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

Thatch kneels in front of me as exhaustion keeps me weighted to the bed. I can feel the sticky suds drying on my skin but can’t summon an ounce of energy to remedy it.

“All I looked forward to today was my bath,” I admit. “Because it meant the war was over. It meant fighting to get the kids herded into the SUV and home without six demanded stops was over. Battling and begging them to tidy their rooms and for Gracie to do her homework was finished. Keeping them tame enough for me to make their dinner was the very last feat. The entire day, I daydreamed about the fizz of the bath bomb and the heat of the water. Of twenty or even ten minutes of uninterrupted time alone. I would have settled for five. But as it seems, not in this life.” I shake my head.

“I fucking hate this,” he whispers.

“Did we spoil them that much?” I ask.

“No, I hate this defeated look,” he murmurs, staring up at me. “Decades together, and I’ve never seen you back down from a fight. Not this easily. I hate it, and I can’t believe I’m saying it,” he shoots me a boyish grin, “but I want my fighter back.”

Thatch grabs my hand, drawing my ring finger up and pressing a kiss to it. A ring he got for me three Christmases ago—when we were at our worst. That year, we couldn’t get along to save our lives. It was what I like to call the resentment year. We were bitter and stressed. Since then, we’ve been far more vocal and honest, and it’s greatly improved our relationship. But now, and daily, it’s as if we’re just trying to survive being parents.

Sex is scarce lately—the intimacy has all but vanished, and as he gazes up at me, I wonder what he sees. My vision blurs with memories of just the two of us over the years. Staring down at my gorgeous husband, I take notes of my biggest draws to him—his thick blond, bordering curly, strawberry-kissed hair and gorgeous green eyes. The fine lines surrounding them only making him more appealing. He’s aged beautifully, and he’s sexier than ever.

Jesus, when is the last time I really looked at my husband? Truly saw Thatch past the haze of our chaotic lives? I can’t remember. Staring at him now, I decide he’s still the most beautiful guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. Before I met him, I never thought a redhead would be my type, but the second we locked eyes, I had one. Even with the laundry list of unattractive shit he does daily, getting lost in his deep jade stare still does things to me. Attraction I thought I’d lost years ago, but remains, coming and going with the marriage tide. But as Thatch stares up at me earnestly, for the first time in far too long, he captures my attention fully.

“This is not what we signed up for,” he whispers softly.

“I don’t think anyone signs up for this, at least this version of it. Did we spoil them, Thatch?”

“Yes,” he answers instantly. “But we’ve been in this shit situation for years now. Since the business took off and we started bringing real money in.” Oddly enough, it was my ring that started it. Thatch took a side job to cover the cost after cooking our books that month to surprise me. That venture had him taking on more independent jobs for extra cash. When the housing spike only increased—both in and surrounding Nashville—the demand had Thatch breaking completely free of being a middleman. Since, he’s become one of the most wanted contractors in Tennessee. While it was a terrifying gamble at first, within months, he started bringing in stupid money. So, naturally, we wanted to give the kids everything their hearts desired—Thatch especially.

“We got caught up in the excitement of having the money,” he voices, “and gave them everything they asked for. Now, they expect everything. Nothing is special, earned, or deserved because they get everything on a whim. And Jesus, Gracie is one more flippant comment away from a narcissist,” he relays gravely. “She’s self-centered, ungrateful, disrespectful, rude, demanding, and manipulative. She’s on the verge of thirteen, baby. We have to stop this, now.”

“She is so manipulative,” I agree, “and she’s not even nice about it.”

“As much as I loathe using them as examples, I knew better than to bite my mother. I knew if I pulled anything like that, an ass-whooping was coming. Hell, if I so much as spoke to her crossly.”

“Me too, but they’ve changed the rules,” Serena whispers. “No ass-whoopings.”

“I get it, but how in the fuck do you reason with kids who give no shits?”

“You can’t. I’ve tried. I try so hard. Gracie—”

“I love her, but I don’t like her,” he says with a wince. “I don’t like my kid, Serena. She’s a nightmare to be around, and Peyton is picking up all her nasty behaviors with surprises of his own. He’s becoming a dick.”

“Thatch,” I widen my eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

“Right now, I absolutely do. We can’t pussyfoot around this, babe. They’re out of control.”

“I know Gracie gets some of her bad habits from me,” I admit. “I’m at fault for some of this.”

“Not that way, not that way, hell no,” he disagrees, and I take some comfort in his adamant refusal. “There’s a difference between being sassy, confident, opinionated, and being horrific. You’re not the latter. And I’m no saint,” he continues, “Peyton called the lady at the deli a cunt the other day, and you hate that word, so who’s the real MVP?” He points to himself. “But screw blaming ourselves for all of it, I refuse to. We’ve had dozens of talks with each of them about right and wrong and beyond. Enough that they understand what’s morally sound. They used to address me as Sir. Used their manners. Said thank you. Where the hell did that go? They have no respect because we’re not backing anything up or putting our feet down. If we don’t start right now, nothing changes.”

“Then after Christmas,” I suggest, and he whips his head back and forth.

“This is the perfect time. At this point, they have no other incentive to do better other than to behave before Christmas.”

“Thatch, we can’t take their Christmas away.”

“Baby, even Peyton knows our threats are empty.”

“So, what do we do?” I ask.

“Exactly what you said,” he delivers, “we’re quitting.”

“Yeah, right,” I roll my eyes, “be reasonable.”

“I am,” he states, his tone unwavering. “It’s time they realize how good they have it.”

