The Plight Before Christmas(71)

She’s driving me insane with her indifference, and I’m letting her. The one woman whom I’ve always let push me beyond my tolerable limits.

Old habits Die Harding the fuck out of me.

Jesus, she’s so far in your head that you’re using movie titles as verbs.

When the last box is empty, and the tree is weighted with ornaments, Gracie cuts the lights as they all step back and admire their handiwork.

As though she can sense my raging unease, Whitney scours the room to find me skulking in the hallway, her smile fading when she sees the moose mug in my hand. She heads straight for me, stopping a mere foot away before gripping the antler handle and drinking it down in a few gulps.

“Come on,” she sighs, “you know you don’t drink the hard stuff.”

“Maybe I do.”

“It’s not you.”

“And dating a guy like that is you?” I scoff. “Well, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. From what I’ve gathered, it is you.”

Her eyes dim.

Fuck. I’m already going there.

“You know the saying. Variety is the spice of life.” She circles the tumbler staring down at it before draining the last drop. “You should know Campus Casanova.”

“You know all too fucking well that’s not who I was. You chose to believe that bullshit.”

She shrugs. “Never found any evidence to the contrary. Look,” she says, placing the empty glass in my hand. “I don’t want to fight.”

Golden brown eyes pierce mine, and the familiar ache that fills me doesn’t seem so out of place anymore. She gazes up at me, recovered from my shitty jab and seeming completely at peace while I feel anything but.

Placing her hands on my chest, she pushes off her toes and presses a slow kiss to my jaw while I keep my arms at my sides, battling the urge to circle her, bring her closer, bring her back to me.

“Mistletoe,” she whispers as I look up to see I’m standing directly beneath one of the many sprigs Ruby hung throughout the house. “I’ll ignore the fact that you just insulted me on account of you’re still a terrible drunk. I’m not doing this with you, and you have absolutely no right to play jealous.”

“I’m not playing shit.”

My rebuttal has her pausing. “Well, that’s absurd.”

Maybe, but it’s the fucking truth.

When she runs her palm along my searing chest in a placating gesture, she might as well be stabbing me.

“Come on, let’s just get along, okay?” She turns, spotting Peyton at the foot of the kitchen, and races toward him before scooping him into her arms. He giggles in delight as she playfully nuzzles his neck, her eyes brimming with adoration. I stare after them, helpless to the laundry list of shit I’m feeling.

Memory serves me another heaping tablespoon of remorse as I recall feeling the same helplessness as I was falling for her. A plethora of emotions—both good and bad—warring throughout me with brutal force as they did the entirety of the eight months we dated. And long after.

The kicker of it? I’m not hiding from her or playing games. I’ve been nothing but honest with myself, with her, and how I’m feeling moment to moment since I got here, and it’s gotten me nowhere.

Had I known I would already be this far under her spell in a matter of days, I might have prepared more, but in truth, I had no fucking chance. The mere sight of her set it all off, pushing me back to a familiar place—pride in the backseat, confidence fluctuating, temper flaring, heart slamming around in my chest like a ticking time bomb, and my cock constantly between half-mast and full salute whenever she’s near.

She’s been just as responsive physically but nowhere near as liberal verbally. She feels it, and she’s been feeling it, and that’s what I’m clinging to at this point. Whitney was thinking about our first time together the night she pushed the hair away from my face as we did dishes. I’d bet my fucking life on it.

She’s avoided me long enough. Tonight. Tonight we will have the conversation she doesn’t want to have. I will get through to her.

It’s going down tonight.




Two hours later…




Eggnog Moose Mugs consumed—5

Words exchanged with Whitney—0



One eye closed, I focus on the mouthy blonde prey between the handle of my moose cup. Once I have her in my crosshairs, I rise to my feet as she moves toward the kitchen. Going in, I follow the tell-tale jingle of the bells on the tips of her elf slippers.





Opening the fridge, I pull out the remainder of the cheese ball and sense Eli behind me, his cologne wafting into my nose as he steps in close, his chest brushing my back.

“I think it’s time we had a lil chat,” he slurs.

Turning, I gaze up at him as he crowds me against the open fridge, eyes narrowed and glossy.

“You like geasy hands? I can get dirty, and you know,” he draws out, “but if you needs a remind you, I’ll fuck you right now against dez condiments.” He plucks a bottle next to my head. “against this habanero zauce.”

“Whoa, tiger, I don’t think my parents would appreciate that.”

He grips my chin, squishing my lips together with his fingers.

“Pet you’d appreciate it.”