The Billionaire's Christmas Bride (Big Bad Billionaires #3) - L. Steele Page 0,104

I am the one destined for greatness."

"You’ve proved that already," he mutters. "You got your way in the end—became a surgeon, saved lives. You make the difference between life and death. You saved mother’s life."

He comes forward, grips my shoulder, "Thank you."

Is he for real? "Did you just go all polite as fuck on me?" I scowl.

Liam’s features twist, "Guess not even soulless bastards can resist the spirit of Christmas, huh?"

"You mean it, don’t you?" I shake my head in disbelief. "You’re actually thanking me for the first time ever, that I can remember."

"It is the first time," he confirms. "You can thank your woman for that."

"My woman?"

He nods. "Seeing you fall apart—"

"I didn’t fall apart—" I snarl.

"—then give in, for the first time in my living memory, showed me, you have a human side. You’re not as obnoxious as you come across."

The headache between my temples intensifies. Should I even bother to make sense of what is happening around here?

Arpad saunters in. "What are you still doing here?" He asks.

"That was my next question," Damian chuckles.

"I don’t care either way, by the way," Liam drawls.

I glower. He steps back, then brushes his sleeve, as if to rid himself of all trace of contact. Wanker. Hold on… That’s what I was…or had been… Then she’d swept in, and damn, if all those carefully built walls hadn’t come collapsing around me like confetti. Did I just think confetti? Does that word even exist in my vocabulary?

Liam turns to leave, then shoots me a look over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Mother said to invite her over when you see her." He stalks off.

"When am I going to see who?" I glower.

"You gonna enlighten him?" Damian smirks.

"Nah, it’s inevitable. It’s more fun to watch him fight it." Arpad leans his hip against the bar.

Damian glances at me, "Tick-tock, ol’ chap."

The blood drains from my face. I stumble, then right myself.

"Fuck." Damian leans forward to grab my shoulder, "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that. Of all people, I should have remembered about your triggers."

"Fuck that," I growl. "The Mafia; they broke into her bakery."

"When?" Damian straightens.

"She mentioned it to me, when we first met."

"But you weren’t connected with her—"

"They’d have seen her at Sinclair’s, then at Saint’s wedding." I squeeze the bridge of my nose. "If they have been watching us—"

"They may have followed her to the cabin—" Arpad mutters.

"Which was broken into." My heart begins to race. "Fuck. And I let her leave. She’s home, alone. If something happens to her..."

"It won’t."

"By now, they must realize she means something to me. I brought her to meet my family, after all." Fuck. I’d put her in the path of danger.

"The cops—" Arpad ventures.

"We can’t trust them," I growl. "We know they are connected with the Mafia. One leak and—" I don’t voice my fears. "Besides, no way am I waiting around here. I need to make sure she is safe."

I stalk past them, toward the door.

"I have to go to her."

"Hold on," Damian calls after me, "You're not planning on driving, are you?"

42

"Yesterday I wanted cookies. Today I am eating cookies. Yay! Follow your dreams."

-From Amelie's diary

Amelie

"I am such a loser," I cry into the phone as I pace my apartment.

"Wait, hold on, back up," Isla calms me. "Start from the beginning."

I balance the phone, with Isla peering out at me from the screen, on the kitchen table, "Kirsten called me a car—okay a limo. It was a freakin’ limo service that she ordered to get me from Durham to London. Can you believe it? That’s how these rich folks live, and clearly, I am not one of them."

"Who’s Kirsten?" Isla asks.

"The alphahole’s sister."

"So, we are back to calling him alphahole, huh?"

"Weston fucking a-hole Kincaid," I growl into the phone. "I never want to hear his name again.

"Urm," Isla clears her throat

"Don’t say it—" I warn her.

"I was only going to say that you just mentioned this name."

"That’s what I was afraid of." I wrap the strands of my hair around my palm, "I mean, not that I am complaining about the limo, or anything."

"Of course, not."

"Not after I found the liquor bar in the back of the car."

"I assume you did it justice?" she snickers,

"Yeah," I hiccough. "Oops, sorry." I walk to the kitchen, fill a mug with water—because hell, I always drink water from coffee mugs. That’s my little rebellious streak, right there. I sip from the mug, and walk over to the window of my studio apartment. The