Cold.
Guarded.
“Anyway,” I murmur, keeping my eyes forward now, “there’s nothing else to say. You showed up at the gala because of the contract, right? Magically binding when you accept a date on Date to Mate? So, mission accomplished. Congrats on fulfilling your obligation. You get to keep your reputation intact with no repercussions. Good for you.”
Still, nothing.
He doesn’t say a damn word.
But he flips the turn signal.
And the next thing I know, he’s turning down a long, winding driveway flanked by snow-covered pine trees strung with tens of thousands of clear twinkle lights.
I blink at the sheer magic of it.
Literal magic.
The trees glow like a path from a fairytale, light reflecting off the fresh powder blanketing the world around us.
The mansion at the end of the drive looks like a snow-covered gingerbread palace, complete with a twelve-foot nutcracker animatronic that moves like something out of Disney World, and a ballerina twirling on a rotating platform next to him, her arms poised overhead as music plays from unseen speakers.
It is breathtaking.
It is absurd.
It’s—wait—why is he stopping here?
This can’t be. Can it?
“Eb? Where are we?” I ask, eyes wide as he pulls to a stop in front of the towering front steps.
He doesn’t look at me when he answers.
“This is my place,” he says gruffly, throwing the car into park. “And now, if you’re finished with whatever that was, I think it’s time you heard my side of it.”
I twist in my seat, stunned.
His green eyes are glittering like gemstones—sharp and pained and furious in a way that knocks the wind out of me.
His chest is visibly rising and falling, his body vibrating with a low, steady growl that seems to shake the air inside the truck.
Before I can process what’s happening, he’s out of the car.
The door slams shut with a finality that makes me jump.
Seconds later, he’s at my door.
He yanks it open, unbuckles my seat belt like I’m a toddler in a booster seat, and then—without even asking—scoops me up in his arms.
He’s carrying all hundred and ninety-nine pounds of me. Princess style.
“Eb!” I squeal, my boots kicking in the air as I try to twist out of his grip. “I can walk!”
“No,” he snaps.
One word.
Firm.
