The Plight Before Christmas(65)

He flashes a grin at me as he sorts through the packages in her trunk. “I’m pretty decent at reading people, but with her, I didn’t have to. I physically sensed the fire and brimstone on the other side of the door the minute she knocked. As soon as you greeted her, I remembered who she was. And I quote, ‘Wretched Gretchen is my worst nightmare. A mean, bitter old spinster who comes out of her Grinch cave once a year to torment the Collins’ Whos.’ I remember the stories. She’s been torturing you and your family your whole lives.”

“I really did talk a lot, didn’t I?”

“You never, ever shut up. But it was adorable.” He stacks a few shoe-box-sized packages in my arms as I hold them out. I take the time to study his profile before letting myself sweep over him. He looks gorgeous as ever in a plaid shirt with a dark grey denim half-collar which is flipped up, cuffed dark jeans, and expensive wool-lined boots. The cologne drifting off him beckons me closer as he continues, a memory-induced smile lifting one side of his mouth. “But that was you. You were curious and excited, about life, about everything.” He pauses, and I see the mischievous glint in his eyes as he turns to me. “What do you say we tag team her today?”

“How?” I ask, unable not to return his budding grin.

“Every time she comes at one of you, we’ll toss it back to her tenfold. If we’re successful, we could have her fleeing by lunch.” Arms loaded, he manages to shut her trunk and shoots a conspiratorial wink my way. “What do you say?”

“I don’t know. We’re her only family. She may be horrible, but I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t have anyone.”

“She chose her life, Whitney.”

“I know, but still…”

We walk side by side toward the house as he carries the bulk of the load and gently nudges me. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Do you want me to send out a bat signal or something?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll know the second you decide.”

I stop at the foot of the stairs and glance over at him. “You think you can read me that well?”

“I guess we’ll see,” he says confidently before heading up the stairs.

I may have zeroed in on his ass on the way up.




“Who made the cheese ball?” Gretchen asks, shoveling a stuffed cracker in her mouth, leaving a thick glop of residue on the side of it. Keeping my repulsed shudder inside, I speak up. “I did.”

“Not enough Worcestershire.”

“I followed Grammy P’s recipe to the letter,” I defend weakly.

“It’s delicious,” Mom assures me loading her own cracker, her voice filled with the typical edge she gets when Gretchen graces us with her presence.

Gretchen scours the room as we all sit gathered around her, awaiting her annual verdict of disapproval. It’s as if she’s deemed herself the matriarch. Her eyes float to Peyton, who sits on the floor between Serena’s legs, sorting an oversized puzzle. Even she isn’t immune to Peyton’s charms, and in a rare effort, she softens her voice addressing him. “Peyton, are you excited about Santa?”

Peyton immediately stiffens, snapping his head up, his eyes crazed as he belts out, “No, Santa! Shut you mouph!”

Gretchen’s eyes bulge, and she wastes no time belittling Serena. “You should not let your children speak to adults like that.”

Sadly, even Serena cowers under her vicious backlash. “Sorry, Aunt Gretchen, he’s got a huge aversion to him.”

“Even so,” she says, eyeing Peyton with disdain before focusing on Serena and going in for the kill, “are you still a housewife wasting your degree?”

“Actually, I work with Thatch—”

Gretchen raises her hand, cutting her off. “A woman needs to make her own living, you know,” she eyes Thatch, “just in case.”

“We’ve been doing fine,” Thatch defends as the tension grows thicker, and I can see my mother’s temperature rising, red blooming in her face.

“How is Tennessee,” Dad cuts in, reading my mother’s posture as her left eye begins to twitch. “You start those renovations? Because I don’t know if you are aware, but Thatch here—”

“The project is finished,” she says, and I bristle, knowing the only thing Gretchen has more of than unwanted opinions—is money. While working on the porch with Dad, Thatch discovered his love for building and took classes learning how to draft blueprints before becoming a master foreman in construction. His talent is astounding, and the recent housing boom in Nashville keeps him busy. Together, he and Serena have created a pretty successful venture. It was an insult that she didn’t so much as reach out to Thatch when she decided to renovate her six-thousand square foot house.

“Cost me a pretty penny, too,” she digs as Thatch averts his gaze out of the window, his jaw hardening. Seeming satisfied with the reaction, Gretchen diverts her attention to my brother.

“So, Brenden, I hear you ventured out on your own in business? Not very smart in these times.”

“Actually, it was the best time,” he says before sipping out of his tumbler, which I know is full of Mom’s eggnog. The bastard is numbing himself while we’re forced to deal with Ursula the sea bitch and sobriety. “Business is good.”