Chapter 9 #2
Alexander grins, that dangerous gleam back in his eyes.
“They’re experts. They won’t make a sound.
” I want to argue, but sure enough, the men begin their work with an eerie silence.
They carry the massive display up the ladder in sections, their movements careful and deliberate.
No clanging tools, no shouted instructions.
Just quiet communication through hand signals and the occasional whisper too low to carry.
I watch mesmerized as Santa and his sleigh slowly take shape on our roof. “Dad is going to lose it,” I murmur.
“He will,” Alexander agrees, his voice holding a note of satisfaction. “But Brookman will be more upset.”
I glance up at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
He moves behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling my back against his chest. His chin rests on top of my head, and I can feel the rumble of his voice when he speaks. “Maybe a little too much.”
I should step away. Should put distance between us.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean back into him, letting myself enjoy this moment of intimacy even as my mind screams warnings.
Lines have been crossed, but right now I don’t care.
Because this wonderful, enigmatic man has done the most ridiculous thing ever, and all I want to do right now is kiss him.
I close my eyes, breathing in the cold night air and something uniquely Alexander.
Just for tonight, I tell myself. Just for this moment, I’ll let myself believe it’s real.
The men work steadily, and I watch as the display comes together piece by piece.
Reindeer taking flight. Presents piling high.
Santa waving from his perch. It’s nearly four in the morning when they finish.
The final connection is made, and suddenly our entire house blazes with light.
The display is even more spectacular installed than when it was in the crate—majestic and absurd and absolutely perfect.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
Alexander’s arms tighten around me. “Think your father will approve?”
“He’s going to cry,” I say honestly. “Happy tears, but still.”
The installers pack up their equipment with the same eerie silence they used throughout. Alexander handles the final payment, shaking hands with each man before they disappear into the truck and drive away into the pre-dawn darkness.
And then it’s just us, standing in my parents’ front yard in the early hours of the morning, staring at the ridiculous, beautiful Christmas display glowing on the roof.
“We should get some sleep,” Alexander says quietly.
“Your father will be up in a few hours.” I nod, but I don’t move.
Can’t quite bring myself to break this moment.
Finally, he takes my hand and leads me back inside. The house is warm and dark and quiet. We climb the stairs together, his hand never leaving mine. In my room, I should pull away. Should take my side of the bed and maintain whatever boundaries we have left.
Instead, I crawl into Alexander’s arms, tucking myself against his chest like I belong there. His arms wrap around me immediately, pulling me close, and I feel his lips press against my forehead. My heart does something funny in my chest—a flutter, a squeeze, a feeling I’m not ready to name.
“What about your run today?” I mumble against his chest. “Won’t Sophie be waiting?”
His chuckle vibrates through me. “She knows about the display, so we agreed to start tomorrow. She said she’d stay awake because she wanted to see it be set up, but I guess she was too tired.”
I laugh sleepily. “She’s going to be mad she missed it.”
He hums something before his lips find my forehead, and he orders, “Sleep, Olivia.”
I burrow deeper into him and close my eyes, breathing him in, feeling happier than I have in longer than I can remember.
* * *
The banging on the front door jolts me from sleep. My eyes snap open, disoriented, and I realize with a start that I’m draped across Alexander’s chest like a human blanket. There’s drool—actual drool—on his bare skin. Oh, god.
I wipe at my mouth frantically as another round of pounding shakes the house. Voices rise from downstairs—Dad’s, unmistakably angry, and another man’s I don’t immediately recognize.
“What’s happening?” Alexander’s voice is rough with sleep, his hand coming up to rest on my lower back.
I blink at the alarm clock on my nightstand—the ridiculous pink one shaped like a cat that I’ve had since I was twelve, complete with a moving tail that serves as the second hand.
“It’s seven in the morning,” Alexander mutters before I can focus on the time, his other arm tightening around me reflexively.
Downstairs, Dad’s voice rises to a shout. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Those lights have been on my roof for a week!” My brain, still foggy with sleep, tries to piece together what’s happening. Dad’s fighting with someone. About a display. On the roof.
The memories of last night come crashing back. Oh, no.
