Page 26 of Pining for Christmas

Thinking thatthisis how it would be… if Ali was mine.

Mine.As soon as that thought drifts across my brain one single time, it clangs to a halt and refuses to leave.

Mine.

Mine.

Ali should be mine. My baby girl.

Lord knows I’d take better care of her than Charles Wainwright ever has. I’d see toallof her needs, too; all the needs that he’s oblivious to. Like right now, as she fidgets in the passenger seat of the car as we drive the final mile to my place—Ali’s clearly worked up. Flushed and breathing hard, squeezing her thighs together in those skimpy black leggings, swallowing back whimpers as we rock over bumps in the road.

Makes it hard for me to think straight. And I don’t kid myself for a moment that her body’s cravings have anything to do withme, not when she’s been kept under lock and key her whole life.

The poor thing’s pent up. Needy.

But I could help her with that. Could scratch her itch. Make her moan.

“Thank you so much for this, Saxon.” Ali’s words are breathless as her little hand lands on my thigh and squeezes, and I about go cross-eyed as I put the SUV in park. We’re in the underground garage for my own building, an echo of the one we left this morning—but this one’s shared with all my neighbors, smaller and less well lit, with a jumble of different vehicles. “I owe you big time.”

Don’t think it.

Don’t think how she could pay you in kind. Don’t be a goddamn creep.

“No problem,” I rasp. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes and a trail of pine needles later, Ali stands on my living room rug, her fists propped on her hips. Brown paper bags and canvas totes filled with decorations spill around her feet, and she squints at the tree in its ceramic pot where it looms in the corner.

“Two inches to the left,” she says.

I rustle the tree over, sweating buckets under my shirt. It’s sticky work lumping holiday supplies around, especially up to the tenth floor.

“Your other left.”

I roll my eyes behind the branches and comply. And with the sun beating through the French doors that lead to my balcony, this room is quickly turning into a sauna. Not quite the winterwonderland Ali had in mind, but I can’t control the weather for her. If I could, I would.

She stops to put on a festive playlist anyway, the music drifting softly from the speakers on my TV. Songs about building snowmen and jingling all the way. And it’s funny—Ali has barely spent ten minutes in this apartment, but already she seems so at home. Weaving around the furniture like it’s second nature; using my gadgets as easily as if they were hers.

Like she’s meant to be here. With me.

Fuck, I’m delusional.

“It’s perfect,” Ali breathes, beaming up at the Christmas tree we bought at the farm. Well—rented. Apparently after the season is over, we return it in its pot, and it goes back into the soil until next year. Eventually, once it’s done its time, the tree will retire to a patch of forest—a fact that made Ali sniffle with joy. God, she’s soft.

Though she eyes the tree with something like envy now as she crouches down, rummaging through the shopping bags for string lights. “You know, even this plant is allowed to work outside the home. This tree has more freedom than I do.”

“It doesn’t have legs,” I point out, but Ali huffs and blows a stray lock of hair from her eyes. It slipped out of her messy bun an hour ago, and it’s been haunting me ever since. Want to wind those glossy black strands around my knuckles; want to tug on them until her lips part.

“You’re missing the point.”

“So I am.” My knees crack as I squat beside Ali, sifting through the bags too. The box of string lights is buried at the bottom of a canvas tote, and I hand it over with a wink. It’s so freeing being here together like this, not fretting about security every single second.

We’re safe here. Private.

Alone.

“Charles—I mean, your dad mentioned something the other day about a work contract for you. Some big designer getting in touch? That could be something, right?”

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