Taking Turns (Turning #1)(67)

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “But that same night I found you in her bed, he admitted he was tired of her. Called her boring. Was ready for it to end.”

“So you think… he, like, paid her off, or something?”

“Let’s just say, when it comes to Smith Baldwin, it wouldn’t surprise me. And,” I add, “it wouldn’t be the first time, either.”

We think about that for a while. Just sitting in silence as the snow starts coming down in large flakes that want to stick to everything. And when I speak again, there’s a full-on storm going on outside. “What are you doing for Christmas? It falls on a Sunday this year so you’ll be alone.”

“My dad was supposed to come but…”

“Let me guess, he’s working?”

“How’d you know?” she asks in a sad whisper.

“I grew up with one of those fathers too. He’s dead now, so I don’t let myself think about all the f*cked-up holidays in my past. But I get it.”

She nods, leaning back into my chest for comfort. “He’s made me a promise to come home from DC every Christmas since my mom died three years ago. But he never does. He never comes home.”

“Fuck him,” I say.

“Yeah,” Chella whispers. “Fuck him, I guess.”

“Hey,” I say. “You wanna go get a Christmas tree today?”

“For here?” Chella asks, sitting up straight again.

“No, for your other house. Yes, of course, here.”

She starts laughing and we let the depressing mood lift. “I haven’t had a Christmas tree in… Hell, I don’t even remember. I was very little.”

“You don’t celebrate Christmas?” I ask, a little stunned. “But your dad is—”

“Yeah. One of those fundamentalist Christians in Congress. I know. It’s a weird, long, complicated story.”

“Well, we’ve had enough of that bullshit for one day. Fuck him twice. We’re getting a tree. We’re gonna get a huge one, too. These ceilings are twelve feet high, that means we can get one that’s at least fifteen.”

She laughs again. And I realize… I like her laugh. “I think there’s a lot selling them a few blocks down.”

“Lot? Jesus Christ, woman. You don’t get a Christmas tree from a lot. You go into the goddamned mountains and cut that f*cker down with your bare hands. Or an axe,” I amend.

“That’s not legal!” she squeals.

“The f*ck it’s not,” I say. “I get a permit every year. Rochelle and I did it three times. It was always so much fun. So it’s settled. You’re getting the biggest Christmas tree I can strap to my Suburban. Ceiling height be damned.”





Chapter Twenty-Three - Chella




It’s the most perfect day ever. And since we spend five hours fighting snow to get to the forest where Quin has a valid permit, then another forty-five minutes hiking to find the perfect Christmas tree, and then we hike back to the Suburban—which takes twice as long because we’re hauling the tree behind us using ropes and we are not sled dogs—and tie it to the roof, we’re exhausted.

“I’m too tired to drive,” Quin says, the truck idling, heat blaring on our flushed faces. His head is tipped back against the headrest, his breathing low and slow as he closes his eyes and we’re just still, out here in the forest.

I’m tired too. My arms ache and my legs are numb. But it’s a tired I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s a good kind of tired.

I take off my coat and he opens one eye to peek at me. “What are you doing?”

I blush, but don’t answer. Just scoot over and place my hand over his zipper, gently rubbing. “If you don’t want to—”

“Shit.” He laughs. “I want to.” His hand reaches down to find the controls for the seat and he moves it all the way back. “Come here,” he says, patting his thighs.

Quin is handsome in a very different way than Bric or Smith. They are both polished and serious. But he’s the fun version. The wild version. The happy version.

I know he loves Rochelle and I know I should probably not be so forward. He might want out. But I don’t think he wants out before the four of us get our chance to see what happens. So he’s still mine. For now. And I want him.

I climb into his lap, straddle his legs, and drag his coat down his shoulders. He sits forward until I get it off, and I throw it in the back seat.

“You’re very pretty, Chella.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling down at his blue eyes.

“Even prettier than Rochelle, but in a different way.”

“I think Rochelle is beautiful,” I say. “I like her hair. I wish I had her long, straight, dirty-blonde hair. And her eyes. The hazel is so unique. And she’s so… fragile. I always felt like a giant next to her, even though I’m only a few inches taller. She’s tiny everywhere I’m not.”

He places both of his hands on my breasts. I’m wearing a loose cream-colored silk blouse with a flared ruffle at the wrists. I close my eyes when he begins to unbutton my shirt and I can’t stop biting my lip when he opens it up and pulls my bra down, exposing my nipples. I lean into his mouth as he sucks them, his hands squeezing, his cock growing bigger underneath me as I hold his head.