy scent deepening. My mouth waters and I rise to my feet. "Do you have another?"

"What?" He replies without looking up. Huh?

I pause in front of him. His eyes stay glued to the page.

So, Mr. Potter is worthy of a lot of attention, but darn it, this once, I wish he’d prioritize me over the adventures of the boy wizard.

He raises the damned cigar to his lips and this time I snatch it from him.

He frowns.

I raise my shoulders, "I asked."

He watches as I lift the smoke stick, purse my mouth around the end wet from his. A shiver runs down my spine. It seems intimate to do this. I draw on the cigar, choke a little. A slightburn races down my throat. I blow out the smoke. My head spins. "Whoa," I giggle, "This is good."

"Don’t inhale," he cautions me.

"I know how to smoke a cigar."

"How to puff a cigar," he corrects me.

"That’s what I said." I scowl down at the smoke stick, then raise it to my lips, I take a long drag. The smoke swirls down my throat, fills my lungs. I blow it out without coughing. A buzz works its way down my limbs. My fingers tingle; my toes curl. "Hmm." I stare at the cigar, "Why is it that smoking a cigar kissed by you is almost as good as kissing you?"

"You sure about that?" His voice is tinged with humor.

I glance up, "Oh, what?"

"You want to test out that theory?"

I blink, then heat sears my cheeks. "Damn." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I didn’t just say that aloud, did I?"

"You sure did." He sets the book aside on the side table, then leans back in his chair. The firelight glows off of his beautiful face, highlighting the shadows under his cheekbones. The dark blonde strands of his days-old beard glint. He resembles a pirate, an old-world marauder, someone who’d swoop in and take and ravish. A melting sensation flares to life between my legs. Oh, hell… This man, he’s bloody potent.

His eyelids grow hooded; he watches me as I take a final puff from the cigar. The smoke lingers between us, framing those gleaming colorless eyes that survey me with more than a modicum of interest, and questions. Damn, he has so many questions in his eyes. As do I.

"Why did you tell me about the sex tape?" I blurt out.

The expression on his face doesn’t change. He doesn’t speak immediately. The silence grows, a beat, another. At his feet Max sighs. He springs up to his feet, looks at me, then at Weston, before pattering away toward the kitchen.

I glance back at Weston to find he’s staring at my face.

"What?" I tilt my head. "Shouldn’t I have asked that?"

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