“We can’t quit being their parents. That’s . . . crazy, not to mention illegal.”

Standing, he grips my hand and leads me into the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he tests the water and turns back to me.

“So we’ll take a holiday. Did you know Peyton put hot sauce on my eggs this morning when I was on a conference call? Knowing how it affects me? I didn’t realize it until four bites in.” He shakes his head. “I was in the shitter for two hours this morning.”

I press my lips together, and he gives me a hard stare.

“Laugh it up, but what’s he going to do when he’s ten, slash my tires? Cut my brake lines?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say, and we share a sad smile.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

“I miss you, too,” I whisper back. “I swear, Thatch. I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Same,” he shoots me a pensive look.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“Tell me,” I insist.

“Sometimes, I miss the old us. Ride or die, no fucks given, make out on a whim—Thatch and Serena,” he says, startling me with his candor. He sees the surprise in my eyes and keeps going. “I know we grow up, change, and evolve. It’s par for the course, but we used to really have fun.”

He grips the back of my neck and presses his forehead to mine. “We’re in this thing for life. Who says it has to be all responsibility with absolutely no time for us? They. But they who? Experts? Well, they say those that can’t do, teach, so maybe those experts don’t have fucking kids. This is our life. Our family,” he declares with a slightly mad sparkle lighting his green eyes. “Fuck date night once every two months—which we haven’t done in three—and why?”

He presses in. “Serena, say it . . . fine, I will. It’s because we don’t want to subject other people to them. Not even Whitney and Eli. That’s telling enough.”

“Where’s the truth serum, Thatch? You’re never this vocal about your feelings unless we’re fighting or—”

“It’s in your face, your eyes, it’s everywhere on you, baby,” he relays mournfully.

“I look that bad?”

“No . . . that sad. So, I say we do things differently. We’ve spent so much of our time trying to set a good example, living for those kids, I don’t even know who I am anymore. I know forty fucking Wiggles songs,” he pulls back and rolls his eyes, “but I can’t remember the last time I rocked out to a damn song I wanted to listen to.”

“That’s being a parent,” I point out. “You’re a good dad, Thatch. Please know that.”

“And you’re an incredible mother, Serena. So let’s stop beating ourselves up that the little shits we made don’t recognize it. At all. Come on, let’s talk more in the shower.”

“I’m not in the mood,” I mumble, hating that I have nothing left for him. “I’m really so tired.”

“This isn’t about sex,” he utters, his tone defensive.

“I didn’t mean it that way. You’re right, I’m just . . . sad. I don’t want to have sad sex.”

“I get it, I’m . . . fuck,” he glances over at me. “I don’t even know what I am,” he utters, tugging off his O’Neal’s Contracting long-sleeve T-shirt. One we designed together when our business started to really take off. Pride fills me as I soak him in while he undoes his buckle. A sudden shift has me wanting to steal more moments like this with him. Even if it’s doing the unthinkable by blaspheming our kids.

“You want to quit?” The sparkle in his eyes increases. “Well then, let’s fucking quit. Let’s force them to realize how frustrated we are. To understand we’re living for them and what we sacrifice daily. I propose we do it in a way that’s going to stick.”

“How?”

“By driving our point home in a very unadult but effective way,” he declares, disrobing me, his eyes rolling appreciatively down my naked body. And thank God for that—even if the last thing I want to do right now is have sex. It’s when he pushes his boxers down, his cock half-mast, that I sweep him appreciatively. Baby steps into his forties, and his build is incredible. Credit to his job, he spends his days lifting, hauling, hammering, and nailing, and it’s evident in his physique he cuts no corners. I continue to feast on his efforts as we both step under the twin rain shower heads he installed last year—a perk of being a contractor’s wife—and start to suds up.

“But if we’re going to do it, we need to really do it,” he says as he turns his back, palming the newly installed penny tile. It’s then I zero in on one of my top three favorite parts of Thatcher O’Neal—his perfect bubble ass. An ass I often sink my teeth into out of adoration in play and for sexual sport. “We’re going to go rogue,” he states, pulling me to him under the steaming water and tilting my head up to help rinse the soap from my hair.

“Meaning?”

“Toss every bit of bullshit that’s not working—the books, the online advice, and the judgmental rants of backseat driving parents. These are our kids, and it’s time for something different. How extreme we go is up to them. Let’s truly let them decide. Their behavior will make the decision. Not one parent has probably ever used the naughty list as a true incentive. So, let’s be the fucking first.”

“Won’t that make us the assholes?” I argue.

“Yes, but it’s a lesson they won’t forget. This is serious. Our four-year-old is biting, cursing, and driving his pre-K teacher nuts. Gracie is learning to be an egomaniacal asshole. They have no remorse to the point I’m terrified we’re raising twin sociopaths. So, this is not just for us. It’s for them. They can’t continue like this and survive in this world. Even if we cave last minute, I say we scare them shitless until we do. Perfect we might not be, but we’re going to make them, at the least, appreciate the parents they do have. But you have to trust me, and you have to be all in.”

“Thatch, you’re the nicer, less aggressive parent. I trust you wholly. If you think we should go there, then I’m worried. So yeah. I’m with you.”

“No backing down,” he states, his voice filled with a rare determination. “I mean it, babe. If we undermine one another, in no way will this work.”

“I swear,” I say, running my hands down his muscled shoulders. “So, when do we start?” He bends eye level, a sexy smirk twisting his thick lips as he leans in, the twinkle in his eyes a bit seductive.

“Right now.”