The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 8

“You’re not going to smoke tonight either?” I ask Thatch after he denies the joint I offer, crossing his arms as he leans against Dad’s workbench. His eyes continually roll over me in assessment as if he’s debating something.

“What’s your issue, pusher? Is this your dealbreaker?”

“Of course not,” I frown. “I can get you a beer or something.”

“I don’t have to have a buzz to hang with you,” he states with an edge.

“Geesh, a bit testy tonight, are we?”

“Sorry,” he utters, “I’m not trying to be a dick.”

“Well, you could try and talk to me.”

“I am talking to you.”

“You know what I mean,” I cut through the bullshit. “Why are you so on edge? Even when you chill here, it’s like something’s going on just underneath.”

“That’s called being human,” he mutters, “we all have shit going on.”

“Fine,” I sigh, sliding down to the floor and crossing my boots. Taking another hit, I glance up to see the same quizzical stare as I take him in. He’s dressed similarly. Long-sleeved thermal—this one deep blue—tattered jeans and boots. Tonight, his hair is a little more tousled, as if he’s been running his hand through it all day.

“What?” I ask after a few bated seconds. He shifts so he’s standing next to me before sliding down the wall, mimicking my stance before tapping his boot against mine.

“Okay, hit me,” he states, and I hold out the joint.

“No, Serena,” he waves the smoke away as if he’s allergic, “with your questions.”

“Why is Allen Collins your best friend?”

“Because, in a way, he saved my life.”

“How?”

“By giving me a job. I needed the money.”

“Your parents—”

“Are not in the picture,” he dismisses.

“What do you do for fun?”

“Don’t know anymore,” he says, lifting a leg and resting his forearm on it. “It’s been a while since I attempted fun.”

“You’re right, you’re too boring for me,” I joke, nudging him.

“I’m not the one meeting a bore in a miniature shed every night. I’m working my ass off. What’s your excuse for your naked social calendar?”

“I’ll sound like an asshole if I tell you,” I say.

“Oh, it’s then you’ll sound like one?” He chuckles and I glare over at him.

“Sorry, tell me.”

“Forget it.”

“Don’t be a brat,” he nudges me. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know. I guess you could say my senior year sucked because I was already over it before it even started. I was mentally done with high school and even skipped my last prom because I went the year before. I couldn’t wait to graduate and get to college. I think my aversion to pretty much everything about it annoyed my friends to the point they stopped inviting me out, and I kind of didn’t give a shit? If I’m honest, I was relieved.”

“So, a loner?”

“I mean, I guess you could put it like that. Guys in my school weren’t worth the effort, either. I’ve been bored for a long time. You’re turn,” I say, and he nods. “So, did you come for me tonight?”

“Maybe,” he muses before lifting his hand to push the bulk of my ponytail behind my shoulder. The touch gentle and surprising.

“Are you being weird because there’s a girl?”

“Weird how?”

“Like,” I shrug, “won’t do anything?”

“Do what exactly?” He taunts, and I deadpan.

“If there was a girl, I wouldn’t be here dodging twenty questions,” he chuckles, and I decide I love the sound even if it seems to be at my constant expense. We stare off for a few silent seconds as that same pull draws me and intensifies. Unsure if he feels it, his jade eyes seem to deepen as the question comes to mind, and I take it as a good sign. So far, and in mere days, Thatch has had my head spinning, my heart thundering, and my attention constantly drifting back to him, and I’m not sure I like it. I’ve already made too much effort, and hate how desperate I’m starting to look. I swore to myself I wouldn’t try so hard tonight, but the way he stares, it can’t be one-sided.

“I really am just trying to get to know you,” I blow out a breath of frustration.

“What would satisfy you?” He asks, his eyes trailing down my face, to my sweater and jeans, and back up.

“Uh, how about the fucking truth?” I say before hitting the joint again.

“Man, that mouth,” he whispers before his eyes drop to it. “Why are you so hellbent?”

“On?”

“On everything,” he chuckles again. “Such an intense girl.”

