Page 10 of A Guardian for Christmas

“Good, now lean on me and step out of your leggings.”

When I do, he says “good girl” again, and I don’t have the will to put him in his place with a speech about how I’m a grown woman, dammit.

Sagan tosses my leggings and T-shirt in the corner. Frye is going to have a shit fit about dirty clothes being left on the floor, and I almost find the will to laugh.

Then again, Frye will never know, because he’s afraid of heights. The housekeeper could tell him, but why would she? They all work for me, so what is the dynamic between the old man and me? He runs my house while I shut everyone out. And how do I repay him for decades of loyal service? By letting the house crumble under my feet?

I’m not a good girl. I’m a horrible person.

The speaker on the wall makes a scratchy static sound, and then I hear Frye’s voice.

“Ms. Bryant, there is a young man upstairs, he’s there to look at the chimney. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Took him long enough.

With my hands still on Sagan’s shoulder, I reached for the button on the wall.

“OK,” I push out.

“Please tell him to get me a quote as soon as possible.”

A quote? It’s not the house manager’s job to get quotes from contractors. But then again, this is Frye’s passive-aggressive way of telling me he’s doing my job.

Little does he realize Sagan is not a contractor.

I push the button again, but this time, Sagan leans forward, his flannel shirt brushing against the bare skin of my side.

“Yeah, there’s more damage up here than originally explained to me. I should be able to work up a quote in about an hour.”

I’m naked in the bathroom with a near-stranger who is bald-faced lying to a loyal staff member who has looked after me and this house for decades.

But I’m not doing anything to contradict this lie.

“Ms. Bryant, shall I send someone up to wait with you?”

That’s Frye’s way of being protective while not being rude to a contractor.

My brain buffers as I try to think of what to say. Sagan is still next to me, my hand on his shoulder. He turns his face to mine. He’s so close I can smell his sweat. What had he been up to before he found his way into my house?

I know I have to answer, or Frye will call the police. As he should, probably.

I muster everything in me and push the button again. “No, I’m just waiting for him to finish inspecting the wall behind the fireplace so I can have my shower.”

I know that’ll throw him off. It works like a charm. He replies with, “Wonderful. I’ll have Dorit lay out a fresh outfit for you.”

“No need to send the housekeeper. I’ll figure something out.”

As expected, Frye is overjoyed that I am up and about and making those tough decisions again, like what pants to wear.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says breezily.

Leave me to what?

Unless it is a wild coincidence, I don’t think that Sagan is actually a chimney contractor as well as a tattoo artist.

The man next to me looks away, and I feel empty. It feels strange that I want his eyes on me. I want the softness and strength touching me at all times.

See? This is what happens when the prospect of sex is not all that distant.

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