Ali
T he next morning, I’m hunched over the breakfast bar, chewing on granola and yogurt and scrolling through real estate listings on my laptop. This is my new favorite hobby: picturing myself in each place, and imagining how I’d live there. Deciding what color I’d paint each hypothetical room.
Dad would never approve, of course, but he doesn’t realize that I’ve been working over the last few years while I completed my online English Lit degree. All this time, I’ve been running an editing business from home.
That means I have my own money. I can find an apartment if I like—hell, if I look in the scruffier parts of town, I could even scrounge up the down payment all by myself. This could happen. This could work.
No more deranged holiday parties? No more car bomb checks? No more taking a bodyguard with me everywhere I go, even to the bathrooms at the mall? Hell yeah. I’m in.
But as I open up another apartment listing, tilting my head and peering at the photos of a cramped but cute studio, a wall of heat comes up behind me.
Don’t need to turn around to guess who that is. I could pick Saxon out of a line up with my eyes closed. He just has so much presence, like the sheer, crackling masculinity of him sends shock waves through the air.
“What’s that?”
His deep voice is always a thrill. Always makes my toes curl.
“Downtown apartments,” I tell him, spinning my laptop so Saxon can see better over my shoulder. “Look, this one has a little balcony. Cute, right?”
There’s a long, loaded pause behind me. My stomach sinks, even as I keep clicking through the listings, pointing out my favorite features in a chirpy voice. Like if I ignore the sense of doom settling over me like a fine dust, I’ll never have to face it.
Eventually, a big hand rests on my shoulder. “You can’t move out,” Saxon says quietly, and the empathy in his words makes my eyes burn. “Not until you can afford your own security detail. You know your Dad will never pay for two; he likes having you near too much.”
“But if I’m away from here, anonymous—”
“You’ll never be anonymous, Cat.” Our head of security hates breaking this news, it’s clear from his mournful tone. “Your family’s too rich and too famous. And you’re too…”
He trails off. I wait.
“Pretty,” Saxon mutters at last. My cheeks heat, but I’m too miserable right now to enjoy the compliment. “Doesn’t matter where you go in the whole country. Beauty like that doesn’t blend in.”
I scoff, all my insides aching. I’m really trapped here? Forever? Because no book editor can afford a bodyguard, that’s for sure.
“I’m not that pretty.”
It’s Saxon’s turn to scoff. “You are,” he says shortly, squeezing my shoulder before he lets go. The bar stool next to me squeaks in protest as he settles his bulk down, dragging my abandoned breakfast over the marble counter.
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—all I want 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? Show me? “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, Cat. You’re my lead tree designer.”
My heart slams against 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—a normal girl’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?”
“ You can.” 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’s real.
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.
“We’re not taking your bike?” I ask as Saxon opens the SUV passenger door, waving for me to climb in. His mouth twitches.
“And how would we transport a tree on my bike? You gonna balance it over your little lap?”
Oh, right. Duh.
“Well, one day, will you take me out on your bike? That’s on my bucket list too, you know.”
Saxon clips my seat belt without answering, gray eyes roving down my body once more before he steps back and shuts the car door. Inside, I’m left with nothing but my own shallow breaths, leggings rustling softly as I squirm, squeezing my thighs together.
I’m surprised I don’t fog up the windshield, I’m panting so hard. Surprised I don’t melt into a desperate little puddle, all in the time it takes Saxon to climb in, belt up, and back us out of the parking space, our vehicle purring slowly through the darkened garage. The engine rumbles beneath us, vibrating through my quivering body.
His hands are big and scarred where they rest on the steering wheel. Saxon always has to push the driver’s seat all the way back to fit his legs, and even then, his dark hair brushes the ceiling.
It’s cut close on the sides, a bit longer on top. Thick and tuggable, and threaded with a few silver hairs up there too. I’d tease him about that, but I never like highlighting our age gap to Saxon. Feels like scoring an own goal.
“So we’re going to a Christmas tree farm?”
“We’re going to a Christmas tree farm,” he says.
“And I can pick?” I ask, grinning as I push my luck.
Gray eyes flick to me, amused, then Saxon watches the road as we pull out onto the street. “And you can pick. Choose wisely, Cat.”
Oh, I will.
Saxon is gonna let me decorate his Christmas tree? Maybe other parts of his apartment too?
This will be my goddamn masterpiece.