Page 20 of Pining for Christmas

The golfer calls something after us both, something pissy judging by his tone, and I’m sure Dad wouldn’t call this being a good host, but you know what? Right this second, I don’t care.

If Saxon asks me to go somewhere, I follow. Simple as that. If he offers me his hand, I take it. Some rules are like gravity, central to the natural functioning of the universe, and this is one of them.

My fingers are dwarfed by Saxon’s steady grip as he leads me through the living room to the kitchen, then out onto the terrace. All around us, famous faces grin and laugh and swig from glass tumblers, pressing close as the crowd lurches and heaves.

Don’t know how they can stand it—being squeezed together in one big, sweaty crush like that. I’ve always hated crowds. Even the busiest times at the grocery store make me feel queasy.

Out on the terrace, the night air is still warm and humid, but at least there’s a breeze. The stars out here are better too, glittering high, high above where they belong. A gentle wind ruffles the grounds, bringing us the scent of dry soil and juniper, and insects shiver in a high-pitched chorus.

“You know, one day, I’m gonna have arealChristmas,” I tell Saxon as he leads me around the side of the mansion. The walls are brushed concrete around here instead of glass, so we have the illusion of privacy, even with remixed holiday tunes throbbing through the walls. Damn, how do you make carols sound so horny?

“Oh, yeah?” Saxon turns to face me when we reach a patch of shadow, his gray eyes searching my face and body. When he does it, it’s nothing like that golfer’s horrible leer. He’s checking on me, always so tender and careful. “What’s a real Christmas, Ali Cat?”

“Not this.” I wave at the sun-baked gardens, the decadent party, the guests laughing and splashing nearby in the terrace pool, dressed in nothing but their underwear. “I mean the postcard Christmas, you know? Snowmen and cold weather and hot cocoa and mistletoe.”

“Stockings and a fire in the hearth,” Saxon says.

“Exactly.”

This man gets me. Healwaysgets me. Ever since Dad hired him as our head of security ten years ago, it’s like Saxon and I had a mind-meld. Or maybe he was just the first person to give twelve-year-old me the time of day. Who knows? Either way, I never have to explain myself to Saxon; never have to justify how I feel. He already knows.

Guess that’s what makes him so good at his job.Nothingescapes Saxon’s notice—not the tiniest detail. Even when he escapes with me to let me gulp down some fresh air, he always leaves his team on high alert.

Because there have been incidents over the years. Iknowthere have, even though no one directly told me about them. Men dressed all in black who scaled our garden walls in the dead of night; bombs fixed under our family cars but found before they went off. Questionable packages in the mail. Stuff like that.

Dad is a powerful man, the heir to a wealthy family. He’s rich and famous, and not shy at all about using his influence in the world. That all comes with a cost.

But Saxon shields us from all that. Keeps us safe.

He’s still holding my hand, and I cling to his fingers, heart fluttering in my chest like a trapped butterfly.

Would our head of security still take me away for these moments alone if he knew about my crush on him? If he knew that I picture kissing his gruff mouth every night, the image sending me off to the sweetest dreams?

Saxon turns his head and scans the shadowy grounds, the paths down there lit by ornamental lamps. Starlight glints in the silver strands that have only recently started threading his beard.

He’s thirty nine. Seventeen years older than me. A little young for silver hairs, but then, this is a stressful job.

These parties must make things a thousand times harder for him, but Saxon never complains. He just nods and gets the job done.

“Did your dad buy you that dress?”

The low rumble of his voice jolts me back to earth. How long was I staring at him, lost in my thoughts, with cartoon hearts floating in my eyes?

Saxon frowns at the cream dress clinging to my small curves, and I bite my lip under his scrutiny. Fight the urge to fidget and pluck at the fabric.

“Don’t you like it?” I ask stupidly.

But of course he doesn’t. Saxon is a practical man, and this is a ridiculous dress for anything except standing around in, useless. The fabric is delicate, yet clings to my thighs so tightly I can’t take full-length steps; the pearls are expensive but at least a few have dropped off the hem already, pinging over thefloorboards inside. Frankly, it’s a wonder the cream-color hasn’t already attracted a dozen stains.

This dress is the manifestation of everything Saxon rolls his eyes at: vanity, impracticality, waste. And yet—

“I like it,” he says, voice rough. “On you, anyway.”

There’s a long pause, the moment taut and stretching between us. I press my lips together, inching closer, my hand damp where it clings to his. Because maybe, just maybe, this isfinallygoing to happen—

Saxon drops my hand and steps back, face turned to the grounds again. His features are cast in shadow, impossible to read, but I don’t miss the way he shakes out his fingers. Like he wants to cast off my touch.

Oh.

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