The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

27

"Life is uncertain; eat dessert first."

-From Amelie's diary

Amelie

I stare through the window from the backseat of the luxurious SUV. We’d left early this morning, heading toward the outskirts of Durham, where Weston’s family home is.

Max whines from the back. I turn around and pat his head. Weston has his faults, but he hasn’t stinted when it comes to Max. The car has a specially fitted pet booster seat in the rear, complete with a tether attached to his harness to keep him safe. Max licks my hand, then turns to glance out of the window. I swear, the puppy is more human than many of the two-legged variety of animals I’ve met… Present company included, of course. I shoot a sideways glance at the man in the seat next to me. His hair brushes against his collar, his beard seemingly fuller than what it was a few hours ago… Is he sprouting hair by the minute? Does it mean when he drags those whiskers across my pussy it will feel more intense than before? Ha, not possible. Whoever had said that once you go beard, you don’t go back, was bloody right.

He raises his hand and drags his fingers through that hair on his chin. I gulp, then squeeze my thighs together. Come on, you can’t be turned on by that simple act. I wriggle around in my seat. Get a life, woman. He misled you, remember? Made you think there was a storm outside that kept you marooned in the cabin, without electricity, when there was nothing of the kind taking place.

"What else did you lie to me about?" I mumble.

After that break-up in the bathroom… Could it be qualified as a break-up when we were never really together? Sure, in the carnal sense, I mean, but there was never any relationship between us, was there…?

Well, after the end of that relationship that never was and which shall never again be referred to by me, I’d stood there dumbstruck and naked and in the bath tub. The water had spilt over the sides and I had scrambled to shut off the tap. Of course, the alphahole had had the last say there, as well. Damn, but I hate the man. Hate his superiority complex, hate how, without even trying, he’d managed to turn my life upside down.

"What do you mean?" his voice rumbles over me. His presence thrums in that enclosed space. His larger-than-life persona pushes down on my shoulders, keeps me pinned to my side of the back seat.

"The storm," I mutter, "you lied to me."

"Not my fault you didn’t check the weather."

"My phone didn’t have a signal…" I bite the inside of my cheek. I could have tried harder. I could have checked online when I’d called Isla from the bathtub. Bloody bath tub; I hate bath tubs.

I’d clambered over the side of the tub, almost slipped and fallen, dried myself off, wrapped a towel around myself.

For the rest of the day we'd ignored each other. I'd made grilled sandwiches for lunch and we'd eaten them separately. I'd spent the rest of the day avoiding him... Cleaning the house... Or at least, trying to. Dinner had been soup and a pasta dish, the ingredients available, thanks to our trip to the supermarket. We'd eaten together at the dining table in the kitchen. He'd offered to help load up the dishwasher. I'd refused. And he'd headed outdoors with Max. I was reading in the living room, when he'd come in. He'd ignored me, headed off to the bedroom.

By the time I'd gone to bed, jerkface was under the covers…on his side of the bed, the white sheets pulled up to his waist, his sculpted chest all angles and planes, his biceps bulging from where he’d folded his arm behind his neck.

I’d almost crawled into bed right then, and cuddled up next to him… Not. Thankfully, I’d managed to retrieve my clothes from my bag, marched back into the bathroom to change. Dressed in pajamas and socks, I’d slipped between the sheets, after building a virtual fort between us with pillows and cushions. I’d fallen asleep almost at once… At least the sex had worn me out… Fringe benefits. I snort aloud.

"Care to share your thoughts?" he drawls. That voice… Dark and edgy and with an hint of mystery that had entranced me from the beginning, ripples down my spine. My nipples harden and my toes curl. I clutch my handbag to my chest. Hopefully, it will hide exactly how turned on I am. Gah! This is so not fair.

I rub at my temples, shake my head. "It’s nothing," I respond.

"It’s something." I sense him turn to me and tip my head so my heavy hair falls over my face. Anything to hide from him.

"Nothing of consequence," I insist.

"Whatever is in that bag, seems to be of consequence though."

I blink, shift the bag into a more comfortable position. "It’s—"

"Don’t say nothing," he growls.

"Cookies."

"Huh?" His forehead furrows.

"I baked cookies," I explain.

"Cookies?" He seems taken aback, "You made cookies?"

"We are going to see your family. I am a baker…" I raise my shoulders.

"That’s why you were up early this morning?"

I nod. I’d remembered to charge my phone, and set an alarm, and woken up a few minutes before it had gone off. Guess those years of getting up before dawn and heading off to get my baking done for the day had come in handy. I’d switched off the alarm, crawled out of bed and out from under the weight of his arm.

He’d shoved aside the pillows at some point in the night and had pulled my body against his, and spooned me… No wonder I had slept well. I had turned and seen his features relaxed in sleep. His beard had seemed thicker, his pecs closer to a work of art, and that beautiful throat…that gorgeous throat… I’d moved in to inhale his scent at the base of his neck, where it would be the most potent. He’d stirred. I’d frozen. His muscles had relaxed and I’d scrambled off the bed. Lucky escape…

Was it, though? If he’d woken up then, would he have…taken me over his lap and spanked me? My sex clenches. I squeeze my thighs shut. Dip into my bag and pull out the tin—I’d emptied out the contents and repurposed it. I pop the lid and the scent of vanilla and chocolate, and the touch of cinnamon I’d sprinkled on at the end, fills the space.

