Ali
T he first party of the holiday season is always a doozy. Dad likes to start with a bang and get the gossip mills churning. Likes to make sure that every person in the city—no, the country —knows these are the parties to be at. This is where the great and the glorious come to misbehave.
Movie stars and famous directors. Billionaire CEOs and tech wunderkinds. The country’s top lawyers, surgeons, and athletes—all of them laughing loud and drinking hard. Talking fast and snorting lines, safe within Dad’s no-phones-allowed policy.
These kinds of people never get to let loose. Not like this. Not usually. There are too many cameras, too many eyeballs, too many repercussions.
Not at a Wainwright holiday party. It’s a freaking free-for-all.
That’s the promise. That’s why they come.
“Keep near Saxon,” Dad says tonight, brushing past me in the living room where I’m propped against a wall. He’s dressed in a tailored suit jacket and dark pants, his bald head reflecting the lights. He leans down to mutter in my ear, whiskey on his breath. “And stop looking so bug-eyed, . Smile, for Christ’s sake. Do you want our guests to feel unwelcome?”
Um, yeah. Honestly? That would be fine by me.
I wish they’d all go home and leave us to some peace and quiet. I’m more of a PJs and movie night kinda girl, myself.
Still, these holiday parties are Dad’s whole thing , and he cares about them so much, so I paste a happy smile over my face. My cheeks feel rubbery, like my own features are a mask, but he squeezes my shoulder, satisfied.
“Atta girl. Do the rounds, huh? Top up some drinks. Break some hearts.”
My own heart aches as Dad turns away, calling out greetings and slapping shoulders.
He doesn’t mean to use me like this.
He doesn’t . I’m sure of it.
The Wainwright mansion is lit up with endless string lights, criss-crossing over the high ceilings. Paired with the glass walls and skylights above, it’s like having a sky full of stars indoors, pulsing above the packed crowds.
The air is hot and muggy, warmed by body heat and panting breaths. Music pulses from hidden speakers, dark and throbbing.
A whistle cuts through my daze, and a big, male body slumps against the wall beside me, making me jump. A world-class golfer squints at me, already so drunk he’s fighting to see straight, and he leers as his gaze crawls up and down my body. He’s wearing checkered golfing pants, a white t-shirt, and Santa hat, the whole thing slumping to one side.
“Hey, baby.”
This man is technically handsome. He’s been pictured on the front page of sports magazines; he’s starred in sexy calendars while barely dressed, and his face has sold men’s cologne. Plenty of women around the world would love to flirt with this guy.
But as he leans closer to me, smirking and drunk, I cringe away automatically, still smiling my robot smile.
“Hello. Can I fetch you anything? Maybe another drink? Maybe spring water?”
Anything to get out of arm’s reach.
But it’s like I haven’t spoken—the golfer gives me what he clearly thinks is a charming, lazy grin, those bloodshot eyes dropping to the faint shadow of cleavage above my dress.
Ew. Ew, ew, ew.
God, I wish I didn’t have to dress up for these nights. Or wish I could wear the standard security uniform, like Saxon and his men: a no-nonsense gray suit with a white shirt and black tie. Something to blend into the background, something that screams, “Don’t flirt with me!”
Instead, Dad always insists that I wear one of the dresses he buys just for these occasions. I tell him not to buy me anything, every single year, and every single year he gifts me a closet’s worth of party dresses anyway.
I feel rude not wearing them, and it’s so easy to hurt his feelings.
But I sure wish Dad would pick something with more… coverage.
Tonight’s dress is one of the tamest options: a close fitting cream dress with thick straps, falling to mid-thigh, the hem studded with pearls. I figured I’d look demure… but the golfer clearly disagrees. He’s smirking, slumping closer against the wall, his moist breath gusting against my neck.
“Don’ need a drink, baby. I’d rather drink you.”
Drink me? What is he, a vampire? How exactly would that work? My smile slips as I frown, trying to imagine the logistics.
Before I’ve drawn another breath, a shadow falls over us both, blocking out the string lights, the revels, the crowd—all of it. A deep, gravelly voice rumbles through my bones as it says, “Everything alright here?”
The rush of relief is so sweet. I beam up at Saxon, our head of security, all the tension flooding from my body, and I don’t even realize I’ve reached for him until I feel the fabric of his jacket sleeve under my fingers.
The golfer slurs something I don’t make out, but let’s face it—it’s probably rude. People take one look at our head of security, and they make judgments. Split second decisions about the kind of man he is, based on his thick, dark beard and tattooed neck and twice-broken nose. And the sheer size of him, too.
We’re all like row boats and tiny yachts bobbing out at sea, and Saxon’s a huge freighter cutting through to port. He’s on another level.
Saxon ignores the golfer and peers down at me. “You need a break from all this, Cat?”
His nickname for me sends gooey warmth through my middle. It always does. Saxon’s the only person who ever calls me that, and I treasure every single mention.
“Yes, please.”
The golfer calls something after us both, something pissy judging by his tone, and I’m sure Dad wouldn’t call this being a good host, but you know what? Right this second, I don’t care.
If Saxon asks me to go somewhere, I follow. Simple as that. If he offers me his hand, I take it. Some rules are like gravity, central to the natural functioning of the universe, and this is one of them.
My fingers are dwarfed by Saxon’s steady grip as he leads me through the living room to the kitchen, then out onto the terrace. All around us, famous faces grin and laugh and swig from glass tumblers, pressing close as the crowd lurches and heaves.
