Page 92 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

She thought for a moment. “Neither.”

“There is tea?”

Stacia shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“I will make something for you,” he said.

“What?”

“Something my batman used to make for me. It is half ale and half lemonade. He called it lemon beer.”

“That sounds…” It sounded disgusting, but that was rude. “Er, intriguing.”

“It is refreshing.” He poured the mixture and then handed her the glass.

“Thank you,” she said, looking dubiously at the pale brown liquid for a moment before taking a small sip. It was not terrible.

“Well?” he asked.

“It is interesting.”

“Do you want a glass of just lemonade?”

“No, I will drink a little more of this.”

He filled a second glass with ale, took a deep pull, and gave a sigh of contentment.

At least one of them was content.

Apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

Even in the dim light of the attic his eyes were a shockingly bright blue. He smiled. “You already apologized.”

“That was for the first thing I said. Now I am apologizing for insulting you again.”

He laughed, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. “You are forgiven—for any and all infractions you might have committed.”

“You are not angry with me?”

“I am not.” His gaze turned pensive. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said grimly. “I know what this means.”

“Well, you needn’t look so joyous about it.”

“Why should I be joyous about being ruined?” she demanded.

“I was not talking about being ruined. I was talking about being my wife.” The muscles in his face tightened until he looked just as gorgeous as ever, but stern and intimidating instead of his usual laughing and teasing self.

“Er, wife?” she repeated.

His jaws flexed, but he didn’t speak.

“Why?” she blurted.

“You mean why would I marry you when I didn’t marry Sarah Creighton?”