Page 30 of Slaying for Santa

“For fuck’s sake, Bell. Stop fucking sneaking up on me.”

I roll my eyes, thankful for his typical banter. “I didn’t. You’re just deaf because you’re old.”

A wicked grin crosses his face. “Oh yeah? Old didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

Shit. He has a point. Old really didn’t bother me. In fact, old, or his version of old, was a goddamn blessing.

There’s something to be said about experience.

His eyes flick over my shoulder to the staircase. “Libi! Breakfast!” he calls, and I cringe.

“Maybe she wants to sleep in.”

For a long moment, he stares at me like I’m an idiot. “She’s five. Never has she slept in and never does she take her time coming down for breakfast.”

Well, don’t I feel like an idiot.

“My bad. I’m not that familiar with the daily life of a five-year-old.”

His expression softens. “Sorry. I’m not really a morning person.”

I cringe. “That must suck when you have a kid.”

He scoffs. “You have no idea.”

Turning back to the stove, he turns off the burners, and I round the counter, taking a peek at what he’s cooked up.

Yum. Bacon and scrambled eggs.

His eyes flick to me, and a smirk tugs at his lips as he starts to dish up the food. “You look well fucked.”

Jesus, is it hot in here?

“You too,” I say awkwardly, and holy hell, when have I ever been awkward?

“Thanks for grabbing my bag.” I change the subject, clearing my throat. “I put it back in the guestroom.”

He stills, his blue eyes snapping to mine. “Well, you can go and move it back into my room.”

I scoff. “Unlikely.”

Putting the pan down, he faces me fully, crossing his arms over his chest as he pins me with his glare.

“Was I unclear last night?” He growls, his brow pinching in the middle, clearly unhappy at this conversation.

Wait… was he serious last night?

“That was Santa,” I point out, crossing my arms over my chest to match him. “We were playing.”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “IamSanta, and we may have been playing, but I don’t fucking make up shit like that.”

Oh… Shit. He really was serious.

For a few long beats, we stare at each other, neither of us willing to break the battle of wills first, but I need to say something. This weird obsession with making me his has to stop.

“We can’t do that,” I say, studying every micro-shift in his expression.

“Why?” he snaps, and I roll my eyes, kinda figuring it was obvious.