“I’m just opinionated,” I state without apology, “and not a fan of bullshit. Like my mom. And you seem to be full of it.”

“Not like your mom,” he corrects. “And I’m just private.”

“More like secretive to the point of infuriating, and maybe I’m a little mouthier,” I admit with a shrug.

“Little bit,” he lifts his fingers, presenting an inch before expanding them space wide.

“You like it,” I wrinkle my nose, and he rakes his lip with his teeth.

“Do I? What else do I like?” he asks.

“Right now, my sweater,” I smirk. “The view,” I add. “My lips.”

“Hmm,” he utters.

“You like me,” I nudge him.

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

“Seems like you won’t go at all,” I sigh. “You have yet to lay a hand on me, Thatch. Any plans to?”

“No,” he clips instantly.

“Well, that’s a shame,” I drawl. “I was wondering what kissing you would feel like.” I toss the joint. “I’ll stop now.”

“I said hand,” he whispers, lifting his finger and carefully tracing the seam of my lips, which part at his gentle touch. His delivery so soft and deliberate in contrast to his irritation as he speaks. “Why are you making this so damned hard?”

“Because you like that too,” I whisper against the pad of his pointer. “Thatch,” I utter as his chest starts to rise and fall. “T-they set us up. I don’t see the harm in a kiss.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking do,” he grinds out, even as he continuously sweeps his calloused finger across my lips. “Jesus, I do.”

“Why?” I croak, his effect on me evident as he crooks his finger and slowly whispers it down my cheek. Sitting side by side, facing one another, our gazes hold in a heavy stare that has my skin tingling and my pulse pounding. He continues to stroke me with a lone finger, sweeping it to trace my chin before gliding it down my throat.

Outlining the shape of my oval necklace, he dips even further, tracing the scoop of my sweater. My breaths draw heavier and heavier as he teases me relentlessly with just a finger. Body alight, my lips part to take more needed breath as his eyes drop to trace the pad of his finger when it dips again. Robbing me of air altogether when he runs it over the swell of each of my breasts. In seconds, I’m a puddle of want as my body starts to pulse with need. The beat lowering between my thighs as he runs his finger back and forth over the skin of my chest. Back and forth, the hypnotic sweep pulling me under.

“Thatch,” I whisper urgently, and his eyes close at the sound, his finger pausing briefly before he slowly reopens them. Inside them resides a fiery jade stare that reeks of something far more dangerous than any exchange before. A warning in his gaze that has my heart thundering with surety of my suspicion before he speaks it aloud.

“I’m trying . . . really trying to be a gentleman with you. Something I can admit I’ve never been before.”

Done with the game, wanting to unleash what he’s trying so hard to tame, I swiftly straddle him. Palming his shoulders, I slowly start to rock my hips, adjusting myself to grant my pulsing clit the friction it needs from the rock-hard bulge beneath me as I speak. “Well, don’t start on my account.”

“There you go, playing with fucking fire,” he scolds, stopping my movement.

“Now, where were you?” I say, gripping his finger and pulling it back to the last place he touched, the skin still tingling in his wake.

“Serena,” he objects as I dip and lick along his bottom lip before pulling back.

“All glossed up now, Thatch, just for yo—”

Palming the back of my neck, he cuts my words short with the hard press of his mouth against mine. The contact is like a shot to the chest as he swipes his tongue across the seam of my lips. An instant later, he’s delivering his tongue before it easily finds and tangles with mine in a flawless dance. Our collective moans mingle as the kiss quickly turns. In those first seconds, I lose myself. My panties flood as I begin to move across the bulge beneath me. Moaning into his mouth, I tighten my thighs around him as I get lost in the sensation.

“Serena—”

His kiss is perfect. The pressure, the way he’s running his tongue along mine. The feel of his hair between my fingers, the muscle at my fingertips.

“Serena—”

His clean scent—a mix of soap and freshly cut wood. It’s utterly addicting.

