Page 6 of 3 Stolen Kisses

He can have it. As I snap my laptop closed, cutting off those downtown apartment daydreams, I’m too queasy to eat another bite.

Because… when does it end?

When do I get to live my own life?

When can I be more than a dolled-up hostess at my Dad’s Christmas parties; a long-forgotten kid with a mother who pretends she doesn’t exist; a source of gossip for C-list celebrity websites?

Poor little rich girl, I know. I’m lucky in so many ways. But this sucks too sometimes, okay? And I didn’t ask for any of it—allIwant is to decorate my own damn Christmas tree.

“I’ve got today off,” Saxon says out of nowhere, scraping the spoon along the bottom of the bowl. Man, he finished that off quick. Saxon’s like a magician with leftover food—you blink and it disappears.

And now that he says it, it’s obvious our head of security’s not on duty right now. Saxon always stays overnight on party nights, but if he was working today too, he’d be in a fresh gray suit and black tie. Instead, he’s dressed in a plain black cotton t-shirt, the fabric stretching over his shoulders and chest, and soft-looking jeans that hug his thighs.

He’s got those biker boots on too. Did he ride his motorbike here yesterday? God, whenever I see Saxon on that thing, it’s like my uterus dances a little jig inside me.

“Got fun plans?” I say, tearing my eyes away from the spot where Saxon’s ink disappears into the neckline of his t-shirt. Tattoos wrap around both arms too, so how much of him exactly is covered in artwork? Would he ever tell me?Showme? “What does a big ol’ brute like you even do for fun, anyway? Throw axes? Topple trees?”

Saxon’s beard shifts as he grins, and I fight the urge to punch the air in triumph. He’s always so stoic, so serious, and getting a smile out of him feels like winning the jackpot. Already, my apartment blues are drifting away, blown off like cobwebs in the breeze.

“You’re close,” he says, gray eyes sparkling as they watch me. “Thinking of getting a tree for my place. Throwing tinsel on it or whatever.”

I’m so jealous, I could gnaw through my own arm—but a childhood in the spotlight has taught me better manners than that. “Sounds fun,” I say brightly. “Hope you have a good time!”

Saxon snorts, shaking his big head. When he pushes off the stool and straightens to his full height, I’m surprised his dark hair doesn’t brush along the ceiling. Surprised he doesn’t block out the freaking sun.

“Be ready to leave in ten minutes, Ali Cat. You’re my lead tree designer.”

My heartslamsagainst my rib cage. Already, I’m hovering three feet off my stool, levitating with excitement. “But Manuel’s supposed to watch me today—”

“Manuel knows I’ll handle it. Ten minutes, baby girl. Don’t make me wait.”

I’m out of the kitchen faster than the roadrunner, my fluffy socks skidding on the tiles.

* * *

Eight minutes later, I’m jogging after Saxon through our underground garage, breathing hard after the world’s fastest shower. Our steps echo through the cavernous room. My dark hair is tangled and damp, thrown up in a messy bun, and I’m pretty sure my boxy red t-shirt is on back to front above my leggings.

It may be too warm for a sweater, but red is a festive color, right? And if I’m having a Christmassy day with Saxon—anormalgirl’s Christmassy day—you’d better believe I’m going all in.

“Can we drink mulled wine?”

Saxon snorts. He’s not even out of breath, his long strides carrying him easily across the concrete. “It’s not even ten AM.”

“Well, can we sing Christmas carols?”

“Youcan.” My gruff guardian angel signals for me to stand back as we reach the nearest armored SUV, then he grunts as he bends down to do the usual checks. And I know I should be thinking bomb-related thoughts, but the only thing on my mind as I watch Saxon work is the size of his thick, muscled thighs, those jeans clinging to them like the denim loves him as much as I do.

Those thighs are like tree trunks in their own right. Saxon’s whole body is massive, but not in a body-builder gym bro kinda way. There’s a softness to him above the bulk—like where the curve of his belly brushes against his t-shirt as he moves. He’sreal.

A real man. One you could touch and taste.

My lower belly pulses and twists. Already, I’m too hot under my clothes, and I’ve barely watched our head of security for one minute.

A whole day alone with Saxon? Seriously? Reaching behind myself slowly, I pinch my own ass to check I’m not dreaming.

Ow.

Nope. This is happening.

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