He reaches for one; I slap the lid on his fingers.

"Ow." He pulls back, shakes out his hand, "Do you want to break a finger in my good hand?"

"Did I succeed?" I bare my teeth.

"It’ll take more than a batch of your cookies to bring me down," he retorts.

"Don’t bet on it," I scoff.

"Hmm," he glares at the tin, then at my face, "my mother doesn't expect gifts."

"It’s Christmas."

"My presence is gift enough."

My jaw drops, "Do you seriously believe that?"

"It’s what she insists, every time."

"Of course, she’d say that. She's your mom, after all. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get them anything. Besides..." I peer up at him.

"Besides...?" he prompts.

"Besides, after spending time with you, I can vouch that your presence is less a gift and more of an unwelcome surprise." I snicker.

"Har har." He scowls. "Feeling cheeky this morning, are we?"

"Feeling grumpy, as always, I see?" I shake my head, "You could collapse soufflé, just by your proximity."

He stares at me. "What-fucking-ever."

"That so eloquent. Impressive go-to-word for Mr A-holasaurus." I snort.

"Woman, your metaphors are—"

"Stupid?"

"Creative." He nods, "I'll give you this round."

"Ooh." I hold up my fist.

He glares at me.

"Fist bump. Come on, come on," I coax him.

"Nope." He holds up his right hand, with the upright middle finger, "Injured, remember?"

"Aww." I deflate like the bloody soufflé I'd mentioned, and crap, now I'm hungry.

"Coming back to the topic at hand," he continues. "You could have bought my mother something on the way. We could have stopped at one of the stores in town."

"I believe in the personal touch," I retort. "Unlike you."

"Oh, trust me, when it comes to you, my touch is as personal as it gets." He smirks.

I draw in a breath. Patience, patience. Don’t react. He’s being this…overt to get a rise out of you. Don’t stoop to his level… Can I be at eye-level with his crotch-candy though?… Eeeeagh, I did not think that.

I lower my chin, hiding behind my thick fall of hair. "Has your family always lived in Durham?"

He sighs loudly, then leans back.

Whew!Dodged that one. After how he’d pulled that cheap stunt of lying about the storm, I should seriously have been angrier… But for some reason…I’m not. Maybe I’m flattered that he lied to ensure I’d comply with his plan. But…what else did he lie about? I chew on my lower lip.

"My mother moved there after my siblings and I left home. I grew up in London," he explains. "After the incident…" he pauses.

I hold my breath. Is he going to tell me about himself? Is he going to share a little more of what goes on behind those colorless eyes of his? Weston doesn’t come across as closed off… But his demeanor…that hard outlook of his hides so many secrets. I turn to him, "The kidnapping you mean?"

He nods, then rotates his neck from side to side, "I was one of the lucky ones. My parents rallied around me. Even my asshole of an older brother became protective for a period of time. And my younger sister? Well... She sensed something was amiss. She’d crawl into bed every night and comfort me while I sobbed myself to sleep."

"You…cried every night?"

"I was twelve." His lips twist. "The incident forced me grow up fast… But at night, when I couldn’t hide from myself anymore, the demons would come out to play. I don’t think I have slept properly since … Until…" He trails off, then turns to me, a strange look on his face.

My throat dries. "Until?" I prompt.

"Until that first night in the cabin, when I spooned you in bed."

My cheeks flush. I turn, crack open the window, and the outside air rushes in. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"No reason," his voice is emotionless.

I turn to find he’s staring ahead.

"Not long now," he says in that same colorless tone.

Right, guess that’s me being put in my place, huh?

"Did they hurt you?"

"Who?"

I frown, "The…men who kidnapped you with the rest of the Seven."

"Are you really interested in finding out about it?"

I open my mouth, then shut it. "Guess not." I turn away once more, ball my fingers into fists, "I’m trying to be polite, that’s all."

"Don’t be."

I swallow, "We’re going to see your family. We should, at least, put on a veneer of politeness."

"My mother would prefer it if we were to speak our minds; she can spot something fake from a mile off."

I turn on him, "And you think we can get away with…" I point between us, "this?"

His lips stretch in a smile that is not one at all, "Why do you think I asked you and not someone else?"

"I don’t understand."

He turns, trains the full force of those grey-silver eyes on me, "There’s enough chemistry between us to pull this off."

I open my mouth.

He raises his hand, "Don’t deny it. We may not be able to stand each other, but you know what they say?"

"What?"

"There’s a thin line between hate and a connection."

What a condescending jerk.

"From where I am, it’s a 100% loathing," I force out the words.

"Good."

"Eh?"

"It’ll seem realistic, after all. Nothing like make-up sex to cement a relationship, huh?"