Page 30 of Pining for Christmas

Still, it’s quieter in this part of the house, the music drifting in from other rooms. Whenever guests burst through the lobby doorways, their heels clacking against the hardwood floor, Saxon and I watch them like we’re on safari.

Some of the guests are too wrapped up in each other to notice us, kissing each other fiercely, clothes tugged into disarray. One couple in the corner is a heartbeat away from doing it, right here in the lobby, with the woman’s dress shrugged down around her waist and her bare boobs out for anyone to see. Their masks are still on, though. Guess they needsomeprivacy.

I keep eyeing Saxon when I think he’s not looking, but he hasn’t gawped at that woman’s chest once. In fact, whenever that pair moans extra loudly, he rolls his eyes, and when the man starts pushing the woman to her knees, he lurches to his feet beside me and offers a hand.

“Time to go. Come on.”

My heart squirms happily as I take his hand, pulled gently to my feet. My own strappy silver heels dangle from my other fingers, slipped off to save my toes hours ago.

Time moves so strangely at these parties. Sometimes ten minutes feels like it lasts for years, and then three hours whoosh past in a blink. What time is it right now? I have zero idea. Sometime between midnight and dawn.

Hanging out with Saxon, though—this always rushes by too fast. Especially when he hustles me up the stairs, holding the tinsel for me to duck under, muttering darkly about lobby blow jobs.

“Saxon, Ihaveseen porn,” I tell him, laughing as his shoulders shoot up around his ears. You know, for a bearded, tattooed, motorbike-riding tough guy, our head of security is kind of a prude—when it comes to me, anyway. “You don’t have to rush me out like I might faint.”

“You’re not seeing that guy’s dick,” he says flatly, marching me up to the second floor. The walls are glass up here too, supported by huge industrial beams, and the floors are hardwood.

An abandoned champagne flute and a man’s undone bow tie scattered on the floor confirms my theory: guests are roaming through this whole mansion, tinsel boundary be damned. I squeeze Saxon’s hand, then knot our fingers together. He lets me.

Is he jealous? The huge older man by my side seems jealous, his silver-flecked beard bristling with agitation. I love it.

“Saxon?” I say. “You can slow down. You don’t need to frogmarch me all the way through the house, okay? I don’twantto see that guy’s dick. Obviously.”

Our steps slow, fireworks bursting out in the darkness beyond the glass walls. My self-assigned bodyguard sucks in a long, deep breath, then gusts it out all in one go. His mouth twitches when he glances down at me. “Good. Sorry.”

“There is something I want to show you, though,” I say, a sudden, devious plan coming to me on the fly, because if Saxon’s finally softening up with me again, you’d better believe I’m gonna milk this moment for all it’s worth. Who knows when I’ll get this chance again? “Can we go to the library?”

Saxon narrows his eyes at me, like he’s trying to sense a trap. There definitely is one, but I smile at him sweetly. “…Sure.”

Ah, this big, beautiful sucker. I love him so much.

Saxon

Alison is plotting something, but I don’t know what. And maybe I’m an idiot to let her do it, maybe I’m walking to the gallows, but I let her pull me through the second floor of the mansion, past priceless abstract paintings and dropped pieces of guests’ clothing, all the way to the library.

It’s always been one of Ali’s favorite rooms, ever since I’ve known her. For starters, it’s one of the few rooms where Charles Wainwright lingers for hours, paging through the latest tech news and swiping on his tablet, and I know she craves the feeling of another person in the room. Not interacting, necessarily, but… that sense of company.

And for another thing, two of the huge metal bookcases are assigned to her, and Ali takes her collection of reading material very seriously.

She collects signed hardbacks and special illustrated editions. Manga and graphic novels and sci fi and poetry—zero pretension, zero theme to her collections. Only enthusiasm, zany and eclectic and bright. Her reading nook is one of my favorite places in the house, too.

She leads me there now, flicking on the overhead library lights and dimming them as she goes. Weaving past industrial-style work tables and bookshelves crammed with popular science and business books and back issues of fancy journals. All this stuff is Charles’s taste, but Ali’s corner is the place to be.

Instead of a table and chairs, she’s got a giant gray bean bag to read on, with fluffy throws and a floor lamp to cast good light. She waves at the bean bag now, gesturing for me to sit on that thing like there’s a chance in hell I’d ever get up again if I did.

“It’s around here somewhere,” Ali says, pushing up on her toes to check the shelves. Some of them don’t have books on yet, so they’re filled with her treasures instead. Her most beloved memories. Stuffed bears from when she was a kid; trinkets and snow globes from her limited travels. That kinda stuff. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I will—by standing, and never getting sucked into that bean bag monstrosity. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I watch Ali and wait.

Her dress tonight is another clingy, slippery fabric—dove gray this time, and strapless, with a slit up the thigh. My throat goes dry just looking at her, with that trim waist and those black waves cascading down the back of her head. Even her mask is cute, with those pointed cat ears.

Did she pick that one because of my nickname for her? I hope so.

She tosses her silver heels to the floor without looking, still rummaging through the shelf. When she finds whatever she’s looking for, Ali makes a pleased sound and spins to face me, eyes bright behind her mask.

Clutched in her fingers is a rumpled sprig of mistletoe. My heart lurches, and I have to clear my mouth before I speak.

“Is that the same one? The one from last week?” My voice is so gravelly, it’s like rocks shifting on a mountainside.

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