Page 29 of Pining for Christmas

The next glass I pour is sloppy, my movements jerky with resentment, and bubbly fluid sloshes onto the kitchen tiles by our feet.

“Whoops,” Dad says cheerfully, reaching back to grab a cloth from near the sink. I open my mouth to thank him for cleaningup, but then he nudges the cloth into my hand. “Better wipe that up before someone slips. Thanks, sweetheart.”

By the time I crouch down carefully in my tight gray dress and heels, gripping the marble counter for balance, Dad is long gone. Doesn’t he realize how hard this is in this outfit? Would it have killed him to help?

Two large black leather shoes stride across the kitchen tiles, coming to a stop mere inches away. Just like that, my bad mood melts away like a spring frost, and I’m already grinning when Saxon squats beside me.

“Give me that,” he mutters, plucking the cloth from my hand. He swipes it across the puddle, mopping up the spilled champagne with cranky movements. “Who are you, Cinderella? Jesus Christ.”

He’s not mad atme, he’s pissed off at Dad. God, I love when Saxon gets grumpy on my behalf, bristling with irritation behind his short beard. It’s such a thrill.

And I’ve missed him this week. He’s barely looked in my direction since our secret K-I-S-S, even if itwasthe most chaste peck on the lips the world has ever seen. Dad probably wouldn’t even care if he knew, and yet Saxon acts like we got busy in the backseat of that borrowed SUV.

If only.

But I can’t be mad that he’s avoiding me, because he blushes too. Every time I’ve walked past Saxon this week, his cheeks have flushed pink above his beard. It’s the cutest freaking thing I’ve ever seen.

“Hello, stranger,” I purr at him, laughing when Saxon flushes around the edges of his mask. On Dad’s orders, even the security team are wearing masks tonight—plain black and utilitarian, but masks all the same.

Saxon shoots me a look as he scrubs the tiles. “Behave.”

There go those warm shivers again, coasting down my limbs; there’s that excited, fizzy feeling in my stomach. When Saxon holds out a hand to help me stand up, I cling to his strong fingers like I’ll never let go. The swooping sense of vertigo I get—that’s not head rush from standing up too quickly. No, sir.

That’s all Saxon. Being near him again, feeling his heat. Smelling the soap on his skin.

And maybe Iwon’tlet go. Maybe I’ll climb this man like a lemur scaling a tree, and I’ll wrap myself around his big trunk and refuse to ever be peeled off again. Maybe I’ll live up there on his broad shoulders, or make a nest in his beard.

“Alison,” Saxon says in warning when I just stand there, holding his hand.

Huffing, I let go and step back.

Reality bites.

“You can’t avoid me forever, you know.” Smoothing the front of my gray dress, I try to keep my tone light and teasing. Try to hide my mounting frustration, and how badly I miss this man with each passing day. How haunted I am by our forbidden brush of lips. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I seem to attract trouble at these parties. You’ll be swooping in to save me again any minute.”

Saxon growls something under his breath, but I don’t catch it. Not with the thumping music and the shrieks of laughter drifting in from the terrace, and the bodies surging in and out of the kitchen like waves breaking over the shore.

“What?” I say, squinting up at our head of security. Shoot, he looks so handsome tonight with his dark hair combed back and his broad shoulders pressing against his suit, looming over me like a grumpy, gorgeous giant. An earpiece crackles in his ear, but Saxon rolls his neck and ignores it. His eyes are piercing gray behind his mask.

“I said, you might as well stay close to me, then. Save me time.”

His words are casual, but his posture is tense. And… oh, I get it. This is bothering Saxon more than usual—the crowds of strangers; the wandering hands and hungry eyes. We may havebarelykissed, but is that a possessive glint in his steely gaze? Is that a jealous set to his jaw?

Works for me. Oh hell yeah, that works for me.

“Okay,” I say brightly, and Saxon flinches like this wasn’t his suggestion. “I’ll stay close, you big grump. But you have to promise me one thing.”

“Mm?” He’s already leading me from the kitchen, one big paw wrapped around my wrist. I totter after him in my stupid heels, beaming from ear to ear, because this is seriously no hardship. Staying close to Saxon? That’s mydream.

“You have to promise not to fall in love with me,” I say, quoting one of my favorite comfort movies as he leads us through the press of people.

Saxon doesn’t bother with a reply, tugging me along faster. Maybe he didn’t hear.

* * *

“Masks seriously make people go loopy,” I observe, sitting on the fifth stair in the mansion lobby. It’s one of those big staircases that splits off in two directions on the next floor, and a gold length of tinsel has been draped across it halfway up between the bronze metal banisters, ‘discouraging’ the guests from going upstairs.

Like that stops anybody from doing anything. They’rehereto misbehave. If anything, telling these guests they can’t do something is like waving a red flag at a bull.

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