The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 10

Mom sets the platter down on the table, her eyes drifting to Thatch, who has hardly looked up since she called him in from the deck, all but ordering him to join us for dinner. His kisses still fresh on my lips from only hours before, I rattle across from him as Brenden and Whitney go back and forth, forever annoying Dad.

“Thatcher, sweetie,” Mom coaxes. “Want some ham?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he states, taking the large serving fork from her before pulling a tiny slice onto his plate.

“Shit, kid, nonsense, eat,” she orders, emptying half the platter on his plate before Thatch chuckles through telling her to stop. I look between them as Mom keeps her prodding focus on him. It’s when Thatch finally lifts his eyes to hers that I see it. It’s as plain as day—guilt.

He’s riddled with it, and it’s no mystery why. It’s for being with me. Kissing me, touching me. Maybe I should leave him alone. He’s made it clear since night one that we’re not a good idea. Even as I think it, I sink back into the memory I’ve been playing on repeat all day. It was just after he delivered one of the most intense kisses of my life. A collection of thundering heartbeats passed as our snarky back and forth ceased to exist. Dazed by the kiss, we stared at one another, buzzing with the connection between us. Lips close to touching, he’d threaded his fingers through my hair, cupping the back of my head while tenderly running his thumb along my cheek. I’d leaned into his touch as his whisper hit me straight in the chest.

“Jesus, baby, I can’t . . . fuck, I can’t get enough of you.”

It was that moment that flit through my mind the second my eyes cracked open this morning, and it’s that exchange that has me mentally willing him to keep fighting whatever reservations he has about us. If only so that we can have more of those moments. But as of this one, here and now, he’s refusing to even look at me.

He regrets it, has to, and yet his behavior isn’t really all that different than it was the first night at the table. Maybe it’s just the way I feel. Am I alone in this? I can’t be. He was there in every sense of the word last night.

Or, is it just that easy for Thatch to play things off? To play me? He said he wasn’t by any means a gentleman but was trying—for me.

From the way he talks, it’s like he’s ashamed of who he is, but he’s only twenty. Too young to have done so much damage already. Right?

These questions play on a loop as they have all day, the answers buried in the locked jaw of the guy sitting across from me. One I’m now allowing to fuck with my head. Even so, I told him this didn’t have to get complicated. That it could be just fun. So why does it feel like this? Why is he the one making it so hard?

If he’s a player, big deal. That I could deal with. I have before . . . but what exactly is his true damage? He confessed he’s not in a good place with his parents but seems okay with it. The bigger question is, why do I care so damned much? The answer rings clear in my mind just after.

He’s all I’ve thought about since I walked through my door after driving back from college. Meeting him in that shed is the only thing I’ve had to look forward to since—besides being home. Maybe I’m being selfish by forcing him to push past his protests. I know I am, but the last three months have been some of the worst I’ve endured in the last year. My attraction to him has been a welcome distraction from it. Because of that, I’m most likely reading into this too much. Am I making something out of so little because I need it?

Gah, Serena, could you be more pathetic?

But even as I convince myself I’m alone in it and pushing too hard, I feel his kiss. I hear his whispers. I continue to feed on the memory of the look in his eyes that told me I’m anything but alone. I’m drowning in him already, in his mystery, but it’s keeping me from thinking about what lies ahead. About the return trip to school. Of what’s waiting, which is turning out to be a whole lot of fucking nothing.

Though now, and as he continues to speak the bare minimum while flat out ignoring me, his sweet words are starting to mean less and less. Especially when he excuses himself to chop wood the minute he cleans his plate. As he pushes his chair back, I search him, his face, his expression for any sign, absolutely anything. A subtle twist of lips, a smirk, something to show me I’m reading this wrong. It’s when I’m left with nothing that I glare at his retreating back as he walks out the door, not hesitating a single second.

Knowing that going after him is stupid and pointless and that I’ll probably be waiting in vain tonight, I continue to stare in the direction Thatch left as Whitney sounds up.

“What did the back door do to you, sis?” She chides. Feeling a complete fool now and knowing I’m making it obvious, I fix my glare on her. Whitney lowers her eyes, her grin growing as Mom scolds her.

“Leave her alone, Whitney.”

“What?” She feigns innocence. “She stares at him all freaky like, that’s probably why he ran.”

“I like him,” Brenden states, utterly oblivious. “He watches WrestleMania, too.”

“Second daughter,” Dad barks as Whitney whips her face toward him. “Shut your pie hole and Son . . .?”

“Yes, Daddy?” Brenden asks, batting his lashes.

“Shut up forever.”

“That’s just not nice, Father. Oh! Can we have pie for dessert, Mom?” Brenden shifts, utterly unaffected. Feeling Mom’s eyes on my profile as she answers, I resist the urge to glance at the door. Stomach roiling, I put my napkin on my plate, hating the indecision I’m feeling. Hating that I have never had to work so fucking hard to get a guy to talk to me in my life. In a way, Thatch is giving chase, and like a damned fool, I’m fucking following like I don’t know better. But I do. So why am I?

Let him go, Serena.

Deciding to do just that, I’m just about to excuse myself when Mom speaks up. “Sun is setting. It’s going to be dark soon.”

She relays this in a nonspecific, roundabout way as she stares out the window, but I know her comment is for me. Glancing over at her and eager for any sign of encouragement, she forks some mashed potatoes and refuses me. It’s only when chatter resumes at the table that her eyes finally find and settle on mine. A wordless second later, I excuse myself. Wrapping my scarf around my neck, I slip out the back door.

