Your day is yours.
—D.
Part of me sours. It’s Christmas, and he leaves me alone with a note? Another part reminds me that we have an arrangement, not a relationship.
He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not sure what to call him. Employer? Keeper? Problem I chose? All of the above and something else that doesn’t fit in a box.
I set the note down and breathe, kneeling by the tree. I open a few boxes, gasping at what I find inside.
The ribbons slide off easily, the contents of the first box nearly knocking me flat. A dress I’ve only ever dreamed about owning from Thierry—emerald satin, cut for my figure alone. The next one is midnight-blue, sleek and sharp, with sleeves like water and a waistline that’ll make strangers stare. Then velvet—deep plum, slit to the thigh, corseted.
Black patent Louboutin’s with the signature red soles. A cashmere coat so soft, I stop and nuzzle it against my face. A Birkin, matte black, gold hardware, rich leather unlike anything I’ve ever touched before.
Some women spend years trying to get their hands on one, and here it is, sitting under Damien Kozlov’s Christmas tree like it’s no big deal.
I find a velvet box with a diamond bracelet inside. And last, but not least, a leather sketchbook with thick paper that begs for ink,a fountain pen attached. The note nudges:Create something, Cassandra.
Gratitude lights up my face before I can stop it, with unease sliding right in behind. I think about the gunfire from the other night, the sting at my arm. The gifts feel like a reward and a tether all at once. My fingers trace the bracelet.
The truth is, I’m a little overwhelmed by it all. Grateful, but overwhelmed.
I follow the smell to the kitchen, unable to ignore the grumbling in my stomach any longer.
Alex is at the stove in a dark sweater, posture all cop. He glances over, mouth tipping into a smirk. “Merry Christmas. Hope you’re not disappointed.”
I grab a mug. “Depends. Are you a good cook?”
“I like to think so.” He flips a pancake. “I can do Santa—strawberries for the hat, whipped cream for the beard. Make it festive.”
I laugh before I can help it. “Not necessary. Plain is perfect.”
He plates two and slides them over with syrup and butter. In the morning light, he’s less stoic and more dry humor. I don’t know him, not really, but I like him just fine in this light.
“Why are you here on Christmas?” I ask, then wince at my nosy tone. “Don’t you have people?”
“My people are working,” he says. “Besides, you need breakfast.” A beat. “And eyes on the house.”
I cut into the pancake. It’s perfect—crisp edge, soft middle, butter melting into the seams. “These are fantastic.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, straight-faced. “It might ruin my reputation as a hard ass if it gets out that I make the perfect pancake.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I say, mouth full. “And thanks. Where’s Damien?”
“Away,” Alex says simply. “He’s coming back tomorrow, I think. Handling business tied to the other night.”
That means no Damien on Christmas. I hate that it bothers me so much, but it does.
“What kind of business?”
“The kind you don’t need on your plate,” he says. “He asked me to escort you wherever you need to go today.”
The word escort sits bitterly. I grip the mug tighter. “The hospital,” I say. “I need to see my sister.”
Alex nods once, a plan already moving in his head. “Ten minutes. We’ll take the back route.”
“Got it.”
I get dressed after breakfast. Once in the foyer, I slip into my coat. The bracelet rubs against my wrist—bright and expensive.