Don’t know how they can stand it—being squeezed together in one big, sweaty crush like that. I’ve always hated crowds. Even the busiest times at the grocery store make me feel queasy.
Out on the terrace, the night air is still warm and humid, but at least there’s a breeze. The stars out here are better too, glittering high, high above where they belong. A gentle wind ruffles the grounds, bringing us the scent of dry soil and juniper, and insects shiver in a high-pitched chorus.
“You know, one day, I’m gonna have a real Christmas,” I tell Saxon as he leads me around the side of the mansion. The walls are brushed concrete around here instead of glass, so we have the illusion of privacy, even with remixed holiday tunes throbbing through the walls. Damn, how do you make carols sound so horny?
“Oh, yeah?” Saxon turns to face me when we reach a patch of shadow, his gray eyes searching my face and body. When he does it, it’s nothing like that golfer’s horrible leer. He’s checking on me, always so tender and careful. “What’s a real Christmas, Cat?”
“Not this.” I wave at the sun-baked gardens, the decadent party, the guests laughing and splashing nearby in the terrace pool, dressed in nothing but their underwear. “I mean the postcard Christmas, you know? Snowmen and cold weather and hot cocoa and mistletoe.”
“Stockings and a fire in the hearth,” Saxon says.
“Exactly.”
This man gets me. He always gets me. Ever since Dad hired him as our head of security ten years ago, it’s like Saxon and I had a mind-meld. Or maybe he was just the first person to give twelve-year-old me the time of day. Who knows? Either way, I never have to explain myself to Saxon; never have to justify how I feel. He already knows.
Guess that’s what makes him so good at his job. Nothing escapes Saxon’s notice—not the tiniest detail. Even when he escapes with me to let me gulp down some fresh air, he always leaves his team on high alert.
Because there have been incidents over the years. I know there have, even though no one directly told me about them. Men dressed all in black who scaled our garden walls in the dead of night; bombs fixed under our family cars but found before they went off. Questionable packages in the mail. Stuff like that.
Dad is a powerful man, the heir to a wealthy family. He’s rich and famous, and not shy at all about using his influence in the world. That all comes with a cost.
But Saxon shields us from all that. Keeps us safe.
He’s still holding my hand, and I cling to his fingers, heart fluttering in my chest like a trapped butterfly.
Would our head of security still take me away for these moments alone if he knew about my crush on him? If he knew that I picture kissing his gruff mouth every night, the image sending me off to the sweetest dreams?
Saxon turns his head and scans the shadowy grounds, the paths down there lit by ornamental lamps. Starlight glints in the silver strands that have only recently started threading his beard.
He’s thirty nine. Seventeen years older than me. A little young for silver hairs, but then, this is a stressful job.
These parties must make things a thousand times harder for him, but Saxon never complains. He just nods and gets the job done.
“Did your dad buy you that dress?”
The low rumble of his voice jolts me back to earth. How long was I staring at him, lost in my thoughts, with cartoon hearts floating in my eyes?
Saxon frowns at the cream dress clinging to my small curves, and I bite my lip under his scrutiny. Fight the urge to fidget and pluck at the fabric.
“Don’t you like it?” I ask stupidly.
But of course he doesn’t. Saxon is a practical man, and this is a ridiculous dress for anything except standing around in, useless. The fabric is delicate, yet clings to my thighs so tightly I can’t take full-length steps; the pearls are expensive but at least a few have dropped off the hem already, pinging over the floorboards inside. Frankly, it’s a wonder the cream-color hasn’t already attracted a dozen stains.
This dress is the manifestation of everything Saxon rolls his eyes at: vanity, impracticality, waste. And yet—
“I like it,” he says, voice rough. “On you, anyway.”
There’s a long pause, the moment taut and stretching between us. I press my lips together, inching closer, my hand damp where it clings to his. Because maybe, just maybe, this is finally going to happen—
Saxon drops my hand and steps back, face turned to the grounds again. His features are cast in shadow, impossible to read, but I don’t miss the way he shakes out his fingers. Like he wants to cast off my touch.
Oh.
My stomach plummets, and my throat squeezes tight.
So Saxon really doesn’t want me, whatever he says about the dress. Our head of security was being polite, and this crush is entirely one-sided. Not only that, but my touch repulses him.
I suck in a trembling breath, and Saxon glances at me in alarm.
“?”
I’m already sliding along the wall, my legs like jelly even though I’ve sipped nothing but water this whole night. “I’m good. It’s fine. I’d better… better get back in there. You know what Dad’s like when I play hooky at these things.”
And I sound strangled, my voice too high pitched, so Saxon moves to follow me. He only jerks to a halt when I hold up one palm—as if I could ever really hold back his bulk. As if I’d ever want to.
Oh, god. My poor heart is so screwed.
“No, don’t worry. I’m, uh. I’m gonna find a bathroom in there and… take care of business.”
Take care of business ? Why, brain, why?
And my behavior must be truly odd, because Saxon doesn’t smirk at that. Doesn’t tease me for my choice of words. He frowns at me instead, watching me closely as I back away along the terrace, his bulk half-swallowed up by shadow. The whoops and splashes of the pool get louder, and the music does too as I get closer to the open doors, and still Saxon’s watching me, his expression thoughtful.
Normally, I treasure every moment of peace I get at these parties. I have to gird myself up to head back in there, back to the wandering hands and too-loud voices and sloppy, drunk behavior, counting down the minutes until everyone leaves.
Not tonight. For once, I push back into the crowd, eager.
Wish it would swallow me whole.