"Whatever?" I challenge.
"Within reason."
"I want my phone," I say, holding out my hand. "I need to text my friend so she doesn't send a S.W.A.T. team to find me."
He reaches into his pocket—how he had it in his sweatpants without me noticing is a mystery—and hands it to me.
I grab it, unlocking it quickly. There are twelve missed texts from Harper.
Harper: Did you die?
Harper: Your dot is in at the Hollis Estate
Harper: OMFG you actually did it
I type back quickly.
Me: calm down
Three dots appear instantly.
Harper: DETAILS. NOW.
Me: Can't. I'll explain later.
I glance up at Gabriel. He’s watching me type, his gaze heavy and possessive.
I put the phone face down before she can ask more questions. I’m not ready to explain that I apparently live here now and am taking vitamins for a hypothetical fetus.
"Happy?" Gabriel asks.
I look at the boxes. I look at the man who just hijacked my life, fed me breakfast, and is currently plotting to impregnate me.
"Ask me again after we get the tree," I say.
Gabriel steps forward, wrapping his arms around me from behind. He rests his chin on top of my head, his hands splaying over my stomach.
"We'll get the biggest fucking tree on the mountain," he promises.
And for the first time in months, standing in the middle of a hostage situation disguised as a relationship, I smile.
I hate Christmas.
I hate the forced cheer, the commercialism, and the way it makes people soft. But as I steer the Bentley up the winding, snow-dusted road toward Wintergreen Reserve, glancing at the woman in the passenger seat, I decide I might be willing to tolerate it.
Blair is staring out the window at the passing pines, her eyes wide. She’s wearing a cream-colored coat I had delivered this morning, along with a cashmere scarf that’s almost as soft as her skin. She looks expensive. She looks like she belongs on this mountain, not in the slush of the city below.
She also looks nervous.
She keeps checking her phone, likely waiting for another barrage of texts from her friend, but I’ve already had Jaxon intercept any digital traffic that isn't strictly necessary.
"Relax," I say, settling my hand on her thigh. My fingers spread wide, claiming the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. She presses into my touch. "It's just a tree."
"It's not just a tree." She turns those blue eyes toward me, and something flickers in them—something young and unguarded. "I've never had a real one before."
"I know."
She stills. "How do you know that?"
