“Margaret has the hearth decorated with thick greenery and gold ribbon. Glass-and-glitter ornaments and nutcrackers that her children buy her every year.” Stef’s eyes were bright and happy. “Don’t you love Christmas?”
He nearly choked on his next sip.
“No.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to tell the truth, but there it was.
“At all?” She regarded him like he’d announced he kicked puppies in his spare time.
“Not at all.”
“Why?”
He turned to face her and was struck dumb by the blue of her eyes. Stefanie Ferguson was a beautiful woman. He’d noticed before—it was impossible not to notice—but until now he’d never given himself the luxury to truly look at her.
She was royalty and he was more like a stable boy. In his mind, there’d never been a misconception about who she was and who he was—where she hailed from versus the rock he’d crawled out from under. She was whole, and he’d lost a chunk of himself a long time ago. Whatever passing admiration he’d felt for her in the past, he’d shut it down immediately.
“Did something bad happen?” she pushed.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and stood, setting aside his warm drink, the whipped cream melted.
“Will you tell me about it?”
He faced her, hyperaware that she was dressed from head to toe and he was in his underwear. She noticed, too. He watched her take him in, her eyes sliding down his chest and lower.
Interesting.
Had she ever looked at him with anything other than disdain?
“It’s not a happy story, Stef. I’d rather let you keep your delusions that Christmas is magical and wondrous.”
A line formed between her eyebrows. “I’m not a child because I choose to see the good. Why not admit you’re too much of a coward to share what’s bugging you rather than lash out at me?”
Ah, familiar ground. With a sigh, he returned to the bed, arms resting in his lap. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was lashing out. His blurred reflection watched him from the dark television’s screen. His broad shoulders were slumped as he sat there like a stubborn giant. Stefanie sat delicate as a fairy, blond hair out of its ponytail and spilling over her shoulders, her chin down as she watched him through her lashes.
They were contrasting in every way.
The filthy-rich girl. The wrong-side-of-the-tracks guy. She’d been blessed by the gods and his luck always felt like it was on the verge of running out. He didn’t talk about his family tragedy for a lot of reasons, the dominating one being habit.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” She stood and set her mug aside, but before she could huff off to the attached bathroom, he wrapped his fingers around her arm. Her eyes widened.
“Sorry.” He held up both hands. “I didn’t mean to—”
Rather than finish the thought, he scrubbed a palm over his short hair. “If you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”
Arms crossed, she hoisted an eyebrow in a proprietary manner and waited.
The floor was his.
Standing over Emmett was an odd juxtaposition.
She’d never seen him like this. In his underpants, sure, but she’d also never seen him look so...tired.
She had the irrational urge to touch him. She curled her fingers into fists to keep from reaching for him.
How could he not like Christmas?
“It was a long time ago,” he started.
Her stomach tightened at his foreboding tone. She’d wondered at first if he’d suffered a bad breakup over the holidays, but the hollowness in his voice suggested this tale was much, much worse than a broken heart.