Page 22 of Christmas with the Billionaire
A team of high-school trumpeters plays a brassy, joyful tune that vibrates right through the soles of my boots, and the air is thick with the scent of roasted nuts and hot chocolate.
Snow falls in lazy, fat flakes, catching the light of a thousand bulbs. Even though the sun is up, the lights are breathtaking—strings of white and gold twined around lampposts, brilliant reds and greens blazing from the floats, all reflected a million times in the delicate crystals settling on every surface.
Everyone is smiling, everyone is happy. Children perch on shoulders, waving little flags, their laughter ringing like bells over the music.
Through it all, all I can focus on is his hand in mine.
My heart is pounding, keeping perfect time with the music. It’s not from the cold or the spectacle. It’s from him.
I can feel the weight of his gaze, his stare so obvious. He isn’t watching the marching Santas or the giant, inflatable snowman bobbing past. He’s watching me. I can feel it in the way his fingers tighten around mine, a silent, steady pressure amidst the chaotic joy.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I tear my eyes from a float carrying a choir singingSilent Night. I turn my head, and our eyes meet. Returning his stare with one of my own, my cheeks grow pink behind my coat flaps.
The parade becomes a blur of color and sound at the edges of my vision. Charles is just… looking at me. His eyes, usually so guarded and amused, are wide open, filled with a quiet, devastating intensity.
The soft morning light catches the snow dusting his dark hair, and in that moment, he looks like part of the magic, not just an observer of it.
I swallow, my throat tight. I just need to rip off the band-aid already. The longer I push this, the worse the heartbreak will be if this is just a one-off kind of thing.
“Charles,” I start, my breath a white cloud in the cold air. I squeeze his hand, our fingers tangled with my trembling grip. “After this… after the holiday… what’s going to happen with us?”
The words hang there, suspended in the frozen air. The fear is a cold knot in my stomach, colder than the snow, making me afraid of the answer. But I need to know. I hold his gaze, my heart laid bare, waiting for the answer that will either make this a beginning or the most beautiful ending I’ll ever have.
13
Charles
I want to marry this woman. I want to wake up to the scent of her hair on my pillows for the next fifty years. I want the world to know she’s mine by the name she carries. I want to come home from a hellish day, not to a silent penthouse, but to her—to the light in her eyes and the peace she radiates just by existing.
This torrent of feeling is what I need to convey. But when my mouth opens, my brain, trained for billion-dollar deals and legal loopholes, short-circuits. I fumble. I always do with her.
“Can I steal you away and bring you home?” The words are out, clumsy and crude, and I physically wince.
Instead of asking her to be my girlfriend, I’ve taken the kidnapping route.Perfectly smooth, Charles.
Her lips part, her eyes wide with a surprise that feels like a small puncture to my lungs. “You want to take me to Citrine Bay?”
Is she truly shocked? After the way I’ve devoured her, after the years of emptiness she’s just filled in a single night, did she think I’d just drop her off with a handshake and a hug?
The very idea is a visceral rejection in my blood. Hell, no. The truth is, I’m not sure I can let her out of my sight for more than a few hours without this new, desperate ache setting in.
I force a nod, my gaze snagging on a garish, inflatable Santa Claus across the street so she can’t see the nerves I’m failing to mask. “You have a life there. Friends. A job. It’s… a big ask.” It’s an insane ask. She’d be a fool to say yes. We’re practically strangers woven together with decade-old threads. Yet, the thought of her refusing is a cold knot in my stomach.
She’s silent for a moment that stretches into an eternity. Then, she clears her throat, and the sound is like a starting pistol. “How often would we visit? I can’t just leave Owen and his family. That’s not an option. Or… maybe we could find a place between here and there?”
She’s not saying no. She’s problem-solving. For us. Hope feels my lungs, makes me want to find a solution just as much.
Our eyes meet again, and I see the same conflict mirrored in her face—a beautiful, painful grimace. “I want this, Charles. But I can’t just say goodbye.”
She wants this. She wants me. The words are a seismic shift in my world, solid ground forming after years of freefall. That alone is everything.
“Whenever you want,” I vow, the words rough with promise. “I’ll get you wherever you need to be. Just say the word.” I’d buy her a private jet if it meant she’d come home to me.
I’d learn to live with the echo of loneliness in our bed on the nights she stayed here, because the trade-off—the right to see her sleep-softened in the morning, to touch her, to love her openly—would be worth any cost.
“Whatever it takes,” I say, the confession tumbling out and laying me bare. “I’m willing to do it. As long as it ends with you being mine.” My voice drops, hoarse with the ghost of our past. “I can’t… I won’t make the same catastrophic mistake twice. Leaving you behind once nearly destroyed me.”
Her fingers tighten around mine, giving a painful pressure that grounds me firmly in this present, erasing the past ache of that old yearning. It’s a promise.
