Ali
S axon’s weird after our second encounter—no surprises there. But this time, it’s not that he’s avoiding me. It’s way more fun than that. No, for the whole next week Saxon is glued to my side, his hungry, unblinking gaze fixed to my face, my hair, my body. Never looking away.
Like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. Like he’s trying to soak me up through his eyeballs. Every time one his men get too close to me, he snarls.
Saxon doesn’t try to touch me again, but that’s okay. That’s fine. I’ll wait for him to come around. Honestly, I’d wait fifty years for this man.
And in the meantime, I’ve got plenty of distractions to keep me from going loopy with craving our head of security. Things like freelance editing work—rush jobs over the holidays—and buying last minute Christmas presents. Things like daydreaming about a relationship together, and what that would be like.
Would Saxon defer to my father? Let him make decisions about us?
The answer clangs into my brain as soon as I ponder the question: Hell no.
Saxon may work for Dad, but he does not bow and scrape, and he’s always put me above his job. It’s laughable to even think it.
In fact, without Saxon around, something tells me the last few years would have been a hundred times worse. He’s always the grown-up in the room; the voice of reason. My safe harbor and my protector.
And now, the source of my squirmiest daydreams. Oh god, when can I touch him again? When will he touch me ? I fan myself, suddenly hot under my PJ collar.
“Doing okay there, Cat?”
Saxon’s deep voice drifts from the living room doorway, and my head jerks around. Forget the holiday movie I’ve been watching to kill time on this Christmas Eve morning—there’s something better to entertain me now.
Saxon’s dressed for work in his gray suit and black tie, his dark hair combed back and his beard trimmed. Don’t wanna pat myself on the back too much, but since we first kissed in his apartment, he looks… younger. Energized, and refreshed by life.
Sure, there are still faint lines at the corners of his eyes, and there are those silver strands in his hair and beard. But Saxon looks vibrant and powerful, his muscles bulging beneath his clothes, and when he stares at me like that, his mouth curving up…
I fan myself again, with both hands this time.
“Please,” I call over, “stop messing with me like this, staring like you’re gonna eat me up. Teasing then never delivering. I’ll catch fire under my clothes, Saxon. I’ll burn to a crisp.”
Saxon grins and shakes his head as he strolls into the room. I shift self-consciously on the sofa as he approaches, tugging at the hem of my pajama shirt, but I don’t look too bad. Just rumpled and sleepy. I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair, because I’m not an idiot, okay? There’s always a chance Saxon is near in this house.
The sofa groans as he sits down beside me, propping his elbows on his knees—and he’s not inappropriately close, but still near enough to touch. Near enough to smell his clean, manly smell, and feel his heat near my legs.
Thump, thump, thump, goes my heart.
Saxon squints at the TV, trying to make sense of the green, hairy creature ranting about Christmas. “Pool party tonight,” he says, acting casual.
Yeah. It’s a Christmas Eve tradition at the Wainwright mansion: a big, blowout pool party, with dozens of rented luxury hot tubs dotting the grounds, and a serve-yourself cocktail bar by the terrace pool. Music and celebrities and barely dressed bodies, every direction you look. Writhing together, wet and slippery.
I hate it. Maybe in the summer, if I attended with Saxon, something like that could be almost fun… but on Christmas Eve? All I want to do is curl up and drink hot chocolate, watch movies, and wrap last-minute gifts.
Instead I’m trapped in Hedonism Central.
“Someone’s going to drown,” I mutter, because that’s the fear that haunts me every single year. All those drunk people in the water? I’ve told Dad a million times that it’s dangerous, that something bad will happen sooner or later, but he refuses to do anything about it. Says that people sign waivers to attend, and that’s good enough.
When I was a kid, I used to watch the terrace pool from my bedroom window with binoculars glued to my eyes, my phone by my side in case I needed to call 911. I barely blinked all night, I was so worried—and I saw some stuff that I was definitely too young to see.
But Saxon’s mouth twitches, and he cracks his knuckles idly. “Want to hear a secret?”
Um, yeah. “Obviously.”
“There are undercover lifeguards. I hire them every year, and Charles—your Dad’s always too far gone to notice.”
…Huh. “That’s very sneaky of you.”
Saxon shrugs, unrepentant. “I’d rather risk a leaked photo than an accidental death. Charles may be my employer, but he doesn’t rule my conscience.”
Agreed, and wow, I feel so much lighter already. Like I can breathe properly again, drawing sweet, sweet air into my lungs.
“Dad gave me my swimsuit already.” I try not to sound too bitter, but I can’t help it. Sourness laces my words. Because who wants their own father handing them a bikini and telling them to look nice tonight? Nobody, that’s who.
I tried it on an hour ago. It fits, unfortunately, with red and white stripes like a candy cane. Although at least it’s in that retro style, with high-waisted shorts and a halter top, so every scrap of me won’t be on display.
Saxon says nothing for a long while, his jaw clenched and eyes hard. He doesn’t look at me, keeps staring right at the TV when he finally says, “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, Cat. I’ll take care of it. Just say the word.”
And I melt. Just like that, I turn into a big, gooey puddle on these sofa cushions, because lord, I love this man so much.