Head spinning from far too much rum, I meander into our temporary bedroom after checking on the kids, who, thankfully, are out. The shower runs in the adjacent bathroom as I fight my leggings off and discard my hoodie on the floor. Overheated and slightly nauseous, I curse the fact that my buzz is wearing off so soon, and the imminent hangover is sure to be an epic asshole. Not long after, I’m piling pillows to situate them when a smooth voice—one I know all too well—filters through the air.

“Evenin’, Brat.”

Looking up from the bed to the bathroom, I find my husband dripping wet, a towel wrapped and tucked around his waist, eyes fixed on me in an unmistakable way.

“No, no, Sir, no, tonight is not your night, bro,” I state, unable to help my smile as he drops his towel with an ‘oops’ pressing his fingers against his mouth like a sexy starlet would.

I’m already laughing through my protest as he wiggles his junk just a little in some sort of sexy drunken man dance. “Oh, Jesus, Thatch. I’m already spinning. Please don’t even attempt it.”

“Sup, baby?” he ignores my signals entirely, the glazed look in his eyes saying it all as he dips his gaze downward to his cock. I follow suit, still shaking my head in the negative. “See anything you like?”

“No, player, I do not. Tonight’s not it, Thatch, so what are you doing? Oh, don’t you fucking dar—” but it’s too late. He’s already got his meat stick in hand and has started the propeller on his fucking . . . helicopter.

“Who in the world of fucking stupid told you that was sexy?” I ask, rolling my eyes as my man starts to really work it, his propeller at full speed as he answers confidently.

“You did, wife of mine.”

“The hell I did. Never in the history of ever have I told you that’s sexy. Stop it this instant,” I demand as he chuckles, working himself to the point he could get airborne as I sigh. “And we were on such a hot streak. You just ruined it.”

“Yeah?” he teases, dropping it, “what’s wrong, baby? Are the angels not singing?”

In an instant, I’m on my knees on the mattress and pointing at him accusingly. “I fucking knew it!”

“Yeah, well, I did too, minute one,” he says, sauntering into the bedroom buck naked. “But,” his eyes glitter down on me as he moves to stand at the edge of the bed. “I owe you one for making me look so damned good in front of the boys,” he runs a finger down his cock suggestively, “him especially.”

“It was all for show!” I refute as he pounces, tackling me beneath him on the bed before his expression dims.

“So the angels really didn’t sing?” He pushes his bottom lip out in a pout.

“They might have sputtered a note or two,” I grant as he moves to lay on his side and runs his finger playfully along the top of my panty line.

“So, you wouldn’t pick my dick out in a police lineup?” he whispers, a perma-grin on his lips.

I can’t help my own. “Exactly how drunk are you, Thatchalamewl?”

“A six-pack and three nogs in,” he reports. “You?”

“Rum, far too much of it and too soon. I should have eaten more. This is going to hurt like a bitch. I took my Advil and drank a bottled water. Did you prep for battle, baby?”

He nods before grinning. “God, you’re brilliant,” he murmurs before kissing along my stomach. “Maniacal and evil, but brilliant.”

“How do you know it was me?”

“I know my wife,” he runs his palm along my skin. “That performance was all fueled by you, though, best-supporting actress definitely goes to Whitney for ‘Lorena of the Bobbitt.’

We both laugh as I pluck at his picked-through hair. “When did you really know?”

Bending, he begins licking along my navel, mumbling.

“What’s that?” I ask, tugging his hair.

“No more information, it’s bro code.”

“Nope, our bond wins, always, and you know that.” He continues his ministrations as I pull harder. “Thatttttch,” I urge.

He kisses a pattern around my belly button before his grin wins out. “Fine, I knew when my soldiers got into a sweater fight.”

I frown. “A what?”

“It was epic. They went feral, Eli has a dark side,” he chuckles. “You know, it’s pretty awesome being the veteran husband of us three,” he declares dreamily as he traces the curve of my breast and dips to flick his tongue against it. The pull begins below, but I’m already feeling like shit and decide that . . . soon. Very soon.

“Baby, I’m seriously overheated and feeling gross, or I would totally pay homage to your beautiful penis.”

He nods and continues kissing his way up to my lips, laying one on me before pulling away with his declaration. “Well, I’m holding out on you anyway.”

“Really?” I can’t help my grin. “Going to be stingy with the penis like you were when we started?”

“Oh yeah, I’m going to make you beg for it,” he declares in a tone I haven’t heard in years.

“Well, be that as it may, honey, you just helicoptered me. It will take weeks to erase that image.”

“Challenge accepted,” he drawls, his eyes glazed with his buzz. “Oh, and fair warning, the girls are in for it tonight. I warned them not to, but Brenden is possessed.”

“Oh shit,” I chuckle, “how in for it?”

“In for it, Whitney especially,” he draws on my nipple—hard—before laying his head on my stomach and angling it to gaze up at me. “And when I feel better and can pinpoint which of the three of you is a real target, so are you, Serena O’Neal.”

“Hmm.”

“Ready yourself, woman,” he warns, tracing a lazy circle around my responsive nipple. Ten minutes later, Thatch drools on my stomach as I grin down at him, having lulled him to sleep with the stroke of my fingers through his hair. Our position the same as it is most nights. Him lying on my chest as I absently rub his beautiful strands. Most nights, I’m distracted, the act more routine, but tonight I find myself soaking him in a little more. The strength of his nose, the cut of his jaw. His dark blond lashes. And though the eyes beneath his lids are currently dormant, over the years, I’ve been the recipient of thousands of looks, both good and bad. But since the night we truly decided on one another, Thatch never denied me his eyes and has never stopped looking back. Running my fingers through his featherlight, strawberry hair, I utter my whisper more for me than him. “I love you, Thatcher O’Neal.”