by Nichole Rose
I think I hear him groan a curse—the box isn't that heavy—and then his footsteps sound behind me.
I suck in a deep breath, silently telling myself to get it together. Crushing on the new principal is a bad idea, and I've embarrassed myself enough already. Which is mostly his fault because I didn't expect anyone to be here.
Why is he here right now?
"Why are you working so late, Mr. Greenway?" I ask, too curious to keep the question to myself. It's two days until Christmas. No one works this late on Christmas break unless they don't have a choice. Heck, I'm only here to drop off the equipment that the nursing home borrowed for the Christmas pageant.
They can't afford to buy musical equipment. Since I volunteer there and work here, I borrowed some of the school's. Superintendent Thorne said it was okay. Maybe I should tell Mr. Greenway that before he thinks I'm sneaking around?
"I'm not your boss until January. Call me Sawyer. And I'm unpacking my office," he says when we reach the music room.
"On Christmas break?" I spin around to face him, surprised. "Why aren't you with your family?"
He flinches and his half-smile falls into a frown. Pain flashes in his deep brown eyes, sending a bolt of regret spiraling through me.
"I'm sorry," I quickly whisper. "That's none of my business. Ignore me."
"It's fine," he lies. His reassuring smile doesn't meet his eyes, but it makes my heart jump like it's attached to marionette strings. "My parents and siblings are in San Bernardino."
"Oh. That's not too far."
"It's far enough," he murmurs.
Interesting. He wants to be there; I can hear it in his voice. Instead, he's here.
"Do you have any family here?"
He shakes his head.
I gasp. "You're spending Christmas alone?"
"You make it sound like a terrible thing." He arches a brow at me, but I don't think he's annoyed with me. He doesn't seem annoyed. Just…sad, and maybe a little amused too.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just that being alone on Christmas is so sad." As soon as the explanation leaves my lips, I grimace. I'm not making this any better. For some reason, I keep talking though. "It's a day for being with the ones you love, making memories, and sharing laughter."
"Big Christmas fan, huh?" he teases, following me into the music room.
I flip on the lights and he deposits the box on a table full of instruments the kids use. His gaze sweeps around the room, his eyes growing big as he takes in all the Christmas decorations. Giant snowflakes, brightly colored tinsel, and garland hang everywhere. It looks like Christmas exploded in here, but the kids love it. To be honest, so do I.
Christmas is my favorite time of year. People are much kinder to one another and more generous. Everyone tries to get along with their families and make memories. Growing up, my mom and I didn't have a whole lot, but she scrimped and saved every year to make Christmas magical for me.
We spent hours in the kitchen, baking goodies to take to the nursing home where I still volunteer and to the hospital where mom worked. Aunt Leslie would even come over and help. It was always so much fun to me.
Now that I'm older, we still keep to the same traditions.
"I love Christmas," I murmur, smiling at the memories.
"Me too," he says, his voice soft. "It's my baby sister's favorite day of the year." The sadness is back in his eyes again, turning them from deep brown to pure midnight. I don't know what happened to divide his family and prevent him from going home, but it makes my heart hurt for him. He seems like a genuinely good man who truly misses his siblings and parents. He shouldn't have to spend his first Christmas in a new city alone.
"You're spending Christmas with me," I say before I lose the nerve. Inviting the ridiculously hot, single principal to spend Christmas with you probably isn't strictly professional, but my mom and Aunt Leslie will understand. If they were here, they would do the same thing.
He blinks long lashes at me. "You want to spend Christmas with me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because the thought of you spending it alone is breaking my heart.
"Why not?" I retort, and then grab a rolling cart before he can ask me anything else. "We should get the hall cleaned up."
Crap. Maybe I should let him out of helping me? I consider it for a moment, remember how much equipment is out there, and quickly decide against letting him off the hook. Some of it is heavy. And I like talking to him.
