Page 23 of Pining for Christmas

Ali

The next morning, I’m hunched over the breakfast bar, chewing on granola and yogurt and scrolling through real estate listings on my laptop. This is my new favorite hobby: picturing myself in each place, and imagining how I’d live there. Deciding what color I’d paint each hypothetical room.

Dad would never approve, of course, but he doesn’t realize that I’ve beenworkingover the last few years while I completed my online English Lit degree. All this time, I’ve been running an editing business from home.

That means I have my own money. I can find an apartment if I like—hell, if I look in the scruffier parts of town, I could even scrounge up the down payment all by myself. This could happen. This could work.

No more deranged holiday parties? No more car bomb checks? No more taking a bodyguard with me everywhere I go, even to the bathrooms at the mall?Hellyeah. I’m in.

But as I open up another apartment listing, tilting my head and peering at the photos of a cramped but cute studio, a wall of heat comes up behind me.

Don’t need to turn around to guess who that is. I could pick Saxon out of a line up with my eyes closed. He just has so muchpresence,like the sheer, crackling masculinity of him sends shock waves through the air.

“What’s that?”

His deep voice is always a thrill. Always makes my toes curl.

“Downtown apartments,” I tell him, spinning my laptop so Saxon can see better over my shoulder. “Look, this one has a little balcony. Cute, right?”

There’s a long, loaded pause behind me. My stomach sinks, even as I keep clicking through the listings, pointing out my favorite features in a chirpy voice. Like if I ignore the sense of doom settling over me like a fine dust, I’ll never have to face it.

Eventually, a big hand rests on my shoulder. “You can’t move out,” Saxon says quietly, and the empathy in his words makes my eyes burn. “Not until you can afford your own security detail. You know your Dad will never pay for two; he likes having you near too much.”

“But if I’m away from here, anonymous—”

“You’ll never be anonymous, Ali Cat.” Our head of security hates breaking this news, it’s clear from his mournful tone. “Your family’s too rich and too famous. Andyou’retoo…”

He trails off. I wait.

“Pretty,” Saxon mutters at last. My cheeks heat, but I’m too miserable right now to enjoy the compliment. “Doesn’t matter where you go in the whole country. Beauty like that doesn’t blend in.”

I scoff, all my insides aching. I’m really trapped here? Forever? Because no book editor can afford a bodyguard, that’s for sure.

“I’m notthatpretty.”

It’s Saxon’s turn to scoff. “You are,” he says shortly, squeezing my shoulder before he lets go. The bar stool next to me squeaks in protest as he settles his bulk down, dragging my abandoned breakfast over the marble counter.

He can have it. As I snap my laptop closed, cutting off those downtown apartment daydreams, I’m too queasy to eat another bite.

Because… when does it end?

When do I get to live my own life?

When can I be more than a dolled-up hostess at my Dad’s Christmas parties; a long-forgotten kid with a mother who pretends she doesn’t exist; a source of gossip for C-list celebrity websites?

Poor little rich girl, I know. I’m lucky in so many ways. But this sucks too sometimes, okay? And I didn’t ask for any of it—allIwant is to decorate my own damn Christmas tree.

“I’ve got today off,” Saxon says out of nowhere, scraping the spoon along the bottom of the bowl. Man, he finished that off quick. Saxon’s like a magician with leftover food—you blink and it disappears.

And now that he says it, it’s obvious our head of security’s not on duty right now. Saxon always stays overnight on party nights, but if he was working today too, he’d be in a fresh gray suit and black tie. Instead, he’s dressed in a plain black cotton t-shirt, the fabric stretching over his shoulders and chest, and soft-looking jeans that hug his thighs.

He’s got those biker boots on too. Did he ride his motorbike here yesterday? God, whenever I see Saxon on that thing, it’s like my uterus dances a little jig inside me.

“Got fun plans?” I say, tearing my eyes away from the spot where Saxon’s ink disappears into the neckline of his t-shirt. Tattoos wrap around both arms too, so how much of him exactly is covered in artwork? Would he ever tell me?Showme? “What does a big ol’ brute like you even do for fun, anyway? Throw axes? Topple trees?”

Saxon’s beard shifts as he grins, and I fight the urge to punch the air in triumph. He’s always so stoic, so serious, and getting a smile out of him feels like winning the jackpot. Already, my apartment blues are drifting away, blown off like cobwebs in the breeze.

“You’re close,” he says, gray eyes sparkling as they watch me. “Thinking of getting a tree for my place. Throwing tinsel on it or whatever.”

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