Total pages in book: 13
Estimated words: 11652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 58(@200wpm)___ 47(@250wpm)___ 39(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 58(@200wpm)___ 47(@250wpm)___ 39(@300wpm)
"You weren't?" Her gaze flies to mine, full of avid curiosity. "Then why…?"
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Lyric."
She swallows hard, her delicate throat working. "M-maybe I do want the answer," she whispers.
"Jesus Christ," I groan under my breath, glancing up at the sky again in the hopes God is up there, willing to grant me a Christmas miracle. I'm going to need one to keep my hands off this girl until she's wearing my ring.
If he is listening, he doesn't answer. Not that I expected him to or anything. He's probably up there laughing his ass off right now, saddling an innocent girl like her with a motherfucker like me. I don't just want to fuck her. In my mind and in my heart, she's my little princess, my baby girl. I want to spoil her, feed her from my hand. She's the center of my world. And when her little pussy aches, soon, it'll be my fingers, my tongue, and my cock getting her off.
I tip my head back down, looking at her. "Why are you even here, Lyric?"
She flinches like I hit her, something filtering through her expression too quickly for me to read. "I came to bring you this," she mutters, ducking back inside the car. The back of her little dress comes dangerously close to flashing her panties at me.
My fucking mouth waters.
I take two steps toward her, a split second from plastering her against the side of her car to get my first taste of her. She pops back out with a stack of papers in her hands, thrusting them in my direction.
"From Lachlan," she mumbles. "And he said to tell you that he'll see you on Christmas."
I barely have time to grab the paperwork before she releases it, almost as if she doesn't want to risk her skin meeting mine.
Fuck. She's pissed.
"Lyric."
"I'll see you later." She dives back into her car, but not before I see the tears shimmering in her eyes.
Fucking hell. She isn't mad. She's hurt.
I hurt her.
My heart threatens to cleave itself in two.
"Baby girl, I'm sor–"
She slams her door, cutting me off.
I mutter a curse, yanking open the car door before she can throw the car in reverse and pull off.
"Out of the car, princess," I growl. "Now."
"I need to get home. I have things to do," she lies, her little fists locked around the steering wheel. She stubbornly refuses to look in my direction, using her hair as a shield between us.
"Too bad. I have to sign these and send them back to your brother."
She huffs a loud, dramatic sigh but reluctantly kills the engine and climbs from the car again. I crowd her the whole time, not letting her put space between us.
"Your little attitude is pissing me off, baby girl," I growl in her ear.
"Good, because your bossy attitude is making me mad too," she snaps right back at me, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. She ducks under my arm, stomping toward my house. "Can I use your bathroom, or will your girlfriend mind?"
Girlfriend? What the fuck?
Ah, dammit all to hell. Is that what she thinks I meant by not asking questions she didn't want to know the answers to? That I've got a fucking woman here? As if they even exist to me. They didn't long before I met her. They certainly haven't since she came into my life.
If I can't have her, I won't settle for anyone else. Fuck that. I'm loyal to her and her alone. Always.
"I don't have a fucking girlfriend, Lyric."
She misses a step but doesn't acknowledge me. My back teeth grind together. One day soon, I'm going to give her the spanking she's itching for.
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.