There's something about him that's so…calming? Maybe that's not the right word. Or maybe I'm crazy. I don't know. But being near him is peaceful and soothing. Maybe it's the way he smells like the forest and the ocean all tangled up together. I'm not sure. But something about him feels…right. It makes me want to stay near him.
He's quiet as we head back down the hall. The squeaky wheel on the cart is the only sound between us. The silence is comfortable though, easy.
"How long have you been a principal?" I ask as we round the corner, leaving behind the colorful artwork hanging on bulletin boards all up and down the hall. This one is less colorful, duller and institutional-like. Principal Johnson hated having artwork hanging outside the administration offices.
"This is my first rodeo."
"Really?" I turn my head to look at Sawyer, surprised.
He nods, giving me another of those half-smiles. "I was the assistant dean at a small private college before accepting this position. Hopefully, I'm not rubbish at it."
"Why did you leave?"
"I needed a change of pace," he says, glancing away. That look is back in his eyes, the one that squeezes my heart into a vise and makes me want to hug him.
"Can I give you a word of advice?"
"Of course."
"The teachers here are incredible. Everyone loves these kids and will fight hard for them. But if they aren't receptive to you right out of the gate, it's not you. Um, our last principal was…"
"A dick?" he supplies when I flounder.
"Yes!" I'm so glad he said it, so I didn't have to be the one to do it. "Johnson terrorized the school and made everyone miserable. The kids were scared of him. The teachers avoided him. It wasn't pleasant."
"I've heard," he says, drawing to a stop when we reach the first of the scattered instruments. He reaches down to scoop up a tambourine and a maraca. "Thorne filled me in on the situation. It's been rough going around here for a while, from what I understand."
"Johnson made this place feel more like a prison than a school."
"Why did you stay?" He catches my gaze as he drops the instruments on the cart, genuine curiosity crinkling the corners of his eyes and furrowing his brow. It's not a passing curiosity either, not something small. It's almost as if he needs to know on some level I'm not even sure I understand.
"Because of the kids. I love them so much. I didn't want to abandon them or let them down. We all did what we could to protect them and blunt his impact. I guess we all stayed because we were worried about who would take our places if we left," I admit with a self-conscious shrug, bending to grab one of the cymbals and a set of drumsticks. "Most of us live in this community. These kids are our neighbors, our families. You don't abandon family."
"Do you have kids, little elf?" he asks, his eyes locked on my face as I set the items in the cart.
"No," I whisper, caught up in his gaze. His eyes are so damn beautiful. If they are the doorways to our souls like everyone says they are, then I'm pretty sure his soul is powerfully bright. I could get lose in his eyes and the warmth shining there.
"Do you want kids?"
"So bad."
He reaches out, moving slow as if to give me time to step away and shut him down. I don't. I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to do it. My body is frozen, locked in place as we stare at one another, something vast and powerful growing between us.
His hand touches my cheek, his knuckles gliding down the side of it.
My entire body hums like thousand
s of Christmas lights flickering to life.
I think he feels it too because he sucks in a sharp breath. Heat darkens his expression, turning him fierce. He takes a step closer to me. Or maybe I move closer to him. I'm not sure, but somehow, we end up standing so close together I can feel the heat coming off his body.
"Do you really want to spend Christmas with me?" he asks, his voice velvety soft. He touches one of my curls, gently tucking it behind my ear.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Why?"
"I don't like the way it feels to think of you spending the holiday alone." I'm unable to contain the words when he's staring at me like they're important to him. "It…hurts."
His long lashes flutter. He leans forward and brushes his lips across my cheek.
I don't know why I do it, but I turn my head toward him. Our lips slide together in a sweet kiss that sears me all the way to my soul. He makes a sound that's halfway between a groan and a growl. His tongue touches my bottom lip as if he's tasting me and then he pulls back.
"Thank you," he says, but I'm not sure if he's thanking me for my honesty, if he's thanking me for caring, if his gratitude is for the kiss, or for the invitation. Perhaps it's a combination of all four. All I know for sure is that the shadows in his eyes are lighter and the smile that curves his lips is genuine.
