This, Ben thought, was absolute carnage.

He scanned the room. Louise, Ella, and Ophelia were drinking champagne, wearing matching purple paper crowns. On Louise's lap, Vienna ripped into a present, squealing as she unearthed a pair of glittery shoes. Hugh was examining two red trains — one for him, and one for his imaginary friend, Wally.

"Put it on the tracks, Hugh," Andrew said. "You see how well it moves?" He took a blue train, pushing it around the tracks.

Andrew was lying on the floor beneath the Christmas tree, surrounded by chocolate wrappers. Ben grinned. He'd never thought he'd see the day that Lord Andrew Hazelton-Scott would be prone on their living room floor, zooming trains around a wooden track.

Christmas truly was a magical time.

Ben pulled out his phone. Snapped a picture.

Andrew shook a mince pie at him. "Don't tag me in that."

"Of course not," Ben said, sending the photo to every WhatsApp group he could think of. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Langford—"

"Darling," Ophelia said, turning to Andrew, "we got those trains for Hugh."

Her boyfriend took a bite of mince pie. "I'm just demonstrating."

Ophelia sighed. "You're stealing his toy, Andrew."

"We're sharing."

"I'm no detective, Scott," Max called, "but it really does look like theft, from where I'm sitting."

Max was sprawled on the couch, munching on a plate of gingerbread biscuits. Ella was curled up on his lap. She was chatting to her brother Rory and his fiancée Margaux over FaceTime, saying something about Rory's terrible reindeer socks.

Ben yawned. How was it only nine o'clock in the evening? The kids had woken them up before dawn to open stockings, and he was surviving solely on caffeine and a lot of Baileys. Louise rose, pressing a mug into his hands.

"Here," she murmured. "I added extra this time."

"Coffee," Ben said, "or alcohol?"

She winked. "Both."

Ben gave her a grateful look.

Andrew rolled on to his back, holding up a piece of mangled track. "Can I get a screwdriver? And a large glass of whisky?"

Ben rose. Screwdriver. Where the hell was the screwdriver? He poured a glass of whisky, opening kitchen drawers at random. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used it. To set up the tables for Vienna's birthday? No. It had to be more recent.

A thought occurred to him.

Ah.

He'd used it just this week. To unscrew Hugh's bed, and move it back into Vienna's room, for the sake of appearances. Then Ben had set up a cot to make it look like he was sleeping in there.

Right.

"Here," Ben said, offering Andrew the whisky. "It's Macallan."

"Cheers, mate."

Louise rose. "I can get the screwdriver. Where is it?"

"It's in Hu—" Ben caught himself. "In my bedroom."

Louise nodded. Turned for the stairs. She'd made it halfway there when Max frowned, setting down a half-eaten gingerbread biscuit.

"Were you building a desk or something?" he asked.

"Not exactly," Ben said. "I was... um..."

"Moving my b-b-bed."

All eyes turned to Hugh, who was zooming a train around the track. Louise froze; the only movement was her paper crown fluttering in the breeze drifting in from the window. Max's frown deepened.

He turned to Ben. "You were moving Hugh's bed? Why?"

"Oh." Ben rubbed his jaw. "Well, he's outgrowing it. Figured I'd get him a new one."

"That's not t-t-true," Hugh said.

He looked appalled. In any other circumstances, Ben thought, he would have applauded his nephew for his strong sense of candor; currently, however, he wanted to strangle him. Or kick over his trains. Both, possibly.

"I don't get it." Max looked between them. "What's going on?"

Ben ran through several excuses: they'd been checking it for bedbugs; they hadn't built it properly the first time; he was turning it into a set of bunkbeds, so Vienna could move into a bigger bed.

"Right." He was going with the bedbugs story. "So the thing is—"

"We share a room," Louise said.

She crossed her arms, looking at her brother defiantly. Ben's heart sank. Max shifted Ella on his lap, his green eyes narrowing.

"You what?" he demanded.

Ben swallowed.

Shit.

Louise took off her paper crown. "Ben and I normally share a room. Hugh has his own." She shrugged, turning over the crown. "We moved Hugh's bed into Vienna's room for the week because I knew you wouldn't approve."

"Oh, Christ," Andrew murmured. "I'm going to need another whisky for this."

Max rose. "You said you weren't sleeping with him."

"I'm not!" Louise said.

"But you sleep in the same room." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"The same bed?" Max asked.

Louise set down the crown. "It's not what you think."

Max blew out a breath. "Jesus Christ, Louise."

"I'm not a child, Max." Louise's eyes flashed dangerously. Dangerously enough that Ben knew Max should already be backtracking. "I can make my own decisions. You don't need to parent me. Anyway, this way the kids each get their own room."

"Vienna's three," Max said. "She doesn't need her own room."

Louise laughed humourlessly. "Well, you don't know your niece very well, then."

Max reared back as if she'd slapped him. Awkward silence filled the room. Louise was shivering slightly, although whether that was because she was angry or standing near the open window, Ben couldn't have said.

"And you?" Max turned to Ben. "You're happy with this little platonic sleeping arrangement? You're doing it just for the sake of the kids?"

He held his gaze. "What are you trying to say?"

"I see how you look at Louise," Max said.

Louise took a step forward. "Max—"

"You're in love with her," Max said. "Admit it."

Ben refused to look away. A pulse pounded in his throat. Not for the first time, he wondered how Max and Louise shared genetics. Sure, both Bentley siblings spoke their minds, but at least Louise knew when to stop; Max was an A-class wanker on occasion.

Ella put a hand on her boyfriend's shoulder.

"Max," Ella said. "Stop it. You're being an as—" She caught herself, glancing at Hugh. "Er. A pain in the butt."

Ben blinked.

