The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

42

"Yesterday I wanted cookies. Today I am eating cookies. Yay! Follow your dreams."

-From Amelie's diary

Amelie

"I am such a loser," I cry into the phone as I pace my apartment.

"Wait, hold on, back up," Isla calms me. "Start from the beginning."

I balance the phone, with Isla peering out at me from the screen, on the kitchen table, "Kirsten called me a car—okay a limo. It was a freakin’ limo service that she ordered to get me from Durham to London. Can you believe it? That’s how these rich folks live, and clearly, I am not one of them."

"Who’s Kirsten?" Isla asks.

"The alphahole’s sister."

"So, we are back to calling him alphahole, huh?"

"Weston fucking a-hole Kincaid," I growl into the phone. "I never want to hear his name again.

"Urm," Isla clears her throat

"Don’t say it—" I warn her.

"I was only going to say that you just mentioned this name."

"That’s what I was afraid of." I wrap the strands of my hair around my palm, "I mean, not that I am complaining about the limo, or anything."

"Of course, not."

"Not after I found the liquor bar in the back of the car."

"I assume you did it justice?" she snickers,

"Yeah," I hiccough. "Oops, sorry." I walk to the kitchen, fill a mug with water—because hell, I always drink water from coffee mugs. That’s my little rebellious streak, right there. I sip from the mug, and walk over to the window of my studio apartment. The view is nothing like that from the cabin, or from Weston’s mother's home. How funny I’d never been to his place. Where does he even live in London? It’s official, I am love with a man whose neuroses I know better than the basic stuff, you know, like his address, his favorite color. That’s me, I do everything upside down, like my life. Fuck me now. I hiccough again. "Sorry again," I mumble.

"The bar in the limo?" Isla reminds me. "I assume you drank of all the whiskey?"

"Nope," I say, all smug. "No whiskey for me. Never touching that stuff, from now on."

"O-k-a-y."

"I sucked down all the champagne because I am celebrating."

"You are?"

"Yeap." I walk back to the shelves in the corner of what passes for my kitchen space, and open the door. Scrounge around. There. I retrieve the boxed wine I’d been gifted with, God knows when. Now is the time to open it. I unscrew it, peel back the plastic seal thingy, then look around for a glass, and fuck it! I tilt it to my mouth, draw from it. The cold liquid hits my gullet and I almost gag. Ugh! Is that vinegar or what? "Argh," I gasp.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing." I place the boxed vinegar-that-had-once-been-wine back on the shelf and eye it. Do I dare drink more of it, or not? Shit, I can’t even decide on the small things in life anymore. My mind is well and truly broken, thanks to that, that… "Idiot." I swear down the phone. "Fucking wanker that he is. A tool. A reprobate. A prick of the first order."

"That, he is," Isla agrees. "So what are you doing back in your apartment?"

"Haven’t you heard anything I just told you?" I cry.

"I have, doll, and I think you love that about him."

"Oh." I pull out a chair and sit down with a thump. "That’s true, right?"

"So, what made you walk out on him?"

"He was…just insufferable," I snap.

"And?"

"And cock-headed."

"Which is an asset, I assume?"

I hear the smirk in her voice, "Isla, honestly…"

"Admit it, the sex was great."

"Off-the-walls hot," I admit.

"And despite his money, he decided to focus on becoming a doctor."

"True," I admit, reluctantly.

"And he’s good with dogs."

"And kids."

"And kids," she agrees. "So?"

"So?"

"What didn’t you like about him?"

"Well, I fell in love with him, for one."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"I mean, that was bound to happen. You set yourself up for that, girlfriend, when you agreed to go along with his fake relationship thingy."

"Hello, it was supposed to only be for a few days, and it was contingent on my never sleeping with him."

"That was clever of him, huh?"

"Was it?" I scrunch up my forehead. "You think so?"

"Of course, babe. He used reverse psychology on you. I mean, tell you not to sleep with him and—"

"—and of course, I’d only want to sleep with him." I reach for the wine, swig from it. Grimace. Argh! It’s worse than I thought. I set it back with a thump, then jump up and begin to pace.

"And then, he took me home to see his family."

"At Christmas."

"At Christmas." I rake my fingers through my hair. "And he was really cute with his nieces. Hell, the man reads Harry Potter."

She shrieks, "Whaat?"

I wince. "Pipe down," I plead. "You almost burst my eardrum there."

"He reads Harry Potter? How many men do you know who read Harry Potter?"

"He was reading it because he wanted to be able to discuss it with his niece.”

"No," she breathes.

"Yes." I hang my head.

"So, he fucks like a god, saves lives like he is God, and reads the kind of books that—"

"—make me want to worship his brain. Yeah," I scowl. When she puts it like that… "I mean, he’s not perfect, you know."

"No?"

"He has a beard. I mean, it’s unkempt, which is fine if you go in for that sexy just-rolled-out-bed-on-Christmas-morning look."

"Sexy Santa," she snickers.

What I wouldn’t give to see him in nothing but a Santa hat.

"Don’t call him sexy," I pout.

"But he is," she protests.

"I mean, I can call him sexy, but not you."

She stares at me.

"What?" I frown.

"Nothing." She clears her throat, "What else do you not like about him?"

"He’s overbearing, dominant, uh, commands me do stuff, overrides me a lot, hates chocolate—"

"Are you sure?"

"Well, he did eat the chocolate banana muffin batter I made," I offer.

She gives me a perplexed look. “Muffin batter?”

“It’s a long story...”

"Okaaay... So, he hates chocolate, but he ate what you made anyway."

