Page 35 of Pining for Christmas

Nearly Christmas.

Sinking down to my shoulders in the terrace pool, I try to ignore the sadness pressing on my chest.

You know, my father wasn’t always like this. Wasn’t always such a party animal, more concerned with wild experiences and notoriety than with spending time with his daughter. Watching him now, with a woman half his age balanced on his shoulders atthe other end of the pool as he pretends to buck her off… I barely recognize him.

Did he ever love my mother?

Was he heartbroken when she left? Isthatwhy I’ll greet Christmas day in a candy striper bikini, lonely and bored in our terrace pool, trying not to catch anyone’s eye?

Because everywhere I look, there are crushes of people.Hordesof people, all grinning and jubilant, some of their faces familiar from blockbuster movies or the ten o’clock news. All singing off-key Christmas carols and pressing close to each other in the pool, their slippery limbs sometimes brushing mine and making me shudder.

Jeez. Don’t these people have families to go home too? Aren’t they tired of all this yet? What’s the point of being rich and famous if your life is this shallow?

“Hey, Wainwright girl,” a nearby man calls, sloshing toward me through the chest-high water. I blink, sinking down to my neck.

This guy’s famous—a musician, I think. A rock star, with long dark hair dragging in the pool behind him as he stumbles forward with that wide, bright grin.

He’s broad-shouldered and tattooed and technically handsome, but you know what? That all only works for me with one man.

“How long have you been hiding in here, huh, Wainwright girl? We’ve all been looking for you,” the rock star says through his grin, talking too loud and waving an arm behind him, showering the party-goers with errant spray. Someone curses him out; someone else laughs like a hyena.

And all around, pairs of eyes turn on me, suddenly curious.

Some eyes are narrowed; others have pin-prick pupils. Some are nosy and some are glassy with drink. But theyallfeel like needles, prickling at my skin, making my heart pound, andsuddenly… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t play the polite host to make my father happy. Not for another single second.

I thought I could make it through one last party, but you know what? I can’t.

I won’t stand around half dressed, smiling at men who call me ‘Wainwright girl’, letting them stare. Won’t act like this whole party doesn’t make me feel jaded and heart-sore.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, turning to the edge of the pool. This won’t be a graceful exit, but the steps out of here are too far away, and I can’t nudge my way through so many people to get there. Not when they’re all staring at me like this. No, thank you.

My hands brace on the terrace paving stones, still warm from the afternoon sun. The rock star says something behind me, but I don’t catch it.

I’m ready to leave. Ready to head up to my room, take a long, hot shower, then bundle myself up in bed and count down the minutes until everyone is gone.

Pushing hard on the stones, I jump up, water sloshing everywhere. And I’m raising one knee, about to crawl out of here no matter how undignified it looks, but a strong hand grabs my messy bun and yanks me back into the water.

“Oh no you don’t,” the rock star yells, cracking up with laughter, like this is all such a hilarious joke. “You don’t get away from us that easily, Wainwright girl.”

The back of my head burns from where he yanked my hair. I whirl around and stare up at this man, thisstranger, frozen with confusion and fear and rage.

What’s his plan here? He’s going to keep me in this pool against my will? Even with people staring at us and some guests whispering behind their hands and my own useless father somewhere on the grounds?

Who knows? Whatever the rock star’s plan, I don’t get to find out—because a strong hand reaches past me, grabs a fistful ofthe musician’s dark hair, and yanks him up out of the pool in one ruthless motion.

“How do you fucking like it?” Saxon spits, lifting the other man as easily as a feather pillow. He shakes him by the hair, ignoring his yelp of pain, then dumps his sprawled body on the terrace.

Ali

Two of the other security guards step forward, grabbing a wet arm each, and it’s just as well they’re taking that guy away, because Saxon looks ready to rip him limb from limb. He looms high above me on the poolside, his chest heaving and his face cast in shadow. His fists are balled at his sides.

When Saxon glances down, I jerk back in the water. It’s nothing real—it’s prey instinct. Automatic. I’m not scared of him at all, I never could be, and I’m so, so glad he’s here.

But Saxon’s expression shutters.

“Come on,” he says gravely, crouching by the pool and lifting me out from beneath my arms. Water cascades down my body, speckling the terrace and spotting Saxon’s shoes, but he holds me like something precious. Sets me gingerly on my feet, everything so different from the way he slung that rock star around like a garbage bag. “Where’s your towel?”

My teeth are chattering, despite the warm night, and I wish I could shrink into nothing. “Inside.”

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