Page 22 of Pining for Christmas

Heart in my throat, I follow her slowly. Giving her a chance to put some distance between us, since I clearly freaked her outback there. Must have done something or said something that made her skitter away like that.

Fuck. Was I looking at her funny? Staring at her with all the hopeless longing I carry around for her, all day every day? The yearning carved into my big, ugly face?

My knees crack as I crouch down by the doors, picking up the dropped pearl and rolling it between my finger and thumb. It’s just like Ali: small, delicate, precious, unmarred.

Beautiful. And wasted on these wild, hungry crowds.

They part like an ocean when I head back inside, my broad shoulders cutting a merciless path through the kitchen. I walk slowly, eyes flitting over faces and hands and furniture and patches of shadow, cataloging every detail. Weighing up present and future risks.

Thatman by the giant, stainless steel refrigerator is a real estate mogul, a man who buys up whole streets like others buy trading cards—and he’s also an angry drunk. Right now, his face is flushed. He’s getting close to the point when he’ll start swinging, which means it’s time for one of us to stuff him politely in his car. Let his long-suffering driver take him home.

I walk on, making eye contact with one of my men by the door and jerking my chin at the mogul. My guy steps forward, slipping easily through the crowd.

Over in the living room, the lights are dimmer, the bodies twined together as they dance. Some of the women here tonight are famous actresses and singers; others are premium escorts. One or two are CEOs and lawyers in their own right, but not as many. Those businesslike women don’t tend to have much patience for Charles Wainwright and his parties, and it’s no mystery why.

Women like that fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously. Are they really gonna risk it all for a single night of empty hedonism?

Charles always says they’re too frumpy to be invited, but we all know better. He’s just a piss baby about rejection.

My gaze zips to Ali, like always. That girl draws me like a magnet. Even when I don’t have eyes on her, even when she’s in another room, some part of me is alwaysawareof her. On alert, muscles bunching under my clothes, ears straining for her sweet, husky voice.

She’s squished herself between the monstrous Christmas tree and the wall, hiding away from the party guests between the branches. Watching them with glassy eyes and down-turned lips, her sadness clear even from across the room.

Fuck.Did I really do that? Did I mess up with her that badly on the terrace?

Or has someone else crossed a line?

My pulse thumps in my ears as I stride through the room, cutting a steady path through the dancers, the music loud enough to rattle my teeth. It’s hot and sweaty in here, the air tangy with a chemical mix of perfumes and colognes, so maybethat’swhy Ali looks ready to cry. She’s always been easily overstimulated.

She sees me coming, and her jaw firms. Something sparks behind her blue eyes, something defiant, but by the time I’ve reached her, she’s folded in on herself again. Pale fingers fiddle with the Christmas tree branch that cuts across her middle.

“I decorated the tree last week,” Ali tells me, her quiet voice cutting through the music somehow. Even when she mumbles, I always hear her every word. I’m tuned to her. “Then Dad got an interior designer to redo it.”

My stomach hurts. “I know.”

“So that’s on my Christmas wish list, too.” Her fingers brush over the green needles. “A tree I can decorate and make as messy and unsymmetrical as I like, with homemade ornaments and cheap tinsel. And no one pulls it down afterward and redoes it.”

She’s changing the subject, keeping us away from whatever happened back there, but if this is what Ali needs…

Christ, I’d give Ali anything. I’m a sucker for this girl, and the pearl lovingly tucked in my pants pocket is Exhibit A.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling?” she says as I lean against the wall next to her, my eyes fixed on the party. Better to watch the dancers than to get lost in her smooth skin, her blue eyes, her dark hair. Ali is addictive that way: once I start looking at her, I can’t stop. “Goose-stepping through the revelry? Checking in with your platoon?”

My cheeks ache when I smile, the muscles stiff and unfamiliar with the movement. Not surprising, really. I only ever smile around Ali.

“I can keep watch from here.”

It’s strangely comfortable after a while, leaning in the corner of the room, listening to baubles jingle and branches rustle whenever Ali shifts. After a long, calm pause, I reach to the side without looking. Brush past spiky green needles and the warm glass of string lights, to find Ali’s hand and knot our fingers together.

The sigh that gusts out of her… she sounds sorelieved.What’s that about? Has she been anxious this whole time, waiting for me to reach for her?

Because Ali grips my hand back, clinging on like I’m her lifeline. And that’s fine with me, even if my chest cracks open.

Charles Wainwright may show her off like a sports car, and these crowds may want one thing from her and nothing else, but while I’m around…

Ali is safe.

Safe and treasured.

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