Big Boss by Cassie Mint

Four

Jacob

Ithrow myself into my work the minute we get home. Kate understands this—if she wants the house and the clothes and the debt-free college degree, I need to keep my business healthy. She smiles and kisses me on the cheek before I disappear, promising to bring up coffee to my study, but guilt still coils in my gut.

Not for leaving to work. Not for that.

For Daphne.

We shared… something, at the ice rink. A moment. A silent understanding.

When she huddled there on the bench in front of me, her bob curling out from under her hat and her cheeks pink from the cold, it was like I was rooted to the earth. Fused to the cement ground. An earthquake could have rolled through that rink, shattering the ice and felling the trees, and I wouldn’t have been able to move away from her.

Not when she looked at me like that: shy and hopeful, her pink lips parting.

Her feet were small in my hands. Delicate and fine-boned. And when I pulled her sock back into place, she let out the smallest gasp.

My blood has been on fire ever since.

But it’s wrong. I’m wrong. I must have misread the moment, must have confused her lingering fear from ice skating for desire. Because Daphne is young and sweet and beautiful, with a musical laugh and hair that glints gold in sunlight.

And me?

I’m big and old and gruff and coarse—a fairy tale giant stuffed into a button down shirt.

She can’t possibly want me.

And even if she did—

I cut off my circling thoughts with a growl, pacing around my study and tugging at my collar. It’s too tight suddenly, restricting my air, and this room is too fucking hot as well. I stride to the window, throwing it open and letting snowflakes whirl into the room. They melt in the heat of the fire, pattering onto the rug like rain.

Daphne.

I’m kidding myself. Telling myself toxic lies.

But that doesn’t stop me from holing up in my study, barely resisting the urge to barricade the door with a bookcase. I work like a demon all afternoon and evening and well into the night, and with every meal I miss, Kate knocks on my door and calls out but doesn’t come in.

It’s like she can sense it. The wounded animal in me.

She leaves me be.

They both do.

When night falls and the house grows quiet, I finally slow down my work. I lean back in my desk chair, rubbing my sore neck with a groan, and blink at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Nearly 2am.

My empty stomach cramps with hunger, but I can’t eat. I’m still too on edge, my body so tense my fingers shake. Water, though. I could go for water, or something stronger.

Yeah. I need a drink.

I try to walk softly down the hallway, but it’s a lost cause. The floorboards creak in a loud chorus, announcing to anyone who’s awake that I’m on the move, because I’ve had no practice—I’ve never had to creep around in my own damn house before, throat thick with shame.

Five more days. Then she’s gone.

I can do this.

Kate’s bedroom door is closed, no light glowing around the edges. She’s asleep, then. Good. It’s late, and she’s crabby when she doesn’t sleep well.

Daphne’s door is cracked open.

Light spills through the gap in the door frame, and god help me, I linger as I pass. Peering inside, hoping for a glimpse of her in there, for a clue to why she’s still awake. But there’s no movement inside, and I walk on after another breath.

It’s for the best. I should never have looked anyway.

The house is thick with shadows, shafts of moonlight spilling through gaps in the curtains. String lights wink on the Christmas tree in the living room, and I’ve almost walked past to the kitchen when I see it: a shadow. Moving near the floor.

“Daphne?”

The shadow stills. There’s a crinkle of gift wrap. Then, with forced cheeriness, she whispers: “Oh, hi Mr Callahan! I’m just putting out your and Kate’s presents.”

A box rattles in her grip, then she shoves it under the tree. The branches tremble, the glass strings lights tinkling together.

Moving closer, I can make out her mussed hair and oversized sweater in the moonlight. Not pajamas, then. Or maybe she’ll change once she’s in her room?

“You didn’t need to buy me anything.”

There’s a pause, and then she admits: “Um, I didn’t. They’re mostly homemade.” Embarrassment tinges her voice, and I hate that I put it there. She rushes on: “It’s just, I would have, you know, but I’m putting myself through college and I—”

“Daphne,” I cut her off. She’s still staring at the base of the tree, wrapped in shadows, not looking at me. “Homemade is great. Better than store-bought, even. Thank you.”

