Eli

ELI

Sunday football at Patrick's house is as normal as we can manage, which is to say, I think we fake our way through it. At least, close enough that Patrick doesn't pepper us with suspicious questions. He certainly would.

If he knew.

And what the hell do you say to a guy you've been friends with since high school—who captained your football team when you were an underweight freshman, who invited you over every Sunday for the last twenty years—that his three best friends are sleeping with his daughter?

He might just run us over with his truck.

In the back of our car, Henry and Jake are in their own stupors, so I pull up the chain of unanswered texts to Paige and start another.

Saw a picture of you at Patrick's house. Well, I saw a lot of pictures I admittedly never looked at before, but this one was of you as a kid.

Cute little pigtails. Mud covering you. And a giant frog caught in your grip.

I don't know where I'm going with this exactly. It's too soon to think about what having a little girl like Paige would be like. With Paige. Would she be wild? Strong and demanding like her mother? Soft and protected? Would she have the same glint in her eyes that the tiny version of Paige had in that picture?

Pulling in a deep breath, I let it go slowly.

I want to hear the story.

Will you tell it to me?

I don't expect an answer after the rest of our collective texts have been ignored. But I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since she fled our house Thursday night, or Friday morning as it were.

Especially after I had more fun with her than I've ever had with another woman. Not just the sex, which, God, she took everything we gave her. Like a dream. But also, being able to make her laugh in the middle of it. Not being serious the entire time.

I've never had that before. And it was so easy with Paige.

And that spins around in my mind the rest of the evening, latching onto the short conversation we had with Patrick about a small Christmas party he's having. Just family, and the three of us.

I want it so badly. To be part of the family.

To be there with Paige.

To have a reason to celebrate Christmas with people I care about and who actually care about me.

The more I sink into this idea, the more another idea grows until it's Monday morning, and I can't help myself.

I'm up early, taking a car to Paige's place. I don't know which apartment is hers, so I wait on the street for her. The sun casts an orange and pink glow across the clouds. And the morning promises a bright and clear day, even with the brisk breeze blowing through.

When she steps out of the building, she stops, surprise rounding her eyes. "?"

I smile at her, pushing off the side of the car to approach her.

"What are you doing here?"

Thank god, she doesn't pull away when I reach for her, the simple act of holding her hand has my blood pumping. "I need your help with something."

Paige purses her mouth. "Vague."

I laugh. I can't help it.

She points at me. "That's not helping."

"You ready for another test?"

Her eyes narrow. "What kind of a test?"

"A decorating one. Since Rockwell International's style is out-of-date, I need a fresh perspective for our Christmas party." I raise my brow at her. "Up for the challenge?"

"With you, it's going to be challenging." But the quirk of her mouth tells a different story.

I pull the back door open and wait for her to climb inside. Her pants are molded to her ass and thighs, and God, I want to take a bite.

Following in behind her, I close us into a cozy silence where I can properly take her in. Soft pink highlights her cheeks, her hair is wound into a tight bun at her neck, her jacket reveals a slice of pale skin down her chest, and when her eyes catch mine, their blue arrests my heart.

What the fuck am I going to do with myself?

The car pulls into traffic, rocketing her back and yanking a full laugh from low in her throat. I want to kiss along that column of skin, drag her into my lap, and keep her there.

"You'd think I'd be used to the sudden movement since I ride the train every day, but nope."

I settle back in my seat and watch her. Her cheeks grow pinker. Until she breaks.

"What?"

"I'm just waiting for my story." I fold my hands together in my lap to keep from grabbing her.

"A story?"

This time, I give her my patented you-know-what-I'm-talking-about look. I've been in business too long to not have a few tricks up my sleeve. "If you don't want people to know you've read their texts, there's a setting for that."

More color fills her cheeks. "Right. The frog—toad actually. But, I suppose that's neither here nor there."

Paige waves her hand to dismiss whatever lecture I see brewing.

