Page 12 of Unwrapped

I shrug. Because I guess I am. But it’s not my fault. I’ve just learned it’s better to be this way than the lost boy I once was—the one whose innocent heart always got broken for believing Christmas magic might be real. Hell, for believing anything is real.

I leave her standing under an awning as the Uber pulls to the curb. I pull the neck of my coat higher and decide to walk the twelve blocks home.

Like I said earlier, the cold has never bothered me. Snow begins to fall softly at my feet. Every light pole is wrapped in garland and twinkling lights. With my hands buried deep in my pockets, I wish just for once to have it. The Christmas that’s always eluded me; where friends and family gathered around, and the light and joy would fill your heart.

“Pussy,” I mutter under my breath, catching my reflection in a store window as I pass under a light. I need to man up, because tomorrow I’m going to shed my thousand-dollar suit for my leather cut and worn-in jeans. The boys in Creed are gonna kick my ass if I show up crying over childhood dreams that never came true.

2

SHILOH

GRANT IS AN ASSHOLE.

I wish I knew that before wasting the last six months of my life dating him exclusively.

Averting my eyes, I lift the glass of merlot to my lips. The waitress knows. Hell, everyone in here probably knows. He picked one of the most romantic restaurants in Los Angeles. It’s decorated for Christmas with lighted garland, soft candles, and Bing Crosby crooning through the wireless speakers.

I’m dressed in my new Versace wrap dress, Louis Vuitton boots, my hair falls down my back in soft waves fresh from the hundred-dollar blow out I had done hours earlier in the posh salon on Rodeo Drive.

I look like a million crisp dollar bills—but all my efforts are wasted.

My date stood me up.

Again.

It’s the third time this month.

Fucking Grant.

When we first met his drive; his ambition was such a turn on. He would speak so passionately about his work, his need to expand his empire, branching out and opening a new office in Europe. He’s a high-powered agent to the stars. He started his own agency from scratch building it into one of the most prestigious firms in the industry with firms on both the West and East Coast. Dropping hints that he’d take me with him. I’ll never forget the line he used to get me in to bed the first time.

My face burns.

I was putty in his hands, after he murmured it huskily in my ear as his hand slid up my legs under the hem of my dress. “You look sexy tonight, Shiloh. But you know what will look even sexier on you? The lights reflecting off your skin shining from the Eiffel tower as I go down on you,” I gasped, my head falling back against his chest. He pulled me back against the front of him, my dress was bunched at my waist as his finger rubbed over me. I purred. Needing him to touch me more.

He laughed deep in his throat, increasing the pressure of his hand as he rubbed back and forth, then a finger snuck inside the seam of my thong.

Then two.

His lips found the side of my neck as he touched me.

Readied me.

Broke down my walls, priming my body to need his.

The thing is, I don’t sleep around. My pussy is by invite only. No players, cheats or creeps need apply. After tonight I’m adding suits to that list. I need to stop dating men who wear tailor-made suits and thousand-dollar watches.

They are my kryptonite. My knees get weak, my nipples pucker, my thighs ache when I’m near a powerful man in a suit. It’s not the money because I have enough of my own. It’s the raw sex appeal. The power…the way a suit makes a man’s shoulder look even wider… I sigh.

But no more.

I’m done.

I’m done coming in second to the deal, business meeting, conference call, email…ex-wife, daughter—just for once I want to be somebody’s first.

Finishing my wine, I open my clutch slapping a hundred dollars down on the table. I need to get out of Santa Monica. Hell, California. My heels click against the pavement as I walk to my car. Palms trees dance in the wind overhead.

I drive home, ignoring his calls and texts. “Your loss, asshole,” I mutter as Grant texts again that he’s ten minutes away from the restaurant.

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