As addicting as his groan, which vibrates on my tongue and in my throat as I capture and suck his. Gently grinding on his hardened cock, he jerks his mouth away again, eyes shut tightly, as he grips my hips hard to stop me.

“That’s why,” he states, his voice coated in lust. “That’s fucking why, Serena.”

“Why what?”

His eyes slowly open, his stare searing while lighting me up. Probing and demanding as he whispers my words back to me. “Just fun, right?”

My chest pumps heavily with the lingering feel of his kisses. It’s then I realize he’s utterly a mess—his hair picked through, his lips swollen. How long were we kissing? Wait . . . “What did you just say to me?” I ask, hearing the hint of rejection in my voice.

“I didn’t mean it the way it came out,” he backtracks.

“No, I think you did,” I say, pulling back to glare down at him.

“Maybe I did, but not in the way you’re taking it,” he blows out a breath that hits my tingling skin. “I’m not good with words, Serena. With any of this.”

“I agree. You’re far from smooth, Thatcher,” I move to get off his lap, and he stops me, squeezing both my hips in prompt. As if we already have our own unspoken language, I know exactly what he’s asking even as he remains mute.

“I mean, we can fuck around, and this can be just fun,” I offer, “but I’m not really cool with verbalizing it to the point that it feels cheap.”

“You’re going back to school in a few weeks, right?”

“Three, yeah, so?”

“Okay, so fun . . . ‘till then?” he asks, his question seeming . . . gentle? It’s his eager return stare and matching tone that has me relaxing slightly.

“I mean, sure. It’s not like I’m looking for a husband, Thatch,” I relay truthfully. He nods easily, though his eyes convey something other than relief at my confession. Palming my neck again, which sends heat straight to my core, he pulls me flush to him, his whisper a balm to the sting he just caused. “I didn’t mean to fuck it up.”

In apology, he takes my lips again, fusing it into me before he deepens it. Not a minute later, he pulls back and shakes his head.

“Fuck, you feel so f-d-damned g-good,” he utters, his tone a little dreamlike as I chuckle at his delivery. He grimaces before glowering at me. “You’re an asshole, Collins.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“So much sass from that mouth,” he utters, one side of his own mouth lifting. “Which I definitely like more when you’re not talking.”

“Then kiss me quiet, Handy Man.”

“Nah,” he strokes my lower lip. “I better go,” he gently lifts me from his lap like I weigh nothing before standing. He adjusts his clothes as I glance up at the clock, gaping when I read the hour. Because hours is how long we’ve been kissing. Body tingling, it’s then I realize I’m equally a mess, my clothes rumpled, my panties soaked, nipples sore from being hard for so long. I’m physically aching for relief as my body buzzes, alight—for him.

“Wow, I—” Turning when I feel his absence, I see he’s already lingering in the door of the shed, watching me carefully. The look in his gorgeous green eyes stuns me speechless before he drops them and disappears out the door. But I don’t call after him in question or wonder if he’s coming back tomorrow—or rather, tonight—because his kiss and that look said it all.

Day one, and mere hours in, Peyton screams before dropping dead in the center of my mother’s kitchen, which was formerly Grammy P’s. Two generations of women who would not put up with this shit and didn’t. Both of which would have probably already figured out a way to stop it as I fail them while watching my son flail his arms and legs as every adult in proximity recoils in utter horror.

Thankful we’re not in the grocery store like last time—but no less mortified due to the number of eyes watching his latest meltdown—I continue whipping the fresh cream for the chocolate icebox cake as Peyton’s screams increase. His audience having everything to do with the strength of his performance, I shoo Conner out of the kitchen to spare her as the glass door in the den slides open before Thatch appears with an armful of wood. I search his face helplessly as he glances down at Peyton, his sigh visible before he gives me a reassuring wink.

Eli at his back, his own arms full, he too stares down at Peyton as they pass. When both men have dropped their wood haul at the hearth, Thatch stops Eli from approaching by palming his chest and adamantly shaking his head. Feeling the urgency to make it stop by everyone surrounding us, I decide to continue to take my cues from Thatch, who steps over our flailing son, straddling him between his legs.

