Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I rib him before spinning to face the dining room. I am starving since I was too sick with worry to eat over the past twenty-four hours.
Christian tosses back his head and laughs when I murmur, “Is that safe?”
“I fucking hope so, because I am two seconds from eating off my arm.” He enters the dining room, pulls out a chair for me, and then gestures for me to sit. “Ladies before gentlemen.”
I almost give the “age before beauty” line but hold back when I see the genuine tiredness on his face. He worked all night and day to ensure he could bring my neighbors home for Christmas.
That he could bring me home for Christmas.
That awards him my trust.
As I tuck my chair under the dining room table, a sight too beautiful to miss captures my attention. My family tree is in its antique red pot, butted against a hallway table brimming with photographs and ornaments.
How do I know it is my family’s tree? The one ornament my father refused to remove is dangling from one of its branches.
My heart beats again when Christian says, “I didn’t decorate it, but I didn’t want it to get rootbound by keeping it in the bag it was delivered in.”
“Thank you.”
After taking a moment to relish a touch of pink hitting Christian’s cheeks, I drink in how much the tree has matured over the past three years. Its tip almost graces the ceiling, and I won’t make it into the bathroom without some of the bristles tickling my skin.
As a smile lifts my lips, I shift my focus to the knickknacks next to the tree.
“Daddy,” I whisper with a painful sob a short time later when I spot the family portrait I hounded Mrs. Richler for relentlessly over the past three years. It’s one of those stupid how-many-hands-can-fit-on-one-person’s-shoulder poses, but it was my father’s favorite photograph since my mother and I are both staring at him in awe.
Too overcome with emotions not to respond, I shoot out of my chair and race into the hallway.
Our family portrait isn’t the only photograph that gives the once-dated hallway life. All the items Mrs. Richler stole from me have been returned—even the demented ashtray I made for my dad on Father’s Day when I was eight. He didn’t smoke, so he filled it with candy.
A half-sob, half-chuckle escapes me when Christian says, “They’re probably not safe for consumption, but if you’re desperate, I could try one for you.”
He takes my silence as a yes, his face screwing up when he pops a stale piece of Turkish delight into his mouth.
It flavors our kiss when I can’t hold back my gratitude for a second longer.
I press my lips against his before murmuring against them, “You brought them home.” Tears topple as I bounce my eyes between his. “You brought them home for Christmas.”
25
CHRISTIAN
Iwon’t lie. Nerves I’ve never experienced tap dance in my stomach when Angel enters the living room. She went to the bathroom to freshen up after dinner. Our food wasn’t tainted with body-morphing chemicals. She just needed a moment to gather her wits. Since I needed time to do the same, I pretended I had showered between installing stabilizers in her apartment and helping the catering company Holt Industries paid out the eye to set up each apartment in this building with a feast fit for a king.
I stink, and I’m fucking exhausted, but I wasn’t going to let anything come between Angel and her neighbors coming home for Christmas—not even a measly ten-minute shower.
“Hey.”
Fuck me, that was an effort to speak. Bouncing wet curls, a barely there towel, and the admiring stare of a woman without a touch of makeup on her face but with a beauty that couldn’t be hidden under a wiry mess of green hairs make doing anything but drooling impossible.
“Hi.”
Angel’s one word is breathless. My ego wants to say it is because she knows what is hiding under my buttoned-up shirt and upside-down Santa tie, but that isn’t true. It is from her spotting my packed suitcase on the warped floor of the entryway.
Her eyes shoot back to me, wet and wide. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Isaac…” I groan before correcting myself. “Mr. Holt offered me a suite at a hotel two blocks over.” My new business partner likes to keep things professional until a personal relationship is established. He said I could call him Mr. Holt or Boss until that happens. Since I consider myself the head of my company, I settled on Mr. Holt. “He added it to the perks when I signed on to remodel this building as per the industry guidelines Mr. Richler ignored while pocketing most of the construction funds.”
Angel gasps. “He didn’t.”
“He did.”
I laugh at her he’s-a-dead-man expression. I met Isaac in passing while helping the construction crew keep his promise. My first impression was that he isn’t a man to be messed with.