Total pages in book: 9
Estimated words: 8854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 44(@200wpm)___ 35(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 8854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 44(@200wpm)___ 35(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
“Fine,” he grunts, slamming the jar down and stomping over, dropping to the seat and crossing one leg over the other, his palms splayed on each arm. “And I think you’ve had enough.” He nods at my wine.
Laughter erupts from deep in my belly, filling the room. “Oh, I’ve had nowhere near enough.” Now you’re here.
“You’re really texting them?” he asks.
“Yep.” Why the hell not? It’s not like my patience could be shredded any more.
So I do. I send a mass message to each and every one of them—and a mental message to Johnny and Frank—and, as expected, they all reply in a heartbeat.
All on their way.
Through the wonder of fiction—and time travel—they arrive immediately, a chorus of various engines rumbling down my driveway. With the exception of Johnny and Frank, who arrive on horseback.
From 1816.
It’s a Fictional Christmas Miracle.
I leave Jesse still sulking in the chair and go to the door, hauling it open and watching as I’m descended on by an army of men. It’s not how I expected my Christmas Eve to pan out, but here I am, surrounded by alphas of all varieties. There are worse places I could be.
I sense the testosterone level creep up from dangerous to deadly. Every single one of them have a look of intention on their faces as they pass me, nodding their hellos. Because they know he’s here brandishing his signature Lord-like behaviour. And each of them all want that top spot.
I don’t offer drinks, they won’t be here long. This is going to be a lot. Maybe I should’ve had some Red Bull instead of wine.
Closing the door, I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders, and follow them into the kitchen. I find Jesse has left the chair and is halfway up my stepladder ready to hang his bauble in the top spot, cufflinks flashing like he’s auditioning for alpha status itself. “Don’t,” I warn calmly, making him freeze and slowly look over his shoulder, casting his green eyes across the sea of competition.
“Don’t what?” he asks, faintly amused, entirely unapologetic.
“You know what,” I answer. “Get down from the ladder.”
Low laughter ripples through the room, all of my men amused, and Danny’s mouth curves. It’s not a smile, but it’s close, his scar deepening. James’s eyes flick to me, then to Jesse, already assessing outcomes. Jude leans against the doorway like he owns it, heat simmering just beneath his grin.
“I’ve earned it,” Jesse says.
Ty baulks, insulted, his ego racing to the surface ready to fight.
“Let’s consult the others on that, shall we?” I say, eyeing each and every one of them, becoming more and more anxious for what’s to come. I don’t think I thought this through. Jesse’s fault.
Dec shifts beside me, solid, quiet, and present. He doesn’t speak—never needs to—and Jack folds his arms, watching Jesse like a man watching a storm he’s already survived. Because if anyone knows what unreasonable looks like, it’s him.
Jesse sighs. “For fuck’s sake.” And, miraculously, does as he’s told, coming down the ladder, eyes still on the opposition.
Luke blinks his surprise, resting back against the counter, quietly observant, and Josh lets out a soft laugh. “God, I love it when someone tells him no.”
Brad snorts. “And he listened. Christmas miracle.”
Theo hasn’t moved from his spot in the corner, away from everyone, out of reach. I quietly pray no one touches him, I don’t need that kind of mess to clean up on Christmas Eve. Drew hasn’t blinked. Jake is already positioned between me and everyone else. It’s instinct, not intention. Becker’s taking in my kitchen, and I just know he’s already spotted my granddad’s carriage clock. You better not steal it.
Johnny and Frank are looking quietly uncomfortable, like they’ve just stepped into the future—because they have—their alarmed eyes scanning all the mod-cons in my kitchen—the kettle, the Nespresso machine, the Ninja juicer, probably wondering what the hell kind of world this is. I mentally apologise for dragging them out of 1816 to deal with this shit show.
Ryan’s doing what he does best, quietly observing, probably considering his battle plan. And then there’s Miller. I can see how tense he is, desperate to riffle through my cupboards for the Anti-bac spray so he can wipe my counters free of all the crumbs littering them. I mentally scold myself for not having the foresight to do that. Again, Jesse’s fault.
“Alright,” Jude says lightly. “If Ward’s not on top, who is?”
I look at the tree again. Then back to all of my alpha’s. Isn’t that the burning question? I sit on a stool at the island and claim my wine, my brows raised as Jesse scowls.
Silence. It’s glorious.
This room full of some of the biggest egos in fiction, face-to-face for the first time in history. I know I’m playing a dangerous game. I’m blaming Jesse. Again. The man’s impossible. He forced this. “I’m the OG, boys,” he says, smug, pulling in the lapels of his suit jacket, his Rolex flashing along with those cufflinks. “Remember that when you’re all wielding your egos.”