“Use your words, son,” Thatch bellows, and I know it’s out of contempt for judgment of all adults within range. Even if they don’t understand his reasoning for it, I do. Thatch looks up to me just after, solidifying that it was more for me and that we’re on the same page before he takes a knee, repeating his request to Peyton as instructed by They. The experts, the teachers, the ones who dole out what the disciplinary rules are.

“Peyton, please use your words,” Thatch gently coaxes, “and tell Daddy why you’re upset.”

“Or pop his ass,” my dad utters, shaking his head in both pity and irritation.

“Daddy, no,” Whitney gently scolds. “Times are different. They’re doing what they were taught.”

“And we were taught to use our words,” Thatch answers as if unaffected before addressing his son. “Peyton, use your words.”

Peyton’s screams increase as my husband makes one last attempt, our son’s wails like thousands of nails dragging across my skin. I can feel Whitney’s stare on me as I do my best not to react. Resisting my urgency to stop the noise and give in. Anything to make it stop.

“Peyton O’Neal, I need you to use your words,” Thatch says more sternly, but to no avail. I continue whisking rather than acting on the urge to pack my family up and take them home, if only to stop the humiliation.

Gracie chooses that moment to pop her head in from the living room and add her unhelpful two cents. “Oh my God, Peyton, shut up!”

“That’s not what we were told to do,” Thatch states, again for everyone within range in an attempt to make them understand—in hopes they’ll see why we’re in this stalemate with our kids. While I know their opinion shouldn’t matter, I can’t help the flush of embarrassment that covers me as I look over to my daughter.

“Say another word, Gracie,” I manage to warn through Peyton’s piercing noise, “and we are going home. Want to test me?”

Gracie stalks off as my mom speaks up.

“This is because I didn’t let him lick a beater,” she tells Thatch grimly through Peyton’s cries. Just after, Wyatt runs in, looking for a limbless child, one who is bleeding or some other emergency that warrants the meltdown happening in the kitchen. His eyes widen when he sees his older cousin flailing like a fish with no visible wounds.

“Peyton, please, son, use your words,” Thatch orders one last time as Brenden enters the room, fish-mouthed, his expression just as baffled. Briefly, Thatch drops his own head before lifting his eyes to every single onlooker, his words echoing through the kitchen. “Are we clear?”

Ruby, Whitney, Erin, Allen, and Brenden all nod before Thatch shifts his gaze to an utterly mortified Eli, whose expression has morphed into one of heartbreak.

The two brothers share a strained look before Eli dips his chin. Not a second later, Thatch scoops Peyton up and carries him out of the kitchen. His cries echo up the staircase, just as piercing until they die out with Thatch’s retreat. My guess is that he took him all the way up to the attic, now deemed Whitney and Eli’s Raggedy Ann and Andy Room.

“Holy fuck,” my sister whispers mutely for me, her complexion paling rapidly. “You’ve been dealing with this for how long?”

“I don’t know anymore,” I whisper back, releasing a tear that rolls down my cheek. “I don’t even know, Whitney.”

“Jesus, Serena, I’m so sorry,” jerking the mixing bowl out of my hands, she pulls me into her for a hug. “Yeah, no, this has to stop. I see it.”

I pull back and kiss her cheek. “Thank you for getting it.”

“Girl,” she stares back in the direction Thatch fled. “We’re at Defcon 1, and so I say it’s time for a juice box. We’re upping juice box night to tonight,” she announces. “This is an emergency.”

“‘Tonight is your night, bro,’” Erin chimes in, letting us know she’s down by sounding our motto. One Whitney and I stole from an old movie, “Twins,” and use to announce when we’re ready to behave badly. Our new tradition of girl’s night—pre-Christmas edition, started years back and has turned into an annual bitch fest. One in which we drink far too much and have no-holds-barred convos. Just after Mom and I set the cake, Whitney pulls out her keys and nudges me. “Get your boots on, sis. We’re about to stock up.”