I sit up so fast my head spins, scrambling to get off the bed. But in my panic, instead of sliding off my side like a normal person, I try to clamber over Alexander’s side because it’s closer to the door.
My knee lands on the mattress beside his hip. My hands brace on his bare chest for balance. And suddenly I’m straddling him, my body pressed against his in a way that makes every nerve ending light up with awareness.
I freeze. Because I feel it—him—hard and unmistakable, pressed against exactly where I’m sitting.
Warmth floods my face, my neck, spreading down my entire body.
My breath catches in my throat, and I find myself unable to process anything except the sensation of his body beneath mine, the warmth of his bare skin under my palms, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the heat of him even through my thin pajama shorts.
Alexander’s hands clamp onto my hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of my sleep shorts with enough force to make me gasp. His voice comes out strained, almost pained. “Don’t move.”
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can feel it where my palms rest on his chest. His skin is hot under my touch, smooth muscle flexing beneath my fingers.
“You’re—” I start, but the word dies on my lips.
“I know,” he grits out, and when I dare to look at his face, I see something dark in his eyes that makes my stomach flip and my legs press together.
His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking there, and his gaze drops to where our bodies are pressed together before snapping back to my face.
The look in his eyes—hungry, possessive, barely controlled—sends a bolt of pure desire through me that I have no business feeling for my boss. Fake boyfriend. Whatever he is.
Downstairs, Dad’s voice cuts through again, angrier now. “You’re accusing me of theft? In my own house?”
“Alexander,” I whisper, his name coming out breathy and desperate.
His fingers flex on my hips once, twice, before he releases me. “Go.” His voice is rough gravel. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I practically throw myself off him, my legs unsteady as I grab my robe from the back of the door. My hands shake as I tie it, and I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I flee the room.
But even as I run down the hallway, even as I hear the chaos unfolding downstairs, all I can think about is the feel of him beneath me, the warmth of his bare skin, and the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
Focus, Olivia.
I take the stairs two at a time. The scene in the foyer stops me cold.
Dad stands in his fuzzy blue bathrobe—the one with reindeer on it that Mom got him five Christmases ago—facing off against Mr. Brookman, who’s wearing an equally ridiculous green plaid number.
They’re both gesturing wildly, their voices rising.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Dad shouts, his face red.
“Oh, don’t give me that!” Brookman jabs a finger at Dad’s chest. “My display is missing, and suddenly you have a fancy new one? I know it was you, Bob!”
“What fancy display?” Dad’s confusion seems genuine, and I realize with a jolt that he hasn’t looked outside yet. He doesn’t know about the surprise on our roof. “Is this another one of your drunken rants, Danny?”
“Stop pretending you don’t know about that monstrosity on your rooftop!”
I tug at Dad’s sleeve. “Dad, I can explain—”
“Not now, Olivia.” He brushes me off, turning back to Brookman. “You’ve gone crazy, Danny. If someone stole your display, how is that my problem?”
“The display! On your roof!” Brookman’s voice hits a pitch that probably wakes the entire neighborhood.
Dad stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “What are you talking about?”
“Your roof, Bob! Look at your damn roof!”
Dad pushes past Brookman, storming out onto the front lawn in his bathrobe and slippers. I follow, my bare feet hitting the cold wood of the porch, and watch as he tilts his head back to look up. His jaw drops.
Santa and his nine reindeer blaze in the early morning light, each LED bulb glittering like a diamond. The sleigh overflows with presents, and somehow, in the daylight, it looks just as majestic.
For a moment, Dad just stands there, frozen. Then his hand slowly rises to cover his mouth.
“Surprise, Dad,” I mumble weakly, coming to stand beside him.
He spins to face me, his eyes wide. “Did you—Did you do this?”
“Not me. It was Alexander.”
Mr. Brookman’s face turns purple as he stomps onto the yard beside us.
“You expect me to believe this was a coincidence? That my display goes missing and suddenly you have this fancy new one?” He gestures wildly at our roof.
“This has you written all over it, Bob! You just can’t handle that I was winning the Silverbell Christmas Cup, so you’re trying to sabotage me! ”
“This wasn’t me!” Dad protests, but there’s uncertainty creeping into his voice now as he looks between me and the display.