"Hmm." And he did say that he was coming around to its taste especially when he licked it off my lips. My cheeks heat. Then he wouldn’t let me out of his sight because he wanted to keep me safe. Okay, so I won’t tell her that. I bite the inside of my cheek. What else? What else?

"He made his brother apologize to me for being rude."

"Now that’s not very gentlemanly is it?" she chuckles.

"Shut up." I wipe my hand across my face. What else? "He did tell me that he wants a future, but not with me."

"You sure? Maybe he was angry or something."

"He was." I hunch my shoulders, "But I can’t let that pass, can I? I mean, people speak the truth in the heat of the moment."

"Maybe he wanted to hurt you?"

"And I emptied my box of cookies on his head."

"You did?" She giggles.

"And told him to fuck off."

"Good."

"I should have told him to fuck off more."

"You still can."

"And he doesn’t love me."

Isla stares at me, "Did you tell him that you love him?"

"No, of course not."

"Then how can you expect him to reciprocate?"

"Whose side are you on?" I scowl.

"Sweetie, you know I’ll always back you up. And I am not saying there is no fault on his side, or that it wasn’t wrong of him to have turned your relationship into a barter game of sorts…but—"

"But?"

"It seems there’s something between the two of you that’s powerful, and if I were in your shoes…"

I tilt my head, "You would…?"

She draws in a breath, "I wouldn’t let go of a chance at true happiness that easily. I mean, I’d pursue that guy and sit on him, until he confessed his feelings."

"You would too," I giggle.

"Not that I’ve been in your shoes."

"Not yet," I smirk.

"Not that I don’t want a man or anything…but…"

"But?"

"I’m not in a hurry. The single life’s pretty fun too, you know? And as long as I have my book boyfriends..."

"That’s what I used to think." I purse my lips, "Then that real life a-hole comes along, and damn, if he doesn’t spoil all the book Romeos for me."

"Aww sweetie," she murmurs, "what are you doing there all alone? Why don’t you come over to my place?"

I pause.

"I mean, I am only an hour away, if you drive."

"I left my car back at the cabin." Hell, I knew I should have asked the driver to drop me off at the cabin and driven myself here… But yeah, the stupid champagne had gone to my head by then, and I had alternated between giggling and crying. Why do I always make the wrong decisions, huh?

"You could call for a taxi?"

The thought of dragging myself out of here and getting dressed and facing her family— Not that I don’t like Isla’s parents. They’re awesome, actually. But to have to put on a face to the world, right now? Nah, no way. I’d rather spend the time baking, and if I happen to eat a lot of what I make? Well, too bad. Life is short, after all. And stressed spelled backwards is desserts, and Mary had a little lamb and the mouse ran up the clock. Shit, time out. Stop with the nursery rhymes. Stop thinking about anything to do with that asshole, okay?

"It’s fine." I swallow, "I think I’m better off on my own."

"You sure?" She frowns.

"Yeah," I nod. "I’ll have a bath and then bake, and I’ll feel better then, for sure."

"I don’t think you should be on your own now."

"I’ll be good." I shake my hair back from my face. "Once I start the baking, I’ll lose track of everything."

"But—"

"I’ll be fine." I reach for the phone, "I promise."

"You sure?"

I hunch my shoulders, pull my lips up in a smile. "See?" I point at my face, "I’m good."

"Hmm." Isla peers up at me. Someone calls her name and she looks off camera, "I’m coming Mom." She turns back to me, "Gotta go, doll."

"Right."

"Bye."

I blow her a kiss.

She cuts the call. I place the phone down, then glance around the place. Only one way to deal with this. Fuck the a-hole. Fuck the a-hole. I did fuck him, remember? No, like really fuck him. Gah. I spring up so fast my chair screeches back on its legs. Oopsie. I bring up my play list on the phone, put it on speaker. Then turn on the oven. What should I bake, huh?

Two hours later, I’ve pulled the pies out of the oven, left them to cool on the wire mesh. Also, I’ve chugged down the horrible, almost-vinegary boxed wine, and another bottle of wine. Gah. So not a good idea. My stomach rolls and I grab my middle. Argh, maybe a hot bath will help, huh? I march into the bathroom, run the water, toss in a few bath bombs—chocolate, of course. I light the candles, then head back to the kitchen for the wine… Of course, I’m out. Gah! The corner shop should be open and have wine, huh? Should I? Shouldn’t I? Fuck that. It’s Christmas, after all. I run back to the bathroom, turn off the water, then head over to the shop across the street, pick up one…okay, three bottles of wine, pay the man behind the counter.

"Merry Christmas," he choruses, eyes twinkling.

"And to you." I smile at him, then head back. When I reach home, the door to my apartment is ajar. WTF? My heart begins to race. Is it the same thief who broke into the bakery? Is he back? Gah. I turn to leave. A noise reaches me from the direction of the kitchen. He’s in the kitchen. In the kitchen? My pies? No frigging way, am I letting him eat them. I made them for myself.

For me. Moi. I deserve that bloody treat after the last few days I’ve had. I glance around for a weapon. What can I use? I curl my fingers around the bottle of wine, push open the door to my apartment, then creep past the living room. I reach the doorway to the kitchen, pause. His back is to me. His broad shoulders are clad in a black, long-sleeved Henley that clings to the planes of his back which flex, move, ripple with each of his movements. His narrow waist, that tight butt, those powerful thighs outlined in his jeans. He blocks out the sight of the dining table... Where I'd left the pies to cool. His legs are spread apart and the muscles of his triceps flex as he jerks his arm back-forth-back... What the hell? He can't be doing what I think he is. Is he? I take a step forward. He freezes. Shoots me a glance over his shoulder.

"You?" I swallow, "What are you doing?"