"Okay, well, it's not a very interesting story, and I'm sure Dad could have told it better, but I was six. My best friend and I were picking berries in her backyard—or down the creek in a neighbor's backyard—and on the way back, I fell in the muddy water." She shrugs. "After we climbed out, that toad jumped out of my shorts. Bebe's mom took that picture."

"How often did that kind of thing happen to you as a child?"

She shrugs again as if it was nothing abnormal. "Capturing amphibious creatures in my pants? Just the one time. Exploring the neighborhood wildlands as a kid…Dad called me his little tree nymph."

"How many times did you come back a mess? Leaves and twigs in your hair? Dirt under your fingernails?" I hadn't been allowed to get dirty like that until I joined the football team. It made for a tame childhood. Or as tame as it could have been for a high-energy, nervous boy.

Now, I've got the smile from her that I want to see. "Yes. All of the above. Although, sometimes, I had flowers in my hair. Or I was soaked from playing in the snow."

A wistful look crosses her face. She must be thinking about Paxton. "You do the same things with your son?"

Paige sits up straight and pins the mother of all mom looks. "Henry told you?"

"Was it supposed to be a secret?"

She chews on her lip for a second, staring at me. What is going through her mind? Why has she not talked about him at all? Where's the father? How much of this would she answer if I actually asked her?

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

We pull into a lot with a high-end Christmas store, and I help her out of the car. When I keep us hovering there, her nostrils flare, pupils dilate. I grin down at her, enjoying the reaction to my proximity.

"You don't ever talk about him. Most moms I know can't help but talk about their kids." Granted, they're all older than Paige.

"Most moms don't get prominent positions in the companies they work for. Especially not young ones." That stubbornness returns and she's so fucking hard to resist.

"I suppose you may be right. I'll have to keep that in mind at the next quarterly review."

Her eyes glitter at me, and I swear she's fighting a smile. I escort her through the glass doors and pause at the giant animatronic Santa Clause beside an equally big Frosty the Snowman blowup. I tap my finger against my mouth as I look them over.

Paige watches me with obvious horror.

"What? Not something you think would look good in our lobby?"

"No." And she doesn't offer me a single explanation.

"I thought the kids might be into this stuff. Look at the reindeer."

With a huff, she marches off into the store. I follow, needing to jog to catch up. She sidesteps me when I put my hand at her back, weaving into a narrow archway of lights. The spread creates glowing sparkles through her hair and across her pale face. Her arms cross as she ignores me, stepping out of the arch the moment I step in.

I catch her at the next display and trap her against me. "I was not calling you a kid."

Her brow raises at me. She might be one of the youngest managers in my office, but that certainly doesn't make her a kid.

"Believe me. I do not see you as a kid." I press us more tightly together, smiling when her jaw clenches and that fire threatens to burn this place down. "Does it feel like I see you that way?"

Her chin lifts defiantly, as if daring me to kiss her right there to prove it, and fuck, I want to. Instead, I wait, noting every little bit of her that softens the longer we stand like this.

Finally, her hands find my chest. "We're going to be late for work and I have things to catch up on today."

"I'll take that as you conceding my point." I unravel her from my arms and let her take the lead, picking elegant decorations that match the office's current style—one she called old-fashioned chic in her original report. What she wanted to makeover in her appeal to a younger consumer base.

It might be a sore spot left over from my childhood with every inch of my house designed to impress those old, stuffy businessmen and politicians. Nostalgia is a double-edged sword.

She scoffs at half of my suggestions, but the collection comes together with the show-stopper piece she stops in front of. It's red, like the accents in my buildings, and built from a variety of red ornaments. They're round and traditional, but the way they fit together makes it seem fresh.

My hand slides up her back as we both stare at it. "I like it."

And Paige turns her grin to me, delight and confidence in her eyes.

It breaks my flimsy restraint, and I drop my mouth over hers, cupping the back of her neck, pressing our bodies together. That soft sound in the back of her throat hooks me hard.