Page 18 of Pining for Christmas

“I’ll be less than ten seconds. Wait for me, and I’ll carry you upstairs.”

Clara laughs, backing towards the stairs. “I’m pregnant, Jack. Not an invalid.”

“Humor me.” I bend down and unpack the bags as fast as I can, heaping new piles under the tree. When the first step creaks under her foot, I throw the rest under there in a messy landslide, then chase after her across the bar.

Clara runs upstairs, giggling wildly, and I snatch her halfway up the first flight. Sling her—carefully—over my shoulder.

“I feel like Santa’s sack.” Her words are muffled in my sweater.

I smack her ass. “You can have Santa’s sack any day.”

Her explosion of giggles makes me grin, and I take the rest of the steps two at a time. There’s a bed waiting for us—a double bed now, thank god—and I’ve wanted my wife all night. I need to get her warm, then make her come until her toes curl.

“Merry Christmas, Jack,” she mumbles into my sweater.

I nod, wishing it back and meaning it. Because this night does have magic to it—she’s the proof of that.

This time last year, I was lonely and sick with longing for her.

Clara’s a miracle, alright.

II

3 Stolen Kisses

Description

I’m supposed to be untouchable. The pristine angel of my father’s holiday parties.

But for one forbidden man, I desperately want to break all the rules…

For as long as I can remember, Christmas has only meant one thing: a whole season of late night parties, held in my father’s mansion.

Every night, there are movie stars and CEOs. Rock stars and judges and famous chat show hosts. They all gather at our home, drinking and laughing and behaving badly, and my job? My job is to top up their drinks, smile wide, and never get cornered in a coat room.

At twenty two, I’m used to this charade. My father’s head of security is used to it too.

He sees through the nonsense.

He seesme. Protects me.

And tonight, I’m finally gonna get him alone…

Ali

The first party of the holiday season is always a doozy. Dad likes to start with a bang and get the gossip mills churning. Likes to make sure that every person in the city—no, thecountry—knows these are the parties to be at. This is where the great and the glorious come to misbehave.

Movie stars and famous directors. Billionaire CEOs and tech wunderkinds. The country’s top lawyers, surgeons, and athletes—all of them laughing loud and drinking hard. Talking fast and snorting lines, safe within Dad’s no-phones-allowed policy.

These kinds of people never get to let loose. Not like this. Not usually. There are too many cameras, too many eyeballs, too many repercussions.

Not at a Wainwright holiday party. It’s a freaking free-for-all.

That’s the promise. That’s why they come.

“Keep near Saxon,” Dad says tonight, brushing past me in the living room where I’m propped against a wall. He’s dressed in a tailored suit jacket and dark pants, his bald head reflecting the lights. He leans down to mutter in my ear, whiskey on his breath. “And stop looking so bug-eyed, Ali. Smile, for Christ’s sake. Do you want our guests to feel unwelcome?”

Um, yeah. Honestly? That would be fine by me.

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