The gift wrap crinkles in her grip. She slides another present under the branches, more carefully this time.

Why is she here? Staying with us for the holidays, I mean. I want to ask her. Not because she’s not welcome, but because I want to know where she’d be otherwise. Is she close to her parents? Does she have siblings? What does she normally do at this time of year?

I swallow the questions down, my curiosity sticking in my throat.

“Why are you awake?” I settle on instead. It’s safer. A reasonable question at nearly 2am, and not one that pries into her personal life.

“Oh.” She huffs out a laugh. “I never sleep well.”

And somehow that’s worse—so much more intimate than the things I was going to ask. Because now I want to know what keeps her awake, and what might help, and if there’s anything I could do—

The floral scent of her pillow crushed against my face slams into my brain.

I’ve done enough.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I mutter uselessly. Like I can talk, anyway. But Daphne finally turns to me, and my eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that her smile punches me square in the chest.

“I won’t.” She reaches up a hand, and I take it without thinking, tugging her up to her feet. Daphne sways slightly, her head tilting back, and her lips pinch together when she spies something on the ceiling.

“What?” I glance up. My heart dips.

Mistletoe.

“Kate always puts that up,” I tell her quickly. “A tradition. From when she was little.” I used to chase her under it, my daughter squealing happily, then toss her in the air before I kissed the top of her head.

Daphne sucks in a shaky breath. She’s not saying anything. But she’s not moving away, either. Too late, I realize her hand is still gripped in mine, but I don’t let go. I can’t. Not when she’s staring at me now, fierce determination settling over her beautiful face.

“Daphne,” I warn, but she’s tugging her hand free. Turning away and stepping up onto a nearby armchair. Her feet sink into the cushion, and she wobbles, reaching out to brace herself on my shoulders. I step closer. “What are you doing?”

“Mistletoe,” she mumbles, like that explains everything, and then she’s tipping forward. Brushing her soft lips against mine.

* * *

The groan starts at the soles of my boots. Travels up my legs—like tree trunks next to her slender frame—then my gut, my chest, my throat, before finally bursting out in a growl. Daphne gasps, her fingers clutching at my shirt, and I band my arms around her. Trapping her, crushing her to me, so tight that there isn’t a sliver of air between us and her feet lift off the armchair.

“Daphne.” I grit out her name like it pains me, slanting our mouths together and kissing her hard. Hungrily. Like she’s the meal I’ve been missing all day.

She probably meant to kiss me sweetly. Chastely. A polite peck for her best friend’s father.

I lick into her mouth like the monster I am.

“Mmph.” Her arms shift, winding around my neck. Her legs hitch up too, ankles crossing at my back, until she’s plastered to my front and the seam of her leggings rests against my belly. Her heat sears me through both our clothes, and it’s like I can feel her pulse thrumming there—

“Mr Callahan,” she mumbles, pulling her mouth away and rubbing her cheek against mine. My beard rasps against her soft skin.

“Jacob,” I heave. “Call me Jacob.”

This is crazy. So messed up, so wrong, and yet my chest feels bright. Blazing with triumph.

This gorgeous young woman is trembling in my arms, her lips bruised from my kiss, and her hips are rocking against me like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Rubbing herself on me, desperately seeking friction, and fuck, I want nothing more than to tug those leggings down and slide my fingers into her heat. To make her squirm with my hands, my tongue, my cock.

To make her mine.

A clock dings somewhere deep in the house. 2am. It’s the middle of the night, and I know what that means. Nothing feels real late at night. Daphne’s under the witching hour spell.

My heart shudders as I lower her slowly to the rug.

“Better get some sleep,” I rasp.

She blinks up at me, dazed, and a slight frown creases her forehead. Is she disappointed? Hurt? Repulsed by what we just did? I open my mouth to ask, but I don’t get a chance.

Because she nods, lips pressing in a line, and darts around me, her shadow floating away up the stairs.