Page 28 of Pining for Christmas

Ali presses her lips together against a smile. “Where, then?”

And I shrug and pluck the mistletoe from her hand. She’s right in front of me now; close enough to feel her heat again, to smell her shampoo, and maybe that’s why I do it. Why I lose my ever-loving mind.

Because I raise the green sprig over our heads, white berries clinging to the twigs, and say, “How about here?”

Ali’s breath hitches. Her eyes sparkle so bright. And her hands lift up, cautious at first, then spread over my chest, two sudden shocks of contact. Of heat.

God help me, as Ali pushes up onto her toes, I don’t stop her. I don’t stop her for a second. Inside the chaotic whirl of my mind, I’m urging her on, begging her todo it. Do it.

She pauses a breath from my mouth—and look at how I’m leaning down to help her, stooping to get in range. So desperate for a taste that I forget everything—my training, my professionalism, the age gap between us. Everything but how badly I want this girl.

I’m done for. Cooked.

Ali’s warm breath wafts against my lips. It tastes like peppermint, like the candy cane she’s been gnawing on as she decorates all afternoon. In the background, a man sings softly about driving home on Christmas Eve, and my bones are creaking from the effort of holding this still.

“Can I?” Ali whispers, like we aren’t ninety percent of the way there already.

I nod, and that alone makes our lips brush. Lightning zaps down my spine, and my blood rushes through my veins, pumped by my anguished heart.

It’s a barely-there kiss. Less than a second of contact before she stumbles back, blushing hard.

And it detonates a crater in my chest.

Ali

Dad throws a Tuesday poker night and a fancy dinner party on Thursday, but the next big event is on Saturday. That’s how our holiday seasons go each year: smaller events in the week, little blips to keep Dad happy and keep tongues wagging about the Wainwright social calendar, and then on the weekends… it’s carnage.

Tonight’s party is themed. A masquerade. All the guests are dressed in priceless gowns and tailored tuxedos, glittering with wealth and swarming through the mansion like a perfumed tide, hungry for drama behind their masks.

Music throbs and clothes rustle; laughter rumbles and women shriek. The energy tonight is itchy, restless. People are anonymous, and they want to misbehave.

Me? I’m popping bottle after bottle of champagne in the kitchen, topping up glasses for the guests. Normally, you’d expect a party like this to have swarms of staff on hand, but not at a Wainwright function. There’s just me, or folks serve themselves.

That’s part of the promise: the privacy thing. No risk of stray phones or leaks to the press from some gossipy college student working a pop up bar. Once in a while a guest will complain, but not for long. Not when they see how wild things get when everyone can finally let loose, unwatched.

“Another drink, sir?”

“Can I top you up, miss?”

“Champagne?”

My face feels waxy from smiling below my mask, but at least serving drinks passes the time. It makes Dad happy, too. And it keeps me in the brightly lit kitchen, away from shadowy corners and groping hands, right where Saxon can keep an eye on me.

Saxon.

Biting hard on my lip, I pour another glass of champagne. Every time I feel the head of security’s eyes on me tonight, warm shivers coast under my skin. Is he near?

“Having a good night, sweetheart?”

Dad’s glowing from booze, his bald head shiny with sweat, and his steps are a little wobbly as he swaggers toward me in the kitchen. He’s dressed in a white tuxedo with a black pocket square and bow tie, and his mask looks like a white wolf. There are lipstick marks on his neck, too, but I forcibly wipe those from my brain.

“Sure. Want another drink?”

There’s no point telling my Dad I’d rather be holed up in my bedroom all night than down here serving, like when I was a teenager. Reading fan fiction for my favorite TV shows and snacking on a big bowl of popcorn.

He knows. I’ve told him a hundred times, but he insists that I come to these parties regardless. Says it’s about showing a united Wainwright family front.

Except… what is sounitedabout him wandering off with some strange woman for most of the night, or gallivanting with his guests, while I serve drinks in the kitchen? Our masks don’t even match. His is a wolf, and mine is a black kitty cat.

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