The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

47

Weston

Nice one. Get right to the heart of it, twist her guts and deliver her a sucker punch. You're a piece of work, you know that? Fuck! I stalk out of the apartment block. My bare feet hit the sidewalk. Huh? I'd forgotten to put on my shoes, apparently. I drop my shoes on the concrete, reach for the socks. And, of course, I've forgotten them. I shove my feet into my shoes—take a step forward, the backs of the shoes bite into my heels. Great, I’m sure to get blisters. Good. I deserve that...and more, much more for what I just did. What the fuck happened there? She asked me a simple question and I freaked. Not that I hadn't discussed the goddamn incident with the Seven in the years since—and with the shrink my mother had insisted I see. I'd hated it then...but they'd taken no shit from me. Good for them. I thought I'd dealt with the aftermath of what had happened...but apparently, not.

First, I'd frozen when my mother had collapsed...

Then the realization that I love her—fuck! I stumble, then right myself. I love her.

I've fallen for her.

When had she snuck up under my skin, coiled her scent around my heart, wormed her way into my every waking thought? Somewhere between her walking in on me naked at the cabin and apple-pie gate, I'd opened myself up to her in a way I had never done before. Her sass, her ability to hold her own against me, the way she fights to hold onto every inch of her dignity, that need inside of her to be dominated in bed, even as she blazes forward, trying to build her business.

She is a smart cookie, my woman. Takes no shit from anyone, and that includes me. It's one of the things I love—the fact that I can be myself with her, secure in the knowledge that she'll give back as good as she gets. Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair... I left her and haven't stopped thinking about her. How can I already miss her? Her laughter, the way she wrinkles up her nose when she’s thinking, how she talks in her sleep... How her features scrunch up before she climaxes, how she draws herself up to her full height, tips up her chin and assumes that haughty ice-princess persona when she is pissed off with me.

How her features had crumpled when I'd told there was nothing keeping us together. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Why the hell had I said that? Bloody ego of mine. No way, could I stand to share my weakness with her, huh? Would it have been so fucking terrible to tell her what had happened during the time I had been held hostage as a boy? Why the fuck is it so difficult to talk about it still, huh? All the bloody therapy in the world had clearly not helped. Maybe there is a part inside of me that’s broken and nothing can fix it—except her. She could have, had I given her a chance. But I'd opted to lash out at her—at the one person who is more important to me than life itself. Fuck. I rake my fingers through my hair, move forward. My foot connects with something on the ground. There's a dull thud. I look down to find coins spilled on the ground, and next to it a steel can is overturned.

"Sorry." I bend, scoop up the money and drop it back into the container.

"Got a cigarette?" a voice asks.

I glance up at the homeless man seated behind the receptacle. He has a Santa hat perched on his head. Had she actually nicknamed me Alpha Claus? I smirk. Talk about being kinky. But hell, if my North Pole hadn't been a snug fit in her stocking. I shake my head. The hell am I thinking?

"Oy," he waves his hand in front of my face, "got a smoke?"

I blink, shake my head, "Huh? Nope, sorry."

"Spare some change instead?" He peruses my features, "You okay there, man?"

"Sure," I mutter, shove my fingers in my pants pocket, come up empty. Search the other pocket and pull out my phone. Huh. "Guess I forgot my wallet." I glance back at her apartment block—okay, technically my block. But fuck, if I am going back there, not after that scene. Best to give her time to cool off, and then what? Beg her forgiveness? Fuck that. If she can’t accept me the way I am...then too fucking bad. Her loss. And yours. A fine curvy, gorgeous, love-of-my-life-sized loss. "Fuck," I swear aloud.

"You need a drink," Homeless man drawls.

'Yeah."

"Or maybe two," he offers.

I roll my shoulders, "Sounds about right." Why not? Liquor seems to be the way forward. Days and weeks and months of pouring myself into liquid amnesia. At least, I am old enough to cope that way... Hadn't had that luxury in my teenage years when my brain had turned to mush after the incident. It wasn't until I had found my calling as a surgeon, that I'd found a goal in life, a way to ground myself and keep moving forward. Until her—she is what makes it all worthwhile. Someone I can take care of, protect, share my fears, my deepest desires... Someone with whom I can build a future. "Bloody fuck," I growl. Why the hell can't I stop thinking about her? This is not good at all. "Not good."

"Women, huh?" Homeless man folds his legs under himself to sit cross-legged. I stare at his bare feet. There's something wrong with this picture. I frown. "Your shoes," I say, "what happened to them?"

"Got stolen." He raises his shoulders, "Shit happens." He scratches his jaw—which is cleanshaven? That's what it is. I glance down at his feet again. His toenails are clean and cut short, so I hadn't been mistaken. This guy is finicky about his grooming.

"Take mine." I reach for my shoe, tug it off and offer it to him.

He eyes it warily, then takes it from me and slips it on. "Imagine that; it fits." He chuckles.

I slip off the other one; he shoves his other foot into it.

The shoes do look good on him, actually. I tilt my head, stare up into his features. His eyes are clear...a glitter of intelligence in their depths.

"What happened to you?" he asks.

I frown, "What do you mean?"

He points at my middle finger in its splint.

"That?" I crack my neck, "Someone ran me off the road."

"The world's a dangerous place." He nods. "Gotta take care of what's yours."

I nod. "You're onto something there."

"Thanks for the shoes." He shakes his head and the bells at the end of his Santa hat jingle. "Merry Christmas."

"Sure. Whatfuckingever, man."

I rise to my feet. A man jostles my shoulder as he passes.

"The fuck?" I turn to watch him hurry into her apartment block. I frown. Clearly, this isn't my day. I turn to leave.

"You've got to see what's in front of your eyes," Homeless Guy calls after me.

I pause.

"When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,"his voice fills the space.

I turn on him.

He holds my gaze.

"Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this,"he recites.

"What the fuck was that about?" I growl.

"Byron." He blinks.

My heartbeat ratchets up, "Who the fuck are you talking about?"

"Lord Byron, the poet," he replies. "Who did you think it was?"

I shake my head. Of course, it was the poet. This fucker has no connection to the Byron that the Seven had identified as the head of the Mafia... The ones responsible for kidnapping us and changing our fucking lives. Does he?

"Don’t delay." He turns to stare up at the apartment block.

I follow his gaze to the window on the first floor, her apartment. A man's shoulders fill the space.

"The fuck?" I straighten, stare at the window. There's no one there. I didn't imagine that. I didn't.

Had she replaced me that quickly? I'd barely left and she'd found someone else to take my place? Someone else to bring her to orgasm, to hold her when she shatters, someone else to gaze into those baby blues of hers and declare his love for her as he holds her in his arms? "How dare she?" I stalk forward, retrace my steps to the apartment block.