Page 19 of Pining for Christmas

I wish they’d all go home and leave us to some peace and quiet. I’m more of a PJs and movie night kinda girl, myself.

Still, these holiday parties are Dad’s wholething, and he cares about them so much, so I paste a happy smile over my face.My cheeks feel rubbery, like my own features are a mask, but he squeezes my shoulder, satisfied.

“Atta girl. Do the rounds, huh? Top up some drinks. Break some hearts.”

My own heart aches as Dad turns away, calling out greetings and slapping shoulders.

He doesn’t mean to use me like this.

Hedoesn’t. I’m sure of it.

The Wainwright mansion is lit up with endless string lights, criss-crossing over the high ceilings. Paired with the glass walls and skylights above, it’s like having a sky full of stars indoors, pulsing above the packed crowds.

The air is hot and muggy, warmed by body heat and panting breaths. Music pulses from hidden speakers, dark and throbbing.

A whistle cuts through my daze, and a big, male body slumps against the wall beside me, making me jump. A world-class golfer squints at me, already so drunk he’s fighting to see straight, and he leers as his gaze crawls up and down my body. He’s wearing checkered golfing pants, a white t-shirt, and Santa hat, the whole thing slumping to one side.

“Hey, baby.”

This man istechnicallyhandsome. He’s been pictured on the front page of sports magazines; he’s starred in sexy calendars while barely dressed, and his face has sold men’s cologne. Plenty of women around the world would love to flirt with this guy.

But as he leans closer to me, smirking and drunk, I cringe away automatically, still smiling my robot smile.

“Hello. Can I fetch you anything? Maybe another drink? Maybe spring water?”

Anything to get out of arm’s reach.

But it’s like I haven’t spoken—the golfer gives me what he clearly thinks is a charming, lazy grin, those bloodshot eyes dropping to the faint shadow of cleavage above my dress.

Ew. Ew, ew, ew.

God, I wish I didn’t have to dress up for these nights. Or wish I could wear the standard security uniform, like Saxon and his men: a no-nonsense gray suit with a white shirt and black tie. Something to blend into the background, something that screams, “Don’t flirt with me!”

Instead, Dad always insists that I wear one of the dresses he buys just for these occasions. I tell him not to buy me anything, every single year, and every single year he gifts me a closet’s worth of party dresses anyway.

I feel rude not wearing them, and it’s so easy to hurt his feelings.

But I sure wish Dad would pick something with more… coverage.

Tonight’s dress is one of the tamest options: a close fitting cream dress with thick straps, falling to mid-thigh, the hem studded with pearls. I figured I’d look demure… but the golfer clearly disagrees. He’s smirking, slumping closer against the wall, his moist breath gusting against my neck.

“Don’ need a drink, baby. I’d rather drink you.”

Drinkme? What is he, a vampire? How exactly would that work? My smile slips as I frown, trying to imagine the logistics.

Before I’ve drawn another breath, a shadow falls over us both, blocking out the string lights, the revels, the crowd—all of it. A deep, gravelly voice rumbles through my bones as it says, “Everything alright here?”

The rush of relief is so sweet. I beam up at Saxon, our head of security, all the tension flooding from my body, and I don’t even realize I’ve reached for him until I feel the fabric of his jacket sleeve under my fingers.

The golfer slurs something I don’t make out, but let’s face it—it’s probably rude. People take one look at our head of security, and they makejudgments.Split second decisions about the kind of man he is, based on his thick, dark beard and tattooed neck and twice-broken nose. And the sheersizeof him, too.

We’re all like row boats and tiny yachts bobbing out at sea, and Saxon’s a huge freighter cutting through to port. He’s on another level.

Saxon ignores the golfer and peers down at me. “You need a break from all this, Ali Cat?”

His nickname for me sends gooey warmth through my middle. It always does. Saxon’s the only person who ever calls me that, and I treasure every single mention.

“Yes, please.”

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