Page 40 of Scrooged for the Holidays
I scowl. My brain hasn’t gotten the memo that I want to stop thinking about my nightmare.
I stomp through the snow and to the sidewalk, hoping I was correct and I’m going the right direction. The wind gusts at my back as if to shove me forward, almost like it’s telling me I am going the right way. But that’s stupid. It’s not like the wind is suddenly alive.
I shake my head at myself and continue walking, careful not to slip. I may be wearing boots, but they’re designer—not exactly made for a trek in winter weather.
I keep trudging away from the inn, taking in the town. There aren’t many people out, just two clearing snow off the pathways leading to their businesses—one a toy shop and the second a small clothing store—while another walks with a coffee in their hand.
When I look ahead of me, I’m not far from the massive Christmas tree I saw last night. The storefronts and buildings I pass still have all their holiday lights turned on, and the closer I edge to the tree, I hear singing.
I glance around to see if there’s a speaker somewhere, but I spot a group of four people singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” across the street next to a business with a plum-colored awning. Before I even spot the sign or take in the smell of coffee and sweets, I know it’s got to be the Sugar Plum Bakehouse.
I curse under my breath. “Of course there are freaking carolers outside the bakery. Why wouldn’t there be?”
“What’s wrong with carolers, love?”
I jolt in surprise, spinning around to face the owner of the deep masculine voice, one that sounds like every inappropriate Mr. Darcy fantasy I had when I was a teenager after watchingBridget Jonesone too many times. And did he call melove?
I spin around to face him as I respond. “It’s not the carolers, it’s Christmas—” The last word dies on my lips as I come eye-to-chest with a very large man, one who has a familiar pair of stunning evergreen eyes.
Oh, god.Of course it’s him.
Remi, the man from the restaurant, aka Daddy.
Chapter thirteen
Remiel
Greer’sskinpinkensasher pouty mouth drops open. My fingers twitch with the urge to pull her closer, to trace my thumb over her red-stained lips, then tip her chin up to gently shut it. Even if it does look pretty wide open, too.
“Ah, so you’re a Scrooge then. Bah! Humbug!” I say the words not only because they’re true but also to see her reaction. Especially after what she experienced with Kai last night.
“You know, just because someone doesn’t like Christmas doesn’t mean they’re a Scrooge,” she counters. Her response has heat to it, like a dragon protecting its pile of gold.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “No?”
Her mouth closes, and her lips press tight. Within the depths of her eyes, I see a flash of pain before her gaze hardens, and her aura pulses with a sharp red anger before it cools to its gray again.
I shouldn’t be happy that I saw the red, especially since my words were what angered her, but I am. It was a little test to see if Greer is letting her emotions break free as Kai suggested.
When he came home at sunrise, the three of us went over his time with her. Our grace and our bond allow us to share visions, showing each other events as they happen or after the fact. While Sam and I experienced the past alongside Kai lastnight, it’s always good to talk it through afterward so we can connect further with the human we’re helping.
The only thing we didn’t discuss was the kiss Kai and Greer shared. Kai didn’t bring it up, probably to avoid Sam chastising him, and I didn’t, either—at least, not yet. We’ll need to at some point.
However, Kaididmention the flash of passion he got from her, which had to have been from the kiss, as well as the pulses of anger at the experiences and not being able to wake up.
He also brought up her sadness—Greer had nearly shed tears during her first memory. That was good, because it meant she allowed herself to feel the pain of that day before diving back into denial and indifference. I’d even go so far as to say she felt remorse over her actions in some of those memories, specifically with her friend, Avery. But without seeing and experiencing it firsthand, it’s hard to be sure.
What I am sure about, though, is that the cracks in her armor are there. It’s now my job to help expand them, to show her how to feel them without pushing them aside and building a wall to keep them in.
“Well?” I ask.
She huffs a breath. “No, I think a Scrooge is portrayed that way in the media, but a true Scrooge is a miser. Aren’t you British? Shouldn’t you know that?”
“Are you saying all British people know Charles Dickens?”
Her lips turn up into a smirk, her cheeks red from the sting of the cold and her spite toward me. Not to mention, her attraction—there’s no way I could forget about our little run-in at the restaurant yesterday and how she watched me with Sam and Kai last night. I may not have made eye contact with her, but I knew she was there. I could feel her heated gaze on us, could sense her aura.
“You just jumped from Scrooge to Charles Dickens, so I’m going to gamble and say yes.”
