Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
She stomps up the steps to my cabin and lets herself in. I damn near run into her when she comes to a dead stop in the doorway.
"You didn't decorate for Christmas."
"It's just me out here," I remind her.
"You don't even have a tree," she whispers.
Jesus. She's sad because I don't have a tree. And I can't stand seeing her sad, so I'll put up a damn tree just to make her happy. Even if it is a waste of time. Because there's nothing I won't do for her. I live and breathe for her. Everything I do is for her.
The business. The house I've been building for the last year. All of it is for her.
"Lyric, go to the bathroom."
She scowls over her shoulder at me and then scurries through the kitchen and down the hallway.
I throw the paperwork on the kitchen counter to find a pen, only to frown when an envelope slides out.
It's addressed to Santa in Lyric's neat handwriting. She even wrote it in a glittery pink color. I snatch it up from the counter, curious about what she wants badly enough to write a letter to Santa. She may believe in Christmas magic, but I doubt she's believed in Santa in years.
The envelope is sealed, with a stamp on the front. I don't think she meant to give this to me.
But she gave it to you anyway, the little devil on my shoulder whispers.
I hesitate for a full five-count before tearing into the envelope.
Dear Santa...
Chapter Three
Lyric
"You can't hide out in here forever," I mutter to myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to talk myself into leaving the relative safety of Sinclair's small guest bathroom. I'm not so sure I want to leave, though. He's grumpier than usual today. And I can still see the outline of his erection as if the memory of it is burned into my brain. My panties are soaked.
He said he didn't have a girlfriend, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have someone. He's a man. A freaking gorgeous, successful man. Women probably throw themselves at him. Isn't that what I've been doing for the last year? Practically throwing myself at him?
Clearly, he isn't interested. I need to take the hint already. There will be no Christmas miracle for me this year. Sinclair Evans will never feel the same way I do.
Writing that letter to Santa was a stupid idea. At least I didn't send it. No postal worker will ever open it and laugh at the ridiculousness of a twenty-year-old writing to Santa for help with a man. My humiliating moment of weakness will remain my little secret.
I splash cool water on my cheeks, take a deep breath, and then duck out of the bathroom with a bright smile plastered on my face. I just need to make it home, and then I can cry.
"I've been thinking," I say, making my way down the hall to the kitchen. "You should really put up a Christmas tree even if you.…"
I come to a dead stop in the kitchen doorway, staring in shock.
Sinclair has my letter. He's reading it.
No. Oh, no.
"What is this?" he growls, holding it up. His piercing blue eyes settle on me, scorching me alive.
"Where did you get that?" I ask, my voice strangled. It's supposed to be in the... Crap. It's supposed to be in the car, but I was so upset when I grabbed the paperwork that I just scooped up everything from the passenger seat.
I forgot the letter was with the stack!
"You gave it to me," Sinclair growls.
"It wasn't meant for you!" I cry. I just want to sink through the floor and disappear.
"Really?" One dark brow arches. "Please bring this curvy girl a daddy for Christmas," he reads, his voice succinct. "Preferably my older brother's best friend, Sinclair Evans. Seems pretty fucking direct to me, princess." He sets the letter on the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Even without a shirt, he's the picture of command, sexy and domineering.
"Tell me," he says quietly. "Exactly how long have you wanted me to be your daddy, Lyric?"
I grasp for an answer, any answer that doesn't make me sound desperate or pathetic or like I'm obsessed with him, but he's looking at me, and I can't think. I can't ever think when his eyes are on me. Panic beats at me, rising swiftly.
I bolt for the door, running as fast as I can in my boots. I don't know why I do it. I know before I even take the first step that I don't stand a chance of outrunning him, especially when I have to run right past him, but I try anyway.
He catches me before I clear the kitchen, dragging me roughly into his arms. One big hand captures both of mine, holding me prisoner against the hard wall of his chest.