Holly Garland on Santa's Lap [COMPLETE]

CHAPTER 16 ~Home sweet Home ?~

"Why didn't you tell me?!" I snap, my voice echoing in the elevator with its gold panels and plush carpet.

"I've been trying to tell you for three days!"

"That's not true, and you know it! You've been lying to me from the start—why? What's the point?"

As the elevator dings and the doors slide open, he slips out ahead of me like he's trying to dodge my fury. I'm hot on his heels, my voice still in overdrive.

"What, you thought I'd sell you out to the highest bidder? Or maybe finish the job myself? You really played me, admit it! I told you my whole damn life story! Even introduced you to my parents, for crying out loud! Must've been a great joke for a rich kid like you, right? Something to laugh about with your Country Club buddies?"

"Ginger, can you just calm down?" he says, still walking. "First of all, I didn't make a fool of you. Second, this whole thing isn't some joke. And third, I'm not a Country Club member. Now, could you keep your voice down? You're going to worry the neighbors."

"Don't call me Ginger! And don't tell me to keep quiet, Nick! I couldn't care less about the—"

Uh-oh.

The huge guy from earlier is standing right in front of us, leaning against a door and looking very unamused.

"—neighbors," I finish, my tone a whole lot lower.

He's set all our bags on the doormat, and he must have come straight up from the parking garage to get here before us.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Paxton?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at me with those intense blue eyes, like I'm the issue.

"Nope, all good," Nick replies, tossing him his keys.

André the Giant catches them, but before opening the door, he warns us, "Stay right here. Don't come in until I say it's clear."

Instant worry. Does that mean someone might have broken into Nick's place? Just lurking inside, waiting to attack him?

I shiver. The gangster must have Nick's stuff, same way they stole mine from the bag I left.

Nick and I share a look that says it all: any sign of danger, and we bolt together—fast.

The goon finally comes back, tucking the biggest gun I've ever seen into a holster hidden under his jacket, before he picks up our bags.

"Area's clear, you can head in," he grunts in a voice way scarier than Nick's attempt at being Santa.

It's like something that makes you want to snap to attention and say, "Yes, sir!"

But who does he think he is, part of the Secret Service or something?

Pfft! Who am I kidding? He's not even close. In fact, he looks more like a mafia enforcer than a bodyguard. Heck, he might be worse than the one who's after us.

Nick whispers something to him while I step inside.

The ceilings are sky-high, and every room is ridiculously huge, but it's cold, empty. There's nothing personal here. Just designer furniture, an abstract painting on the wall, a giant black splatter on a white canvas with some red scribbles. Creepy metal sculptures scattered around that look like evil creatures. So ugly, I want to throw a sheet over them. What's the point of art you can't even stand to look at? Bet these cost a fortune, and you can't even use them as paperweights! Ugh... what a waste!

I wanted to learn more about Nick, and I'm seriously disappointed.

No photos, no personal touch. It's depressing.