Page 18 of Christmas with a Chimera (Claw Haven)

“Tell them no comment, then,” he said. There was a pause. “ Everybody says no comment sometimes. Just because I have a good relationship with a lot of those vultures doesn’t mean I owe them a quote.”

Another pause. Arthur let out a very un-Arthur-like sigh before his tone went back to light and confident. “Fine. Tell them she’s a wonderful costar, and we have fun together.”

Emma’s grip tightened on the towel in her hair. We have fun together. She knew what she would assume if she read that in a gossip magazine. What was Arthur saying?

“They can take it however they want!” Arthur laughed. Then he paused, the laughter leaving his voice. “Right, uh. No. Emma was… We happened a million years ago. Ancient history. I’ll be back in LA by Christmas. And good luck to anyone who tries to harass her. She’ll chew them right out.”

Somebody said something on the other end of the line. Arthur laughed again, and the noise only made the fire building in Emma’s veins burn hotter.

Ancient history. I’ll be back in LA by Christmas. We have fun together. What kind of idiot was she, thinking she actually mattered to him? Even if he really hadn’t knotted anybody else but her, even if she was the only person who ever saw him vulnerable. That wasn’t enough for him to stay.

Emma charged into the kitchen dressed in only her underwear, a damp towel hanging from her hand.

“Gotta go. Talk later.” Arthur beamed, dropping his phone on the counter. He was dressed in a pair of boxers and nothing else, tossing an orange up in the air and catching it easily in one large hand. “Hey, you. My turn?”

Emma glared at him. “Who was that?”

Arthur blinked, surprised at the venom in her tone. Then his smile slid back into place, picture-perfect as always. “My agent. She asked if I wanted to comment on some photos that are going up. I told them that if they bothered you, you’d make them regret it.”

“Bother me?”

Arthur hesitated, the orange coming to one last thud in his hand before he placed it back in the fruit bowl. “They have some photos of us kissing.”

“But that just happened,” she protested.

“Age of the iPhone.” He scratched his mane guiltily. Her sweat was still drying in his fur, forming stiff peaks for him to rake his claws through.

“I’ll keep your name out of the articles. People will still be able to find out who you are if they dig, but—”

Emma cut him off. “That must be bad publicity, with everything that’s going on with Jennifer.”

“Oh, good, so you did hear that.” Arthur sighed. “Nothing is going on with Jennifer. I don’t date coworkers until after shooting wraps.”

“Do you sleep with them?”

“I haven’t slept with her. Why? Are you worried?” Arthur grinned, fangs flashing in the dim room. It was so close to how he looked in all those movie posters that Emma felt sick.

“Emma,” Arthur continued. He reached out to touch her bare waist.

Emma wrenched back, teeth clenched, stomach still roiling. She didn’t want to feel sick . She wanted anger, hot and cleansing as it reached its boiling point.

“Why would I be worried?” she snapped. “We’re not together. We’re not anything. God, why am I even here right now?”

She turned to leave. He leaped in front of her, hands raised pointedly.

“Because we’re having a nice time!” he said, and the desperation in his voice made her pause. His eyes were huge and oddly pleading as he lowered his hands and placed them—slowly, cautiously—on her underwear-clad hips.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “Then we can… I don’t know. Watch a movie. Order dessert. I can make a café fly something up. Or we can go down and continue the tour! There are stores that aren’t on Main Street for me to mislabel, right?”

“Arthur,” Emma said, teeth gritted.

He kissed her forehead. “Stay there. It’ll be great, I promise! Night’s far from over.”

“ Arthur ,” she snapped.

“Gonna be great,” he repeated, already walking toward the bathroom, leaving Emma alone and mostly naked in the kitchen, shaking with rage.

I’ll be back in LA by Christmas.

She knew. She knew , so why was she so angry?

She’d been telling herself he was going back to LA since she arrived.

But somehow, hearing him say it in that careless, flippant tone after he’d begged her to come and visit—after he’d stared at her so desperately while she rode him and held her so tightly—made her want to run into that bathroom.

Scream in his face. But before she could take a step, his words from their first not-date flew through her head: You feel something you don’t like, and then you get mad.

Because it’s easier than feeling whatever’s under it.

“Screw you,” Emma whispered.

But there was a nagging truth to it, something cold and uncomfortable to match her boiling rage.

Emma breathed out shakily. For the first time, she looked under her anger.

It took a while, standing there with her fists clenched in the kitchen.

But as she peeled back those hot, satisfying layers, she noticed there were a dozen things under it.

Betrayal, sadness, a mourning she’d been repressing for over a decade.

And more than anything: exhaustion. She was so damn tired.

She wanted to go back to normal. Having him for two weeks hurt more than never having him again.

Emma wiped her burning eyes. Then she crept into the living room, pulling on her crumpled clothes and shoes and hoping the shower would drown out the sound of the front door sliding open and closed.

* * *

She trudged toward the snowy path that led down the hill. Then she dug her phone out and dialed Luna’s number.

Luna answered after two rings. “Well, hi, there! If this is about dropping in on the book club, it just ended. But we’re at Creature Comforts. They stayed open for us!”

“Great,” Emma croaked, feeling like an idiot. “Um, I wanted to say sorry. For snapping at you the other day. You were just trying to help.”

“Aw, that’s fine. I shouldn’t have pried, but you know I love gossip.” Luna paused. “Are you alright? You sound…different.”

Emma bit her tongue, fighting the urge to tell Luna to mind her business.

Never mind that she’d called her. Never mind that she would have to slog down the mountain in a ratty pair of sneakers and not enough layers.

Then Arthur’s voice came to her once again: You have to open up, not just hide under the anger.

Goddamnit , Emma thought . I might actually have to thank the bastard.

“Actually, I’m not doing so great,” she admitted in a rush. “Can you pick me up?”