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"Good, because your bossy attitude is making me mad too," she snaps right back at me, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. She ducks under my arm, stomping toward my house. "Can I use your bathroom, or will your girlfriend mind?"
Girlfriend? What the fuck?
Ah, dammit all to hell. Is that what she thinks I meant by not asking questions she didn't want to know the answers to? That I've got a fucking woman here? As if they evenexistto me. They didn't long before I met her. They certainly haven't since she came into my life.
If I can't have her, I won't settle for anyone else. Fuck that. I'm loyal to her and her alone. Always.
"I don't have a fucking girlfriend, Lyric."
She misses a step but doesn't acknowledge me. My back teeth grind together. One day soon, I'm going to give her the spanking she's itching for.
She stomps up the steps to my cabin and lets herself in. I damn near run into her when she comes to a dead stop in the doorway.
"You didn't decorate for Christmas."
"It's just me out here," I remind her.
"You don't even have a tree," she whispers.
Jesus. She's sad because I don't have a tree. And I can't stand seeing her sad, so I'll put up a damn tree just to make her happy. Even if it is a waste of time. Because there's nothing I won't do for her. I live and breathe for her.EverythingI do is for her.
The business. The house I've been building for the last year. All of it is for her.
"Lyric, go to the bathroom."
She scowls over her shoulder at me and then scurries through the kitchen and down the hallway.
I throw the paperwork on the kitchen counter to find a pen, only to frown when an envelope slides out.
It's addressed to Santa in Lyric's neat handwriting. She even wrote it in a glittery pink color. I snatch it up from the counter, curious about what she wants badly enough to write a letter to Santa. She may believe in Christmas magic, but I doubt she's believed in Santa in years.
The envelope is sealed, with a stamp on the front. I don't think she meant to give this to me.
But she gave it to you anyway, the little devil on my shoulder whispers.
I hesitate for a full five-count before tearing into the envelope.
Dear Santa...
Chapter Three
Lyric
"You can't hide out in here forever," I mutter to myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to talk myself into leaving the relative safety of Sinclair's small guest bathroom. I'm not so sure I want to leave, though. He's grumpier than usual today. And I can still see the outline of his erection as if the memory of it is burned into my brain. My panties are soaked.
He said he didn't have a girlfriend, but that doesn't mean he doesn't havesomeone. He's a man. A freaking gorgeous, successful man. Women probably throw themselves at him. Isn't that what I've been doing for the last year? Practically throwing myself at him?
Clearly, he isn't interested. I need to take the hint already. There will be no Christmas miracle for me this year. Sinclair Evans will never feel the same way I do.
Writing that letter to Santa was a stupid idea. At least I didn't send it. No postal worker will ever open it and laugh at the ridiculousness of a twenty-year-old writing to Santa for help with a man. My humiliating moment of weakness will remain my little secret.
I splash cool water on my cheeks, take a deep breath, and then duck out of the bathroom with a bright smile plastered on my face. I just need to make it home, and then I can cry.
"I've been thinking," I say, making my way down the hall to the kitchen. "You should really put up a Christmas tree even if you.…"
I come to a dead stop in the kitchen doorway, staring in shock.
Sinclair has my letter. He'sreadingit.
