Page 17 of A Guardian for Christmas

“I can’t eat more. I’ll vomit.”

“I won’t make you. I’m just saying it out loud to remember how many,” he says.

I give him as much of a smile as I can. “Are you keeping track of my food?”

“Damn straight,” he says, putting the spoon down on the tray and pouring lukewarm tea from a pot into the cup. “Now drink something.”

Never have I felt like I didn’t have a choice. My whole life has been about what I want and what I choose. No one gives me orders—nobody since Grandmother.

I take the cup and swallow the bergamot-scented tea. I must be more thirsty than I realize because I inhale the entire pot, in all of its disappointing lukewarm-ness.

Just then, there’s a knock on the door two seconds before Cressida appears in the doorway. “Oh! Excuse me. Ma’am? Shall I…shall I get Mr. Frye?”

The cook’s gaze volleys between me and the unbuttoned lumberjack—evidently it’s unusual to see me lounging around my bedroom in nothing but a bathrobe, with a stranger sitting alarmingly close by, hovering like a bodyguard.

“You can tell Mr. Frye I’ve finished eating, Cressida. I know he sent you up here to spy on me and to check on Mr. …”

She blinks as she waits for me to use Sagan’s last name. Or maybe she’s surprised to see me up and about.

I look at Sagan, eyebrows raised.

“Fisher,” he supplies.

“Shall I tell Mr. Frye you’ll be downstairs in time for today’s appointment?” the cook asks, eyeing Sagan like she doesn’t trust him as far as she can throw him.

I find myself unable to decide.

“She will be, if she’s not resting,” Sagan says, as if it’s completely normal for a chimney contractor to step in and make such proclamations.

Cressida looks like someone trying to do math well above their pay grade.

“Are you sure everything is alright, ma’am?”

I nod. “I feel better than I’ve felt in ages, Cressida. Thank you.”

The cook takes the tray of partially eaten food and leaves. As her footsteps retreat down the corridor, Sagan closes the heavy door.

My heart skips a beat when the lock clicks into place.

Better be careful with my heart.

The towering man turns toward me with annoyance.

Instantly, I freeze, waiting for a scolding. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”

His heavy brows knit together. “No. Why?”

Sagan’s massive frame once again puts the bed frame through its paces as he sits on the end of my mattress, facing me where I sit cross-legged, a fuzzy throw covering my lap.

“I don’t…I felt like…you looked annoyed with me just now.”

He leans in, and one big hand cups my jaw. I startle at the sensation of his calloused thumb against my chin, barely brushing my bottom lip. I find myself wishing for the slightest movement. To feel a man’s skin against my lips—what does that feel like?

“I was annoyed but not at you. I didn’t want to talk to, look at, or interact with anyone else but you, Esme. I locked the door so we wouldn’t be interrupted again until you’re ready.”

Holy hell.

He locked the door so that we can…

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