“Then come home with me. Stay through Christmas. We’ll find you something safer, something you can afford.”
She hesitates again and then sighs like I just asked her to sell her soul to the devil. “Fine,” she growls, reluctance in every damn letter of the word. “I’ll stay with you. But only until I find something else.”
I don’t bother telling her that she won’t need to find something else since she’ll be moving in with me permanently. She still has a Taser, and I’m not a complete fucking idiot. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, preferably right after I convince her that she wants to stay forever.
I stopped believing in Santa and miracles long ago, but I send up a quick prayer anyway.If you’re out there, big guy, do me a solid for Christmas just this one time.
No one answers, but she stops rummaging for her Taser, and that’s good enough for me. For now.
THREE
SAOIRSE
If there’sa heaven for down-on-their-luck schoolteachers, I’ve found it, and it’s got an eight-hundred-thread-count duvet and blackout curtains that make you forget sunlight is even a thing. The first thing I notice, waking up, is the sound of nothing, which is pretty much the polar opposite of my apartment complex on a Saturday morning. There are no screaming toddlers, no neighbors fighting over who stole whose sparkingspot, not even the cheerful cawing of the birds that have built a nest in my broken heater vent.
It takes me a second to remember where I am, but when I do, it’s a headlong crash of embarrassment and relief. Last night, I survived humiliation in the form of an indecent elf costume, the world’s sleaziest Santa, and my car dying a glorious and permanent death on the side of the road. The universe’s one act of mercy? Flint rescuing me and, after some pretty epic negotiating, I agreed to stay with him, and he let me have five minutes in my old apartment to hastily pack an overnight bag.
By the time we got to his place, I was exhausted. I’m pretty sure I did not so much “crash” as “face-plant” into bed. But still. I’m alive. I’m warm. I’m not filming some bizarre, black-market Christmas porno. I call that a win.
Rolling over, I squint at the room. It’s nothing like what I expected. I mean, yes, I was too tired and traumatized to really notice last night, but Flint’s home is basically a Pinterest fever dream consisting of exposed beams, polished wood floors, and soft white walls hung with giant sepia-toned photographs of horses and mountains. There’s even a fluffy white rug at the foot of the massive king-sized bed. The window, hidden behind those magical blackout curtains, overlooks a sprawling view of the Carrington Ranch, complete with frosted grass, picturesque barns, and what I’m pretty sure is a distant herd of actual cows.
I blink again, trying to decide if this is a dream or some new level of stress-induced hallucination. For the first time in my adult life, I slept on a sheet that has not seen the inside of a Laundromat. I let out a little, involuntary sigh and drag myself to the ensuite bathroom.
I glance in the mirror and realize this is not my best look. My hair is a nest, my eyeliner has migrated south for the winter, and my lips might be permanently stained red from last night’s lipstick.
I kick off my faded pjs and tiptoe across the warm ceramic tiles. Oh. Those are so warm. I bet they’re heated. I’m officially dead and in heaven. The guest bathroom is bigger than my entire freaking apartment. I open the perfectly clear shower door and find two separate shower heads and an overhead rainfall thingy. I might never leave this bathroom.
I twist the handle and, holy mother of spa days, steaming hot water pours out of both shower heads at once. For a full three seconds, I just stand there in shock. Then I jump under the spray and let a legit waterfall rain down on me. Oh. My. God. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so clean and alive at the same time.
The water isn’t just hot. It’s perfect. Like, Goldilocks-just-right. No icy mood swings. No slow, sad trickle. My old apartment was good for about sixty seconds of warm water, and then it was like showering under the tears of a vengeful ice fairy.
This? This is a full-on fantasy.
I spot a collection of fancy soaps and bottles, pick up a shampoo that smells like wildflowers and expensive weekends, and just stand there, lathering up, refusing to leave.
All I do is stand there, eyes closed, letting the waterfall shower and fancy toiletries do their magic while I have an out-of-body experience about the last twenty-four hours.
I mean, honest to God, if someone had told me I’d spend Friday night running away from a pervy Santa, crash-landing in a bar full of cowboys, and waking up in a smoking hot ranchmanager’s personal guest suite, I would have laughed myself breathless. And yet, here I am, washing off the trauma and hoping my good luck doesn’t run out.
Once I’ve washed and conditioned my hair twice, I turn off the water and step out. An automatic heater turns on, instantly warming up the entire bathroom. I’m officially in heaven.
I towel off, throw my damp hair into a knotted ponytail, and dig through my overnight bag for anything remotely normal. I give major side-eye to the sad contents. One pair of yoga pants, a Christmas sweatshirt that says “I'M ONLY A MORNING PERSON ON DECEMBER 25TH,” and a pair of socks with reindeer wearing sunglasses. Not my sexiest look, but considering last night was the closest I’ve come to starring in my own true crime documentary, I’ll take it.
I squeeze into the yoga pants. They’re extra tight right now because I stress-ate my way through a family pack of off-brand Oreos last week, but whatever. I tug the Christmas sweatshirt over my head, pull on the ridiculous socks, and stare at my reflection. This is as good as I’m getting today.
Whatever. At least there’s no jingle bell hat.
I grab my phone and find it’s still dead. Oops. I was so tired, I forgot to charge it. I shove it in my pocket and head out into the unknown. I steel myself and step out into the hallway, following the faint, heavenly smell of coffee. I walk past a series of open doors and descend a set of stairs that opens into the main living area.
It’s even more ridiculous from the ground floor. There’s a giant stone fireplace, a leather couch the size of a yacht, and a kitchen that looks like it was custom-built for someone who actuallyknows how to cook. On the counter, there’s a bowl of fruit, which is both impressive and wildly unnecessary. The kitchen island is topped with thick, veined marble and some sort of centerpiece made of antlers and fresh pine. There’s even a real Christmas tree in the corner, trimmed with tiny white lights and simple wooden ornaments.
I find Flint standing barefoot at the stove, one muscled calf flexed as he shifts his weight, his tight gray sweatpants riding low on narrow hips. His black t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders and clings to the defined ridges of his abs each time he moves. He flips a golden-brown pancake with the casual precision of a Food Network pro. The sizzle of butter hitting the hot cast iron fills the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma.
His hair is still damp from the shower, dark strands sticking up in the back like he'd only bothered to run his fingers through it. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows catches on the slight stubble along his jaw as he concentrates on the skillet, completely unaware of my presence.
I pause in the doorway, awkward, clutching the sleeves of my sweatshirt. For a second, I wonder if I’m freaking dreaming, but then he turns around and smiles, and my ovaries stand up and sing. Nope. I’m definitely awake. “Morning,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be standing here in his kitchen.
“Uh. Good morning.” I have never, in my life, felt so underdressed and overdressed at the same time. “I, um, hope you don’t mind that I used the shower.”
