Page 21 of Pining for Christmas

My stomach plummets, and my throat squeezes tight.

So Saxon really doesn’t want me, whatever he says about the dress. Our head of security was being polite, and this crush is entirely one-sided. Not only that, but my touchrepulseshim.

I suck in a trembling breath, and Saxon glances at me in alarm.

“Ali?”

I’m already sliding along the wall, my legs like jelly even though I’ve sipped nothing but water this whole night. “I’m good. It’s fine. I’d better… better get back in there. You know what Dad’s like when I play hooky at these things.”

And I sound strangled, my voice too high pitched, so Saxon moves to follow me. He only jerks to a halt when I hold up one palm—as if I could ever really hold back his bulk. As if I’d everwantto.

Oh, god. My poor heart is so screwed.

“No, don’t worry. I’m, uh. I’m gonna find a bathroom in there and… take care of business.”

Take care ofbusiness? Why, brain, why?

And my behavior must be truly odd, because Saxon doesn’t smirk at that. Doesn’t tease me for my choice of words. He frowns at me instead, watching me closely as I back away along the terrace, his bulk half-swallowed up by shadow. The whoops and splashes of the pool get louder, and the music does too as I get closer to the open doors, and still Saxon’s watching me, his expression thoughtful.

Normally, I treasure every moment of peace I get at these parties. I have to gird myself up to head back in there, back to the wandering hands and too-loud voices and sloppy, drunk behavior, counting down the minutes until everyone leaves.

Not tonight. For once, I push back into the crowd, eager.

Wish it would swallow me whole.

Saxon

Eleven months out of the year, I get along fine with Charles Wainwright. Oh, he’s pompous and privileged and he throws his weight around in the world with barely any regard for the consequences, but frankly, that’s the deal with working in private security. Most folks who can afford a protection detail are… let’s say… out of touch with reality.

It’s fine. I’m thick-skinned enough to let any accidental insults slide, and I like the work. It’s practical. Tangible. Gives me a reason to stay in shape, too. Stay sharp.

At this time of year, though, with all these wild parties all December long… it gets harder and harder not to punch that man. Doesn’t he see what he’s doing to his own daughter?

It wasn’t so bad when Ali was younger—too young to attend these nights. We’d barricade her up in her suite with a radio in case she needed anything, and I’d keep a man stationed at her door until every last party guest had gone home. I’m sure she slept like shit, but at least she was safe.

Since she turned twenty one, though, old enough to be around alcohol…

It’s messed up, the way Charles Wainwright shows his daughter off.

He picks out tight dresses for her and makes her play hostess, topping up drinks and making small talk with men twice her age. He doesn’t go so far as to let them touch her—orIdon’t,anyway—but it’s a well known fact these days that the beautiful Wainwright daughter is a key attraction at these parties.

Because Ali is stunning. Far prettier than she even realizes; unearthly in her beauty, with that thick dark hair and those big blue eyes. And her father loves to show his good genes off, flaunting his daughter like he flaunts his mansion and his fancy cars. As if he deserves all the credit for it, somehow. As though his supermodel ex-wife wasn’t involved in making her too.

I warned Charles earlier today: his guests got bolder over the season last year. They went from admiring Ali from a distance, like a priceless painting, to pressing closer, trying to chit-chat. Trying to flirt.

Charles laughed my warnings off, his goddamn juicer rattling on his kitchen counter as he squished orange after orange for his breakfast. The man has a private chef, but he insists on being the only one to touch his beloved gadgets.

If only he was half as protective over Alison.

“I’ll talk to her,” he’d said, then promptly called her in and lectured her on not getting cornered in a coat room tonight. As though it’s onherto keep herself safe, and if someone crosses a line, it’s because she got sloppy and let the side down.

Such bullshit. I nearly cracked the marble kitchen counter in two, I was gripping it so hard, watching Ali blush and stammer her agreement.

That isnotwhat I wanted.

I was trying to help her. Trying to get her out of these parties, since she clearly hates every minute.

Ali pauses on the terrace by the doors, firming her shoulders and taking a deep breath. Then she plunges back into the party, back into the heat of the crowd, a ghostly white pearl pinging off her dress and bouncing over the paved stones.

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