“You too,” Ruby says to Brenden and Eli, who are still camped nearby at the kitchen table for moral support. “I want both your boots on the ground for Thatch tonight. After the clock strikes ten, you guys have to take over, but your father and I have got them all until then, understood?”

Unsurprisingly, Brenden speaks up first. “Mom-may,” he says in perfect imitation of Peyton, “are you telling your baby boy to get a buzz tonight? Because if so, you could—”

“Ask me about the damned nog one more time, son, and I’ll rip your winkie right off your body.”

Brenden opens his mouth, and Mom digs her heels in, pulling the rare tone she uses to scare us even though we’re all in our forties. “I gave you life, and I’ll take it away.” Brenden swallows. “Take care of your brother, jackass. Your needs don’t matter tonight.”

Brenden has the good sense to remain quiet, though I know there are at least a dozen comebacks on the tip of his tongue. Eli grins at Brenden before turning to me. “I’ll come with you two and get man night supplies.”

“Tequila. It makes me happy!” Brenden clips immediately in demand. “And don’t be cheap, bro. We all know you’re wealthy!” He belts before running from the kitchen, narrowly missing my mother’s swinging wooden spoon.

Hours later, I’m sipping on a delicious fruity concoction Whitney threw together. One I’m almost positive includes every rum imaginable—dark, light, and lights fucking out. Aside from Mom’s annual nog, Whitney is responsible for providing the rest of the Collins’ Christmas booze supply for the week. No slacker now because as soon as she hears the sputtering of my crazy straw, she pops my lid, refilling my cup with her ready pitcher.

“I love you, bro,” I tell her, giggling as the warm buzz starts to filter through me, the three of us huddled on the porch just outside the den.

“Okay, who wants to start?!” I ask between them, all too eager to give a confession I’ve been holding far too long. “Erin!” I exclaim, and she jumps as a hiccup escapes me. “How are things on the home front?”

“Awesome, actually, but Serena, why are you yelling?” she giggles, probably due to her own buzz. My little sister does not fuck around and is not at all stingy with her pour.

“I think my son blew my ears out,” I tell her just as loudly, opening and closing my jaw to pop my ears before leaning in. “Huddle in bitches, I have news,” I utter under my breath before I crank up the volume again. “I mean, I like my nail polish, but what do you think, Erin?”

“It’s nice!” She shouts back as both of them stare at me like I’m growing a third ta ta. Wrapped in matching blankets, snow flurries begin to dance between us, joining the party as Whitney scrutinizes me before speaking up.

“What the hell is happening right now? Are you cracking, sis?”

Erin stares on at me, equally as confused.

“You idiots,” I hiss low. “Don’t you remember how to play anything off? I told you to huddle in,” I pop my head up, scanning the windows before leaning in. “You’re already blowing it, so huddle in.”

They both lean in as I bulge my eyes. “The walls have ears.”

“Ohhhh,” Erin says, nodding.

“So you know what she’s saying?” Whitney asks.

“Not really, no. Not at all,” Erin says with a giggle as I palm my face and lean further in.

“I think we’re still safe for now, but Erin,” I whisper, giving her the come-hither finger.

“What?” she whispers, the rum buzz clear in her eyes.

“Get up and pretend you’re adjusting your blanket around you, but as you do, very subtly peek through the window to see if the den is empty.”

Erin immediately stands to follow my order and Whitney grips her arm, narrowing her eyes on me as if I’m setting her up. “What are you up to, sister?”

“Let her look, damn it. It’s for the greater good,” I say, tonguing the crazy, twisty elf straw Whitney picked up while we were out shopping for mixers.

“The den’s all clear, why?” Erin asks, shivering as she rejoins us.

