Page 24 of Pining for Christmas

I’m so jealous, I could gnaw through my own arm—but a childhood in the spotlight has taught me better manners than that. “Sounds fun,” I say brightly. “Hope you have a good time!”

Saxon snorts, shaking his big head. When he pushes off the stool and straightens to his full height, I’m surprised his dark hair doesn’t brush along the ceiling. Surprised he doesn’t block out the freaking sun.

“Be ready to leave in ten minutes, Ali Cat. You’re my lead tree designer.”

My heartslamsagainst my rib cage. Already, I’m hovering three feet off my stool, levitating with excitement. “But Manuel’s supposed to watch me today—”

“Manuel knows I’ll handle it. Ten minutes, baby girl. Don’t make me wait.”

I’m out of the kitchen faster than the roadrunner, my fluffy socks skidding on the tiles.

* * *

Eight minutes later, I’m jogging after Saxon through our underground garage, breathing hard after the world’s fastest shower. Our steps echo through the cavernous room. My dark hair is tangled and damp, thrown up in a messy bun, and I’m pretty sure my boxy red t-shirt is on back to front above my leggings.

It may be too warm for a sweater, but red is a festive color, right? And if I’m having a Christmassy day with Saxon—anormalgirl’s Christmassy day—you’d better believe I’m going all in.

“Can we drink mulled wine?”

Saxon snorts. He’s not even out of breath, his long strides carrying him easily across the concrete. “It’s not even ten AM.”

“Well, can we sing Christmas carols?”

“Youcan.” My gruff guardian angel signals for me to stand back as we reach the nearest armored SUV, then he grunts as he bends down to do the usual checks. And I know I should be thinking bomb-related thoughts, but the only thing on my mind as I watch Saxon work is the size of his thick, muscled thighs, those jeans clinging to them like the denim loves him as much as I do.

Those thighs are like tree trunks in their own right. Saxon’s whole body is massive, but not in a body-builder gym bro kinda way. There’s a softness to him above the bulk—like where the curve of his belly brushes against his t-shirt as he moves. He’sreal.

A real man. One you could touch and taste.

My lower belly pulses and twists. Already, I’m too hot under my clothes, and I’ve barely watched our head of security for one minute.

A whole day alone with Saxon? Seriously? Reaching behind myself slowly, I pinch my own ass to check I’m not dreaming.

Ow.

Nope. This is happening.

“We’re not taking your bike?” I ask as Saxon opens the SUV passenger door, waving for me to climb in. His mouth twitches.

“And how would we transport a tree on my bike? You gonna balance it over your little lap?”

Oh, right. Duh.

“Well,oneday, will you take me out on your bike? That’s on my bucket list too, you know.”

Saxon clips my seat belt without answering, gray eyes roving down my body once more before he steps back and shuts the car door. Inside, I’m left with nothing but my own shallowbreaths, leggings rustling softly as I squirm, squeezing my thighs together.

I’m surprised I don’t fog up the windshield, I’m panting so hard. Surprised I don’t melt into a desperate little puddle, all in the time it takes Saxon to climb in, belt up, and back us out of the parking space, our vehicle purring slowly through the darkened garage. The engine rumbles beneath us, vibrating through my quivering body.

His hands are big and scarred where they rest on the steering wheel. Saxon always has to push the driver’s seatallthe way back to fit his legs, and even then, his dark hair brushes the ceiling.

It’s cut close on the sides, a bit longer on top. Thick and tuggable, and threaded with a few silver hairs up there too. I’d tease him about that, but I never like highlighting our age gap to Saxon. Feels like scoring an own goal.

“So we’re going to a Christmas tree farm?”

“We’re going to a Christmas tree farm,” he says.

“And I can pick?” I ask, grinning as I push my luck.

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