Well. At least someone was willing to say it.

Ben half-expected Max to turn around and snap at his girlfriend, but he deflated, like a balloon that someone had punctured. His expression was almost sheepish. As if perhaps he'd forgotten exactly where he was.

"Sorry." Max ran a hand through his hair. "I just... I worry about you, Lou. I know that you're capable of making your own decisions — of course I do — but you're my little sister." He dropped his hand. "It's my job to protect you."

Louise frowned. "I don't need protecting."

"I know."

She softened. Just a little. Most people wouldn't have been able to tell, Ben thought, but it was something about the way she tilted her head; Louise only did that when she was reconsidering her position.

"I'm sorry, too," Louise said finally. "I shouldn't have said that about Vienna. I know you love her."

Max nodded. "Thank-you."

Ophelia rose. "Why don't we all watch a film? I can make rum-and-eggnogs."

"An excellent idea, darling," Andrew said, looking relieved.

They turned on "The Grinch." Rum-and-eggnogs were poured. And the by the time midnight rolled around, everything had been forgiven; Ben watched as Max and Louise stretched out under the twinkling Christmas tree, passing a tray of cookies back and forth.

And he felt content.

An hour later, Ben knocked on her door.

He knew it was ragingly inappropriate. Knew that — somewhere downstairs — Max and Ella were cleaning up wine glasses and chocolate wrappers before going to their hotel. Knew that they'd hear Ben, shuffling around in his grey trackies, knocking on the door of the master bedroom.

But screw it.

He didn't give a damn about what Max Bentley thought of him. Louise had forgiven her brother, but that didn't mean Ben had to.

"Come in," a voice called.

Louise was propped up in bed, dressed in a grey pajama top and red shorts with flying reindeer on them. She was reading a book with a swooning woman on the front. The title read, "The Duke of Wicked Lies."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "What did our good friend the Duke do?"

Louise shrugged. "I haven't got to that part yet." She bookmarked the page. "It's not looking good for him, though."

"Is he a secret prince?"

"No. I'm thinking a handsome spy."

Ben leaned against the wall. "I didn't realize you liked romance novels."

Louise smiled, pulling the covers up to her chest. "I hid them in Hugh's bedroom when we first moved in. I was so worried you'd find them."

"And now?"

"Now," Louise said dryly, "I've seen you passed out on a bed in your clothes, about one drink from getting sick on yourself. We don't have secrets anymore."

She leaned back, her legs sprawling across the bed. Not long legs, Ben thought, but cute, short ones. Legs that struggled to reach the top shelf. Legs that detested cardio, adored dancing in the kitchen, and were fueled entirely by wine and caffeine.

Ben looked away. "I should go."

He needed to go. His thoughts were running to dangerous places these days, especially after all those rum-and-eggnogs. Louise patted the bed.

"You might as well stay," she said. "Everyone knows now."

"Knows what?" he asked carefully.

"That we share a bed." Louise gave him a duh look. "Obviously."

Ben swallowed. Right. Just him, then; if Louise knew the thoughts that were running through his head half the time, she'd be horrified. She certainly didn't know that he was writing mental spoken word poetry about her legs.

God.

What was wrong with him?

He flopped into bed, switching off the lamp. Louise set her book on the nightstand. He could smell her lilac perfume in the darkness, mixing with something that he could never identify. Something warm and sweet.

"Bentley." Ben pillowed his hands behind his head. "About what Max said earlier..."

"Which part?" she asked.

He braced himself. "The bit about me fancying you."

"Ah." Louise shifted. "I wouldn't worry about it; Max thinks everyone's in love with me. I know not to take it seriously."

"Right," Ben said.

Ben stared at the ceiling. The idea that Max had threatened other men before him — a whole bloody list of them, from the sounds of it — made his stomach tighten. The elder Bentley was paranoid, but he wasn't stupid; if Max thought a bloke fancied Louise, he probably did. After all, who wouldn't?

Ben thought back to Ophelia's words at the party. Everyone's half in love with Louise; she just has that effect on people.

That knot in his stomach tightened again.

And, Ben reflected, he'd stupidly agreed not to sleep with her. He'd laughed at the very idea of it.

Fuck.

"Good night, Langford." Louise's voice was sleepy. "Happy Christmas."

He exhaled. "Happy Christmas, Bentley."

Ben rolled over.

Sleep didn't come for hours.

Ben woke up to something soft.

Early morning light filtered into the room, and Ben was dimly aware that his arms were wrapped around something. A warm pillow? He burrowed further into it. The pillow shifted, and Ben became aware of curves. Soft, delicious curves. The scent of lilac tickled his nostrils, and he wanted to sink into it.

A hot rush of blood went through him.

He could feel himself growing hard, his body responding to the warm sensation. He wanted more of it. Ben leaned forward, and—

And fuck.

That was Louise.

She'd tensed. He could feel her racing heartbeat under his hands. His hands, Ben realized belatedly, which were definitely not where they should be.

"Sorry." Ben jerked backward. "I— fuck. Sorry."

His mind was still clouded. Dazed with lust. He couldn't stop looking at her, looking at that tangled dark hair and flushed cheeks, and he wanted her. He was willing to admit that to himself now.

Not that Ben had much of a choice.

They'd both realized exactly how much he wanted her; the proof of it was on full display. Louise seemed to be trying to keep her eyes on his face.

"I should..." She licked her lips. "I'm going to check on the kids."

She hurried from the room.

With a groan, Ben flopped back on the bed. Stupid. He'd been so stupid. Things had finally been going well between them, and now...

Well, now, they were weird.

He rubbed at his eyes. Stared up at the white blades of the fan. Thought the same thing, over and over: What the hell have I just done?

The story continues on March 14...