“I keep forgetting to tell you. It’s like I get amnesia when we leave this cabin. And Eli went shopping with us earlier, so I couldn’t, but . . .” I lean in, and they do, too. “You guys ever wonder how the guys knew not to ask us about asking what’s for dinner? We know Eli told Thatch, but did you ever once question how Eli knew in the first place to tell him? To tell Brenden? Because I can promise you that’s one bitch I kept to myself and only shared with you because I choose my battles. And I can remember exactly when we had that convo and it was here, on this deck, during our first girl’s night,” I pin Whitney, “Christmas twenty-twenty-one.”

Both Erin and Whitney pause before their jaws drop, and I nod.

“That’s right,” I point to my sister, “the same year in which your husband joined the fam. And I think he’s been spying on us every year since.”

“Bullshit,” Whitney defends before pausing and sinking into the idea.

“Yes honey, your husband’s a dirty little eavesdropper. And he did it last year too because I got that present I told Thatch I really wanted when we got home.”

“So, what’s that prove? Make it make sense,” Whitney defends.

“Because I set Mr. Potato Ears up,” I state. “Thatch said, ‘Amazon shipped it late,’ but I knew better because I didn’t want the exact teapot I saw on McGee and Co. website until that night—”

“I love McGee and—” Erin starts.

“Me too, but stay on point, sister. We have a snitch in our midst, and we all know in this family, snitches get stitches,” I tell her. “Payback is in order, and we need to hurry up with a game plan before your husband cracks that window. I raise my hand and we all silently listen. “Erin, do one more check before battle.”

“Battle?” Whitney gulps.

“All clear, and it does seem a little harsh,” Erin states. “I mean, nothing but good has come out of it, right?”

“Horse shit, girl’s night is sacred. It’s not like we’re crashing their ball sack pack party right now.”

“Ball sack pack?” Whitney giggles.

“I just came up with it. What do you think?” I look between them, and they nod. “Anyhoo, we can’t let them fuck with girl’s night. And don’t forget, we’ve shared plenty of girls-only shit out here too, probably stuff they’ve used against us.”

“That fucker,” Whitney giggles, lifting her sparkling finger. “I love him so much.”

“Yes, newlywed, we know. Give it a few more years, and you’ll have a healthy distaste for him like a real wife,” I jest.

“No way,” she says in denial as Erin and I give one another knowing grins.

“Hear that, Erin? Whit thinks they’ll be different,” I roll my eyes, my straw getting further away from my mouth with every sip as I perk my ears, and they tilt their heads, listening too.

“Still clear,” Erin reports, now on a mission.

“Remember what else we talked about that night?” Whitney asks as we all still, racking our alcohol-soaked brains.

“Vaguely, but,” Erin palms Whitney’s arm as if she’s just been doused by ice water. “The backward hat trick! Oh. Em. Gee, Brenden does it all the damned time now! It’s why I got pregnant with Jameson,” she fumes. “Your husband got me pregnant!” Erin booms at Whitney, who immediately bursts into laughter. “You know what I mean,” Erin corrects before shaking her head, “that summamma bitch.”

“Erin!” Whitney and I sound before gaping at her in shock. Reason is, that our sweet sister-in-law, who married into this family, is a borderline saint—especially after marrying our idiot brother.

“Twenty-six hours of labor and the epidural wore off,” Erin justifies in one sentence.

“Oh yeah,” I bob my head, “payback is in high order.”

“Off with his head,” Erin says mercilessly.

“I do love him, but I’m kinda living for this,” Whitney laughs maniacally, rubbing her mitten-covered hands together. “So, what do you have in mind?”

“A tactic that always works called divide and conquer,” I waggle my brows. “Something tells me we don’t have much time, so follow my lead.”

Too afraid to spook them by having Erin look, and knowing the clock is ticking, we all remain quiet for a few long minutes, racing one another on finishing our sippy cups. Just as Whitney releases her straw to call bullshit, we hear a tell-tale squeak, followed by a slide. The three of us lift our lips in matching Grinch smiles before we burst into Oscar-worthy chatter. It’s Whitney, though, who goes straight for the gold when her comment cuts through the air, landing hardest.

“I think Eli is afraid to ask for a finger in the ass.”