For now, that's enough.
Chapter Three
Sawyer
"I come bearing gifts," Lana says, holding up two giant grocery bags when I throw open the front door bright and early the next morning. Her cheeks are pink from the wind and her hair is tousled. The weak winter sun lights up the blonde strands, making her look as if she has a golden halo dancing around her head.
I scrub a hand down my face, blinking. Christ, she looks edible.
"Oh no," she whispers, her face falling as she takes in my sweats, t-shirt, and wild hair. "I thought we said eight. Did I wake you up?"
"No, I've been up." In more ways than one. My cock hasn't taken a rest since I met her yesterday. I've jerked the fucker raw and he's still stirring in my pants. But I don't think she wants to hear that I spent half the night getting off to filthy fantasies of her.
I couldn't help it.
Even in my sleep, I smelled her intoxicating blend of fresh pine and sweet holly blossoms. She's crawled under my skin and taken up residence there. For the first time in months, I feel at ease, peaceful. As if the weight on my shoulders has been lessened. For once, my dreams weren't full of memories of pulling Savannah's broken body from the mangled wreckage of Saint's car. I dreamed of a cheery little elf with bright eyes, pink cheeks, and the sweetest laugh I've ever heard.
The wind howls outside, making her shiver.
"Shit." I hold the door open wide for her to come inside. It's not particularly cold out, but there's a definite bite in the wind blowing in from the Bay. I think it's going to storm. "Come in, little star."
"Little star?" Her eyes light up, a smile on her face. Those dimples of hers make me want to toss her over my shoulder and carry her to my bed. "I thought you were going to insist on sticking with the elf thing."
"I'm trying something new," I murmur, gritting my teeth when she slips by me, passing so close her scent swirls around me and my dick stands straight up again. What I really want to call her is mine, but I'm not sure she's ready to hear that yet.
"Your house is incredible, Sawyer," she says, looking around with wide eyes at the place. The newly renovated Gothic is gorgeous inside and out. The original floors and decorative molding lend a certain understated elegance to the place, making it seem like the type of home where you'd raise a family rather than a last-minute acquisition. "How did you find this place on such short notice?"
"My father is in real estate," I murmur, shoving the door closed to keep the wind from whipping through. "He has connections all over the state. This place was coming up on the market when I took the job, so I jumped on it."
"I'm jealous." She pouts at me, her bottom lip poking out. I want to bite it. "I live in a shoebox crammed in between two other shoeboxes, in a row of shoeboxes."
Is it too soon to convince her to move in with me?
Shit. Probably so.
"You said you came bearing gifts," I say, nodding at the bags in her hands. "Am I allowed to carry them for you?"
"Yes, please." She holds them out to me with a sweet smile. "Where's your kitchen?"
"That way." I point her in the right direction and then grin when she immediately sets off to find it. She doesn't wait around for permission or for me to take the lead. She just strikes off on her own adventure. I love it. I follow behind her, watching the way her wide hips sway back and forth.
"You're still unpacking?" she says, glancing at me over her shoulder as we pass through the maze of boxes in the living room.
"Unfortunately."
"I'll help."
"You want to help me unpack?"
"Sure. Why not? It'll keep us busy while everything is baking."
I can think of more interesting ways to keep us busy.
"What are we baking?"
"Cookies." She flashes me a bright, happy smile that leaves me weak in the knees. "Lots and lots of cookies. I brought most everything we need, but please tell me you have a stand mixer."
"I do." My mom insisted I needed one two years ago. The only time it's ever been used was when she and Savannah used it. I can cook, but I leave baking to the professionals.
"Is it unpacked?"
"The kitchen is mostly done."
"Oh, thank God," she breathes. "Mixing cookie dough is a full body workout." Her gaze dances up and down my body. "You probably do those every day."
