Page 99 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

Peter—Sinclair’s chauffeur who’s working with me since Sinclair is away, and because my finger’s still bloody busted—walks around to pop open the lid of the trunk.

I turn and stalk her as she walks up the steps to the front door.

"She keeps you on your toes, huh?" Peter asks.

I tilt my head.

"The two of you remind me of how it was with Mr. Sterling and Ms. Summer before they got together."

"You’re mistaken." I scowl, "There’s nothing like that."

He places both of Amelie's suitcases, and a considerably smaller suitcase —i.e. mine—on the ground; he slaps the trunk shut.

I frown down at Amelie's pink frothy wardrobe on wheels. "You’d think she were packing for a month instead of two nights."

He chuckles, then reaches for the suitcase, but I shake my head, "I’ll carry her load."

He peers up at me, "You do that, Sir."

I frown, open my mouth to ask what he means, but he’s already walked off, with the rest of the luggage.

What-fucking-ever. My brain cells are, clearly, not functioning at full force, which is why I’d read between the lines. He didn’t mean anything by that… He didn’t. Did he?

I shake my head and follow Peter up the steps to where she stands, at an angle to the door.

I dump the bag, pause next to her, "Couldn’t you have packed more sensibly?"

She turns to me, an expression of almost comical consternation on her face, "No. I need it all. I mean, you weren’t helpful at all, gave me no pointers on what to wear, or what to expect, so I had to make sure I had all of my emergency clothes on hand."

"And that?" I point to the chef’s toolkit that she has slung over her other shoulder.

She tucks it under her arm. "I don’t go anywhere without this."

"Right." I drag my fingers through my hair, "Look, maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, I mean—"

The door opens. "Weston," my sister’s voice calls out.

Next to me, Amelie stiffens. She swallows, clutches at her handbag. The skin stretches white across her knuckles. I should revel in her nervousness, in how out of her depth she seems. I mean, isn’t that the point of this entire charade, to show her who is more superior in this relationship?Is there a relationship between us? And who, exactly, is out of their depth? Her? Or me?

I grip her shoulder. She peers up at me, and I hold her gaze before saying softly, "It will be fine."What will be fine? Why the hell am I trying to put her at ease?

She parts her lips, and fuck it, I can’t resist. I lower my head and brush my mouth over hers. She draws in a breath and I deepen the kiss. Swipe my tongue inside to tangle with hers, draw of that chocolate and honey taste of hers. My head spins.

I break the kiss, survey her face. Flushed cheeks, dazed eyes. She blinks, sways. Good, that should take her mind off of the upcoming ordeal—I mean, the family stuff. Not that I don’t want to spend time with them, but so many people all at once, can be a little overwhelming, especially since my family doesn’t take shit from me.

There’s a commotion behind me, then, "Unca Wes." Arms wrap around my legs. I glance down at my niece.

"Present… Christmas." The little imp smiles up at me. Well, one of us has our priorities right, at least.

"Phoenix," my sister calls out to her daughter, "let Uncle Wes and his friend inside the house, at least, and it’s impolite to ask him what he’s got for you. Speaking of," she turns to me, "I didn’t realize you were bringing a guest." She looks between us.

Amelie’s body goes even more rigid; she turns to me, "You didn’t tell them?" Her gaze narrows on me and color flushes her cheeks.

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.That thing about keeping her off kilter? I intend to deliver on that.

"I like to be spontaneous," I allow my lips to curve.

Amelie makes a sound deep into her throat.