Page 14 of Craving Her Christmas Boss

Imogen couldn’t believe that his family didn’t have one of those trees covered with designer decorations that each cost enough to buy five frozen turkeys. ‘Do you still make them?’

‘Every year. And on Christmas Eve we put real candles on the tree and my dad liked them. It’s a big deal.’

She refused to be touched. ‘Isn’t that dangerous, with all the paper and wood?’

‘Life is no fun without a little danger, don’t you think?’

Imogen said nothing, but his thigh pressed a little harder on hers as he glanced away to the rest of the group.

‘Then we open presents and eat a lot of food.’

‘On Christmas Eve?’ Imogen sat ramrod straight, but was unable to move away from the bone-melting pressure of his leg.

He nodded.

‘You open presents on Christmas Eve?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well,that’snot right.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘In New Zealand we open presents on Christmas Day.’

‘Oh?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, we open them on Christmas Eve.’

‘But that’s just wrong. It’s all about the anticipation. That waking up early and getting desperate for all the relatives who arrives you can get on with it.’ She didn’t give them a chance to respond—just wanted to score a point. ‘Straw poll—show of hands,’ she said brightly to the others. ‘Do you open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day?’

Christmas Day won by a landslide.

‘Different culture,’ he murmured.

He was damn right about that. His background was light years from everyone’s here—his family hung out with presidents and pop stars. She bet theydidhave an overpriced tree with overpriced decorations, and hid the Waltons-esque home-made number in the kitchen.

But as the others chatted about the plans Imogen wondered, and finally gave in to the temptation of asking. ‘So what do you do on Christmas day?’

His face was full of humour. ‘Sleep in. Eventually get up and eat. Fish around in our stockings. Eat another big meal all together.’

‘You still get a stocking?’

‘I’m a very good boy.’

Well, she knew that wasn’t the case. ‘You mean your mother turns a blind eye?’

‘Don’t all mothers?’

Every cell inside her chilled. A mother like his would. A mother with money enough to pay off the damage caused by her son’s indiscretions. George’s mother had done exactly that—refusing to believe the ugly reality of her son’s nature, blaming Imogen instead. It was always the woman’s fault, right? Especially if she hadn’t grown up in the right area and hadn’t gone to the right school—then she was definitely the one to blame.

Ryan murmured, way too close to her ear, ‘Does Santa bringyoua stocking, Imogen?’

‘Always.’

‘That so?’

‘I reallyamgood.’

‘Yes—to my great disappointment.’ He smacked into his glass. ‘What does Santa put in your stocking?’

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