"More or less," I murmur, fighting a smile at her tone.
"I hate working out." She scowls like the thought makes her want to set the gym on fire. "My mom and I usually go at least two days a week though."
We pass through the dining room into the kitchen.
"Father Christmas, this room is amazing!" Lana says, stopping to survey the space.
"Father Christmas?" I chuckle at her enthusiasm and set the bags down on the island. The kitchen is one of my favorite rooms in the house. It's massive and bright, with natural light filtering in from windows all over the room. It reminds me of being home.
My mom is always in the kitchen, cooking and baking or simply nursing a cup of coffee at the table. Dad had her kitchen renovated a few years ago to give her more space to work with. Getting her out of there is next to impossible now. She would live in there if he'd let her.
"I'm cleaning up my vocabulary."
"By replacing swear words with Christmas words?"
Lana turns her nose up at my teasing, which is just fucking adorable. And then she narrows her eyes on me. "Just wait until you drop your first curse word in front of a room full of eight-year-olds. See who's laughing then."
"Probably the eight-year-olds," I tease.
She glances down and then quickly jerks her eyes back up toward mine. Her cheeks turn from pink to red and her eyes get glassy. "You should go put some clothes on while I get everything ready," she says, her voice strangled.
"I am dressed."
"Um, I can see your…staff," she whisper-hisses like she's trying to keep it a secret.
I hesitate for a moment, torn between doing the right thing and being a gentleman and doing what I really want to do and kissing the shit out of her. I settled for option three. "He's been this way since you kissed me last night."
She gulps, but she doesn't look like she wants to slap me. I take that as a good sign.
"I've been thinking about that kiss non-fucking-stop."
"M-me too," she whispers, her voice shaky.
"I'm going to kiss you today. Potentially often. You okay with that?"
"You're my boss. Won't that cause…problems for you?"
"I'm not your boss yet," I remind her. Even if I were, I doubt Sebastian Thorne would have much to say about it considering that his wife is one of o
ur teachers. "If you want to keep things strictly professional, I'll try."
"But that's not what you want," she says.
"It's not." I hold her gaze, so she knows I'm not messing around here. "I'm dying to make you mine. But if that's not what you want, I'll back off." I grimace. "I'll try to back off."
She swallows hard. "I don't want you to back off," she whispers, staring at me from beneath her lashes. "I feel…drawn to you for some reason. Does that sound silly?"
"There's nothing silly about you, Lana." I stride toward her and slide my hand into her hair to tip her head back. Her wide eyes meet mine. Before she can think about it too much, I lean down and kiss her hard on the mouth and then back away. "I'll go get dressed."
By the time I make it back to the kitchen, Lana's managed to turn it into a bakery. Christmas music drifts from her phone. The countertops are covered with an explosion of bowls, baking sheets, cookie cutters, and enough ingredients to feed an army.
I don't think she was exaggerating when she said we were making lots and lots of cookies. She looks happy as a clam surrounded by all her tools.
I stand in the doorway, watching her as she dances around my kitchen, singing her heart out and shimmying her hips. She's captivating, so incredibly beautiful she takes my breath away. Her dulcet voice is absolutely stunning. She should be singing in front of crowds.
For some reason I can't explain, I already know she would hate that type of life.
She's too pure. A life on the road would drain her dry and leave her feeling empty. She needs love and affection and children and home. That's her happy place, the place where she thrives. Anything less would stifle her. She really is a magical little elf, a bright star, shining like a beacon to guide weary souls home.
"I'm marrying your kitchen," she says, flashing those dimples when she sees me watching her. She doesn't get flustered or embarrassed at having been caught dancing. She doesn't even really stop. She just sends teasing laughter my way and keeps on arranging everything to her liking.
I prowl toward her across the room, unable to keep from smiling back at her. It feels like it's been years since I've smiled as often as I have since I met her. When she's near, the guilt lies quietly instead of constantly plaguing me. It's a good feeling.