Page 7 of Christmas with the Billionaire
My stomach lurches with a sickening sense of vertigo. I open my eyes, and my brain struggles to make sense of the image. The world is tilted. No—weare tilted. The SUV has nosedived into a ditch, canted at a jarring, forty-five-degree angle. My side is pressed against the door, the cold from the outside seeping through the glass.
Next to me, Charles is shoving his airbag away with a grunt of frustration.
A soft, cheerful melody cuts through the haze.Let it Snow.The irony isn’t just sharp; it feels like a personal joke from a cruel universe.
“Ellie.”
His voice, low and rough, does what the crash didn’t—it completely stops the air in my lungs. I’m so dazed I don’t even realize he’s reaching for me until I feel the warmth of his fingers cupping my face.
His touch is startlingly gentle against the cold, a brand of heat on my chilled skin. It’s the first time he’s touched me in years, and my stupid, traitorous skin remembers every second.
I let my head turn, my gaze finding his through the dim light.
My breath catches, lodges somewhere in my bruised throat. He’s still so handsome. It’s a stupid, inopportune thought, but it’s the only one my brain can form. Time has changed him, carved away the softness of boyhood, and left behind this man with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes that see right through me.
He deserves that sexy bachelor title.
Beneath the worry, there’s something else, something hot and furious growing behind his gaze. He looks absolutely pissed.
“Are you alright?”
Moving my body, I’m glad nothing seems broken. The pain is a distant, low throb compared to the frantic hammering of my pulse. Charles is the important one here. If anything were to happen to him… It kind of feels like the world would end, I’m not going to lie.
“I’m fine. You’re the one I’m worried about.” Cracking a smile in hopes of reassuring him, I don’t think it works.
His eyes are still roaming over me, a frantic, searching scan, as if he’s expecting me to shatter into a million pieces right before him. As if one little accident could break me. But it isn’t just concern I see in that deep, penetrating gaze. It’s asimmering, protective fury. A genuine, unvarnished rage at the very idea of me being hurt.
A warm, syrupy feeling uncurls in the pit of my stomach, spreading through my veins like a drug. It feels… intoxicating. Seeing Charles look at me like that, not with his usual polished charm for a business partner, but with an intensity that’s meant only for me, feels different.
He finally pulls his hand back, the absence of his touch leaving my skin instantly, achingly cold. “I have to report this,” he mutters, pulling out his phone. His jaw is tight, but his movements are efficient, calm. Even now, he maintains his appearance perfectly. It’s a sight to behold, the kind of man he’s turned into. While now isn’t the time or place to start thinking about something so silly, I can’t help but be caught in amazement.
Charles is so cool, even if he isn’t a great driver. Guess that happens when you can pay someone to drive you around all the time. He should’ve hired someone to transport us.
The thought makes me laugh, a soft, slightly hysterical bubble of sound. I feel his eyes snap to me, a quick, questioning glance. He’s probably wondering if I hit my head. That makes me laugh again, the absurdity of it all tangling with a decade of pent-up longing.
I can’t believe this is happening. While most would see themselves living a nightmare, this is a fantasy. Even if it’s foolish of me to get my hopes up, I can’t help but want to enjoy my situation. It’s Christmas Eve, and Charles and I are stuck together.
Maybe I did hit my head.
He hangs up and looks at me. “They’re on their way. Look, don’t worry. We still have plenty of time. We’ll get another rental in Hope Peak. I can deal with the insurance and all of it afterChristmas. This is fine.” He says it with such finality, as if he can simply command the universe to bend to his schedule.
He doesn’t need to worry about assuring me. I’m just happy to be right here with him, even if I’m sore.
When the police car arrives, its red and blue lights painting the snow in frantic strokes, Charles is out of the car in an instant, talking to the officer. He doesn’t seem injured. Thank goodness.
I watch through the window as he gestures back toward me. A few minutes later, an EMS technician opens my door and asks if she can take a look.
He’s standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the entire process like a hawk, insisting that I make sure I don’t have a concussion or any broken bones. We’re both deemed perfectly fine, just a little shaken up.
The officer, a man named O’Malley with a kind face and a thick mustache, offers us a ride into the heart of Hope Peak to lighten our load of issues.
“A tow will come for your vehicle,” he says, settling into the driver’s seat. “You folks picked a fine day to come visit us.”
In the backseat, I feel the solid line of Charles’s thigh pressed against mine. It’s a small, steadying contact that keeps sending tingles from the pit of my stomach up to my heart. His hand rests on his knee, while his other hand occupies his phone as he sends a message to someone.
I’m settled in the back of a cop car for the first time in my life, and my heart is racing. Not because I’m worried about something bad happening, but because of Charles, himself.
Staring at his hand, my focus is on his pinkie. He’s so close to touching me, I chew the inside of my cheek just thinking about him moving his hand over to my leg just to give one reassuring squeeze. The space between his pinkie and my knee feels like a canyon, and I’m dying to cross it.