Saxon is the only one who looks out for me like this. The only person who protects me, and who cares what I want. He takes care of me. Nurtures me.
Loves me.
I dare to reach out and pat Saxon on the shoulder. He’s sculpted under there, sturdier than granite, and is it my imagination, or does he lean into my touch?
“It’s okay. I’ve already decided: I’ll go to the pool party tonight, and then that’s it. I’m done. Even if Dad hates me for it… I can’t do this anymore.”
Our head of security gusts out a long sigh, and when he glances over at me, his eyes are warm. “Can’t pretend I’m not relieved, . If one more asshole tries to corner you, I’ll wind up with blood on my hands.”
Should not find his bloodthirstiness so sexy, but here I am. I bite my lip, practically wriggling on the sofa cushions. “Oh, yeah? You’d rough up a man just for me?”
“I’d flatten him.”
And we’re grinning at each other like goofballs, drawn toward each other across the sofa cushions, when Saxon’s earpiece crackles, then a tinny voice starts talking in his ear. I sink back, disappointed, as Saxon stands up and strides out.
One day.
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, stewing and cranky.
One day, I’ll be able to talk to that man endlessly, without interruption. I’ll be able to smile at him freely, without worrying how it looks to other people, and I’ll kiss him as many times as I like.
I sure hope so, anyway.
Else I’ll go mad.
* * *
The pool party is decadent and wild. Stars pulse high overhead, music throbs through the mansion grounds, and all around is the sound of splashing and laughter. It’s nearly midnight, and already the barely-clothed bodies wandering from hot tub to pool and back again are stumbling, weaving their merry way, slurring as they call out to each other.
Nearly midnight.
Nearly Christmas.
Sinking down to my shoulders in the terrace pool, I try to ignore the sadness pressing on my chest.
You know, my father wasn’t always like this. Wasn’t always such a party animal, more concerned with wild experiences and notoriety than with spending time with his daughter. Watching him now, with a woman half his age balanced on his shoulders at the other end of the pool as he pretends to buck her off… I barely recognize him.
Did he ever love my mother?
Was he heartbroken when she left? Is that why I’ll greet Christmas day in a candy striper bikini, lonely and bored in our terrace pool, trying not to catch anyone’s eye?
Because everywhere I look, there are crushes of people. Hordes of people, all grinning and jubilant, some of their faces familiar from blockbuster movies or the ten o’clock news. All singing off-key Christmas carols and pressing close to each other in the pool, their slippery limbs sometimes brushing mine and making me shudder.
Jeez. Don’t these people have families to go home too? Aren’t they tired of all this yet? What’s the point of being rich and famous if your life is this shallow?
“Hey, Wainwright girl,” a nearby man calls, sloshing toward me through the chest-high water. I blink, sinking down to my neck.
This guy’s famous—a musician, I think. A rock star, with long dark hair dragging in the pool behind him as he stumbles forward with that wide, bright grin.
He’s broad-shouldered and tattooed and technically handsome, but you know what? That all only works for me with one man.
“How long have you been hiding in here, huh, Wainwright girl? We’ve all been looking for you,” the rock star says through his grin, talking too loud and waving an arm behind him, showering the party-goers with errant spray. Someone curses him out; someone else laughs like a hyena.
And all around, pairs of eyes turn on me, suddenly curious.
Some eyes are narrowed; others have pin-prick pupils. Some are nosy and some are glassy with drink. But they all feel like needles, prickling at my skin, making my heart pound, and suddenly… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t play the polite host to make my father happy. Not for another single second.
I thought I could make it through one last party, but you know what? I can’t.
I won’t stand around half dressed, smiling at men who call me ‘Wainwright girl’, letting them stare. Won’t act like this whole party doesn’t make me feel jaded and heart-sore.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, turning to the edge of the pool. This won’t be a graceful exit, but the steps out of here are too far away, and I can’t nudge my way through so many people to get there. Not when they’re all staring at me like this. No, thank you.
My hands brace on the terrace paving stones, still warm from the afternoon sun. The rock star says something behind me, but I don’t catch it.
I’m ready to leave. Ready to head up to my room, take a long, hot shower, then bundle myself up in bed and count down the minutes until everyone is gone.
Pushing hard on the stones, I jump up, water sloshing everywhere. And I’m raising one knee, about to crawl out of here no matter how undignified it looks, but a strong hand grabs my messy bun and yanks me back into the water.
“Oh no you don’t,” the rock star yells, cracking up with laughter, like this is all such a hilarious joke. “You don’t get away from us that easily, Wainwright girl.”
The back of my head burns from where he yanked my hair. I whirl around and stare up at this man, this stranger , frozen with confusion and fear and rage.
What’s his plan here? He’s going to keep me in this pool against my will? Even with people staring at us and some guests whispering behind their hands and my own useless father somewhere on the grounds?
Who knows? Whatever the rock star’s plan, I don’t get to find out—because a strong hand reaches past me, grabs a fistful of the musician’s dark hair, and yanks him up out of the pool in one ruthless motion.
“How do you fucking like it?” Saxon spits, lifting the other man as easily as a feather pillow. He shakes him by the hair, ignoring his yelp of pain, then dumps his sprawled body on the terrace.