Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I felt. Which is a problem. Feelings get men killed.
“I’ll warm it up and fetch us some plates,” I say.
She smiles shakily, like she’s afraid of me. Like I showed too much of the Beast out there, and she doesn’t know if I’m going to flash my teeth again.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
Standing in my dining room, my safe house. Tight blue jeans with stylish tears in them. They make me want to hook my fingers into the holes and rip them even more, revealing inch after inch of creamy, thick thigh.
Touch. Bite. Taste.
My cock jerks as I walk back through the house. My heart pounds heavily.
After warming the food up, I carry two plates, but Celine isn’t in the dining room. I set the plates down. Paranoia grips me. Where is she? Is she snooping? Is she here with an ulterior motive?
Hell, that’s not paranoia. That’s caution.
I find her standing at the door to the living room, her arms wrapped across her middle. A few strands have escaped from the bun that held her hair. Wild and beautiful, no denying it.
She turns, her eyes glistening. “You took the decorations down.”
Fuck.
Her expression hits me hard, like a punch to the gut.
“I did,” I murmur.
“But… why?” she says, her voice cracking. “That took effort, you know. Those decorations didn’t just magically appear.”
“I don’t know.” I sound like an evasive teenager caught in a lie.
“I told you,” I go on. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Then why let me do it in the first place?”
“Well, why did you want to do it so badly?” The words come out too sharp, harsher than I intended.
“You might think I’m naïve, silly, or stupid,” she snaps.
“I don’t think you’re stup—”
“But I honestly believe that everyone deserves to enjoy Christmas. Go ahead. Look at me like I’m an idiot. I mean it. Sincerely, honestly. I actually really mean it, Damian.”
Her conviction punctures straight through my defenses.
I step forward. Touch her hand. Not by accident this time. Not like when I took the book from her. I touch my best friend’s sister’s hand and hold it. Stroke my thumb along her knuckles.
“Taking them down was a mistake,” I say.
She gasps, like she never expected me to admit that.
“I didn’t know how much it meant to you. Or if you were even going to come back.”
“Did you…” She hesitates, cheeks glowing red, then pushes on. “Want me to? Come back, I mean.”
If I answered honestly, I’d just tell her yes. I’d tell her she’s been on my mind far more often than she has any right to be, that it’s been strangely difficult to stop thinking about her.
Instead, I go for truth disguised as sarcasm. “It’s all I’ve dreamed of.”
She rolls her eyes. “If there was a competition for the biggest douche, I’m certain you’d win.”
“I’m starting to learn you see the silver lining in everything.”
“It’s my superpower.” She beams, then her expression becomes softer. “It’s not my place to tell you to keep the decorations up, or to keep coming by. I get that. After today, I’ll quit it. I know you probably find it super annoying.”
“Why do you keep coming by?” I ask. “And you’re wrong. I don’t find it annoying.”
She smiles with a glint of hope in her eyes. Like she thinks this can go further. “I don’t think anyone should live as a Grinch.”
“So you see it as your duty to make sure I celebrate Christmas for the first time in over two decades?”
“Whoa,” she mutters. “Two decades.”
I take a step back, realizing I’ve still got my hand on hers. She looks down at her hand as if missing the warmth, as if wondering how we went so long touching each other without acknowledging it.
“The food’s getting cold,” I tell her.
“Two decades,” she repeats as we walk to the dining room. “How old are you?”
We sit at the table with the leftovers, sending mouthwatering scents into the air.
“Thirty-seven,” I tell her.
She wrings her hands. Doesn’t touch her knife and fork. Something about the way she does it makes me think she’s considering my age. The gap. Another reason that this, whatever it is, wouldn’t be possible.
We can stack that next to she’s my best friend’s fucking sister.
“Old, eh?” I say, with the shadow of a joke in my tone.
“Old,” she repeats, shaking her head. “Ha ha.”
“You’re what, twenty-one?”
“Twenty-three,” she says.
“I remember that… vaguely.”
“Look–Grinch has jokes now.”
When I smile, she gets this look in her eyes. Like she lives to make men like me smile.
I bite down so hard on a piece of turkey that I hit my fork.
No, not men like me. Just me.
Fucking hell.
What am I thinking?
That’s my catchphrase when it comes to Celine. On a never-ending loop whenever I’m near her. What am I thinking, what am I thinking…
“Do you want me to take the decorations home?” she asks about halfway through the meal.