Page 13 of Pining for Christmas

Maybe I should have just stayed up there. Dragged a chair next to her bed or something. I mean, I’m sure as shit not getting any sleep anyhow, and now my baby’s up there doubting me. Feeling abandoned.

Fuck.

I push upright on the sofa, stifling a groan.

Sometimes, I feel young. Fit and sprightly. And sometimes, when I try and sleep on this fucking sofa, I feel like death warmed up. I roll my neck, wincing at the ache, and jam my feet in my boots before pushing to stand.

I’ll just check in on her. Nudge the door open and peek through. And if she’s already sleeping, I’ll leave her be and talk to her about it in the morning.

The floorboards groan under my weight as I cross the small office. Already, the voices of reason clamor in my head, telling me toturn around, Jack,andlet that girl alone.But the thought of Clara feeling sad up there has chased the last shreds of control clean out of me.

I yank the office door open and freeze.

Clara blinks up at me, fist raised. She’s still bundled in that red wool sweater, but her hair’s loose now, mussed and wavy over her shoulders from being in that braid.

I’m the first to recover. “Clara? You okay, baby?”

The pet name gives her a jolt. And she smiles up at me, sweet but unsure. “Hi, Jack. Um. I know you told me to go to bed, but I was lying up there missing you and I couldn’t sleep because of it. Um.”

Missing me. She was up there,missingme. I rub at the ache in my chest, drawing her into the office by the elbow with my other hand.

“Okay, uh. Well. It’s cold in here,” I warn her, closing the door again. “And the sofa’s not too comfy. But you can stay as long as you like.” I flick on a table lamp, the room washing gold.

When I turn back to Clara, the breath catches in my throat. Because that light—it brings out the burnished threads of her caramel hair. It shows the dusting of freckles over her nose, and her pale green eyes, and the cute little gap teeth digging into her bottom lip.

“You take the sofa,” I rasp. “I couldn’t sleep on it anyway.”

“Thank you, Jack.” She makes no move toward it. Just stands there, staring up at me, like she’s willing me to understand.

Well, hell. I can’t read my own mind most days. What chance do I have with Clara?

As we stand there, an awkward silence brewing, the wind kicks up outside. It howls and slams against the window, rattling the glass in the frame, and I swear the temperature drops a few more degrees.

Clara shivers, hugging her waist against the cold.

“Here.” I snatch the tartan wool blanket off the back of the sofa, draping it around her slender shoulders. Then I cast around for more layers to offer her, but the only thing I find is that damn Santa hat.

Oh well. A layer’s a layer. I swipe it off the desk and ease it onto her head.

Clara’s hair is like silk where it brushes my knuckles. The hat’s way too big for her, sagging backwards off her head, but it’s worth putting it on her for the smile she gives me.

“My turn, huh?”

I chuck her chin. “I guess so.” Seriously, I can’t stoptouchingher. Any excuse, and my hands are all over her, my pulse ticking faster in response.

Clara turns and flops down on the sofa, grinning up at me. “You want to sit on my knee, Jack?”

“Baby, I’d flatten you.”

She nods, pretending to be serious. “Yeah, but I’ve thought about it. That’s how I’d like to go.”

Ah, damn it. She’s so fucking sweet. And I’d kind of like to flatten her, too, but not by sitting on her knee. I’d like to stretch out on top of her, cover her with my whole body, feel her curvy little frame under mine, and rut her into those sofa cushions until she’s a puddle of need.

Clara bites her lip, clutching the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “You’re looking at me funny, Jack.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

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