Page 27 of A Guardian for Christmas

I pretend to inspect my fingernails, waiting for him to say more.

“I’ll tell you what’s more,” Frye goes on. “That girl may be an adult. But as long as I’m here, she’s my responsibility. You have no idea how many gold-digging suitors I’ve managed to scare off in my time employed at Bryant Estate, in the name of keeping her healthy and of sound mind.”

I let out a labored sigh. “I appreciate that. But I’m not interested in her money.”

The older man scoffs. “Everyone is interested in Bryant money.”

“You done getting that off your chest?”

Frye doesn’t answer verbally but gives a curt nod.

Calmly, too quietly for how I’m feeling, I reply, “If Esme wants me to go, I’ll go.”

She comes out of the powder room, all smiles. “That was the best hike ever. Next time, come with us, Frye!” Esme says. “Now come on, I need some hot cocoa.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me along, down the hall toward the kitchen. I turn and follow her, and Frye watches us go.

I make sure each step loudly underlines the fact that she hasn’t asked me to leave yet.

And that Frye is going to have to work pretty fucking hard to scare me away.

Chapter Thirteen

Esme

The hike was lovely, and I’m still floating on the endorphins while I turn on the lights in the darkened kitchen.

“Cressida has gone home for the night, but she always keeps good snacks in the house,” I say.

I’m also feeling positively giddy over the fact that I had a friend—a real friend who’s not going anywhere—to walk with me.

Sure, we had a difficult discussion, but it’s easy to remember that Sagan means well. So does Dr. White.

As far as I know…

Still, it’s two days away from Christmas, and so far, this is still the best Christmas yet. We can disagree and still have a fantastic time together.

That already proves that this thing we have can last, right?

Maybe I’m naive. But I’m feeling almost happy for the first time in so long, that I do not care if I’m naive.

Sagan wouldn’t hurt me. He lied to get to me, but he had a good reason.

“Forget snacks. You need real food,” Sagan declares, perusing the contents of the cabinets.

“You’re right, I’m starving,” I say, opening and closing the fridge, not knowing what I want.

“Sit down,” Sagan says. “I’ll fix you dinner.”

I perch on a barstool on the opposite side of the broad marble island and watch Sagan go to town. He emits a low whistle when he regards the double-sided fridge with a glass door, containing rows and rows of labeled jars and drawers. “Never seen a mess hall like this before,” he says.

“What kind of kitchen are you used to?” I ask.

He laughs, unwrapping some fish from the meat drawer and then going on a hunt for the salt. “Nothing like this. I’ve got a glorified hot plate in my apartment above the tattoo shop.”

“What’s a hot plate?” I ask.

He laughs again, but I don’t feel like it’s a mocking kind of laugh. It’s warm and low, and I want to make him laugh again and again until it silences all the voices in my head.

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