The Plight Before Christmas(50)

I glance down at my new jogging suit. “I picked it up while we were shopping yesterday.”

“Pink has always been your color,” my mother admonishes as a blush threatens.

Ridiculous. What thirty-eight-year-old woman blushes?

Get a fucking grip, Whitney.

I shake some oat squares into my waiting bowl as the almond milk is passed over the table. Lifting my eyes to Eli, I take his offering with a soft “Good Morning. Thank you.”

“Morning, welcome,” he says just as softly. The look he brands me with is anything but breakfast cordial. Heat again threatens to bloom in my cheeks as I turn to gaze outside and scope the amount of snowfall.

“Wow, it really did come down last night.”

“Isn’t it amazing?” Mom beams taking a seat at the table. “A blessing.”

The front door opens and Thatch steps inside the house, kicking thick snow off his boots on the mat, his expression bleak as Gracie looks on at him expectantly.

“Sorry, baby. It dumped too much to dig the cars out and get us safely down the driveway.”

“Awesome,” my mother says with a smile. “Let’s hope we get more.”

“No, Grammy, then we won’t be able to go tubing!” Gracie appeals to Thatch as he joins us at the table. “Can you try harder, Daddy?”

“We’re getting low on rock salt already, and I have a feeling most of the town is shut down until they plow. It’s going to take them a day to get out here, Gracie. The main road is too dangerous to try and reach. I’m afraid none of us are getting out today.”

“NOOOOO!!!” Gracie shouts.

“I’ve got an idea,” Eli speaks up.

Thatch’s expression lights with hope. “Yeah?”

“Might work,” Eli says.

“Well, I’m all ears,” Thatch replies, pouring cereal.

Dad enters the dining room to take his seat, his mouth parted for a greeting just as Mom stands and blocks him. “If you don’t have your hearing aids in, turn your ass around right now and put them in.”

Dad’s eyes widen as Mom seems to tower above him from a foot below. If he didn’t hear, he definitely read the threat in her posture. Without so much as a word, Dad turns and stomps back toward their bedroom as Brenden chuckles. “Get em’, Mom.”

“It’s like he has to give himself a pep talk or something for a few hours before he’ll finally put them in. Ridiculous.” Mom turns to Brenden. “And don’t be so smug, son. One day, father time may take away some of the basics from you.”

“Winky first,” Erin quips as Serena and I drop our jaws in surprise. “It’s his worst fear,” she adds with a giggle.

Serena recovers first. “Good one, sis.” They fist bump as Brenden shoots Erin the stink eye.

“So, what are you thinking, Eli?” Thatch asks around a mouthful of cereal.

Eli turns to my mother. “Ruby, mind if I raid the kitchen?”

She replies with an easy smile. “All yours, handsome.”





“AHHHHHHHhhhhhh hahahahahah!” Gracie squeals as she shoots down the steep slope of the driveway on one of Ruby’s supersized roasting pans which we customized with Allen’s power tools, drilling holes through the sides and weaving rope through for a handle.

“Fucking killer idea, man,” Thatch says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. We spent the majority of the morning situating the cars for space before shoveling snow into thick piles edging the driveway, and building a bank at the bottom of it for soft landings. A landing that Brenden maintains at the bottom of the steep bank as he relinquishes his shovel briefly to help Gracie to her feet. She dusts off before she starts her trek back up, makeshift sled in hand, the radiant smile on her face making the intensive labor worth every minute. With Thatch’s innovation, we even managed to do a two-lane, the second being a lot riskier. Thatch caught air on it earlier—which I found hilarious.

“I go,” Peyton wiggles in Thatch’s grip. “Me go now, Da da!”

“We just had a turn, bud,” Thatch tells him as Conner gears up for another round. Serena and Whitney have taken turns bringing out mugs of hot chocolate and coffee, keeping the kids sugared up and us caffeinated. The last delivery made by Whitney, who’s kept my gaze zeroed in on her since she entered the dining room looking hot as fuck in a pale pink tracksuit, her hair in twin braids, lips thoroughly glossed. I haven’t been able to look away from her since she sauntered in this morning as if she didn’t look fucking edible.

Tempting and taunting, much like she did when we first started dating.

Whitney glides off the elevator in a form-fitting sweater dress and leggings, balloon animal in hand, her face painted with a cluster of snowflakes and footprints, and the Tar Heels logo. Her eyes alight as she looks over at me, our hands firmly clasped. I brush my thumb over the back of her hand as she guides me toward her apartment door. Her enthusiasm just as contagious as she chatters on about what? I have no idea at this point. Though I credit myself for being an attentive listener, I’ve spent most of tonight memorizing her as she dragged me around the winter carnival and ordered me to do her bidding. I spent a small fortune on gluttonous snacks, but her easily-given smiles were worth every penny. She was more in her skin tonight than I’ve ever seen her, comfortable, a lot less confrontational.