The Plight Before Christmas(73)

Unable to help myself, I push the lock of hair back from his forehead and nod. A faint smile graces his lips as Thatch comes back armed with a water bottle and two tablets. Thankfully without protest, Eli takes them before guzzling the water.

“That should help ease the sting a little. Get some sleep, man,” Thatch says. “See you in the morning.”

Eli nods slowly, his eyes drifting to me as he fights to keep them open, blinking a few times before losing the battle when they flutter closed.

For several minutes, I gaze on at him as he lays completely still and drink in his long muscular frame, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the perfection of his chiseled face covered in stubble and shadow—the thickness of his lips.

“Of course, I remember,” I whisper. “You were pretty fucking unforgettable yourself,” I murmur, all too tempted to press a kiss to his parted lips, “how could I forget my first love?”

Leaving him comatose, I pause beneath the doorway before stepping out of the darkened room and into the kitchen to find Thatch waiting for me.

“Whitney—”

“I know,” I say, rewrapping the cheeseball, my appetite gone as Eli’s latest confessions swirl around in my head.

“I feel for him,” Thatch says as I put the ball back in the fridge and grab a sponge to wipe the counter to escape his scrutiny.

“I know, but it’s been seventeen fucking years, Thatch.”

“From where I’m standing, that doesn’t at all matter. He’s trying so hard, Whit. Isn’t that worth something?” It’s hard to gauge whether he’s talking about himself or Eli, probably both, but I have no doubt his empathy stems from his current situation.

“I know.”

“People can change, sis. Hell, look at the mess I was when I met your sister.”

Tossing the sponge into the sink, I turn to him. “I hear you, but you do know she loved you as you were. That’s who she fell for.”

He dips his chin and averts his own gaze to dismiss the subject. As close as we are, I know Serena’s off-limits tonight. With my own head whirring, it’s easy to let it slide. “So, you’re going to talk to him?”

I nod. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good.” He chuckles. “I’d say he’s earned it. What in the hell does Mom put in that eggnog?”

I shake my head and glance back in the direction of the den. “No idea.”





Waking abruptly, head throbbing, I realize I’m fully dressed—images of how I got to the mattress shudder in. But anything prior to that is still a bit fuzzy, though I know I cornered Whitney last night and no doubt gave her a dose of verbal vomit. Softly closing the bathroom door behind me, I relieve myself, wash my hands and look in the mirror as small pieces come back to me. I came onto her again, aggressively. The glaring vanity lights of the bathroom have me wincing as I try desperately to recall the conversation.

Did I say I would fuck her with a carrot?

What in the hell was in that eggnog?

“Jesus Christ, Welch.” Palming my head, humiliation coats me as the reminder of why I don’t drink throbs at my temple and continues pulsating to the back of my head. I splash cold water on my face wondering what time it is while seriously considering making a running leap off the nearest cliff.

Once again, I’ve made a fool of myself vying for attention. Even with the conversation fuzzy, it’s evident I didn’t make progress that way.

She knows I’m not a drinker and even tried to spare me, so any razzing will be deserved. If anything, I hope she had a good laugh at my expense. Especially if what I confessed was as poorly executed as I imagine it would be by a man who hasn’t had a drink in two decades after consuming the devil’s juice.

Back in the den, I step onto the deck and into the freezing night, staring up at the starless sky, my dearest old friend nowhere in sight. Even the moon is hiding from the disaster that is me at the moment.

Closing my eyes, I remember faint whispers in the darkened room, a flash of her sitting next to me on the bed. Her whispers or mine? Who fucking knows. Even as the man I’ve grown into, I’ve always been my most vulnerable with Whitney. It’s always been that way, hasn’t changed, and apparently won’t. The crazy part is, she was purposefully kept unaware of how vulnerable I was.

My design.

She could have me feeling both exposed and invincible within the same minute, fuck, the same breath. That was what she drew from within me then.

I was close to in love with her before I even kissed her. Was already there and fell impossibly deeper the first time I sank inside and lost myself, escaping grief and the sharp-edged reality that haunted me nearly every waking hour.

“Thank you for today,” I murmur before we exchange another agonizing and lengthy kiss goodnight at the door of her apartment. She drops the bags in her hands to wrap around me. Bags she acquired in a last-minute Christmas shopping trip I agreed to suffer through only for the chance to spend more time with her before she went home for Christmas break.

She’s been on the forefront of my mind all day, even more so than usual because I woke this morning to the smell and sight of a fully decorated, brightly lit, four-foot Christmas tree at the foot of my bed. A Christmas gift from her, which had my chest swelling with unbearable ache.

No other human being in my life has taken such care to lift me up the way she has. I’m certain she counts my smiles, which are becoming easier to grant. She’s not only cracked my shell, but inch by inch, she’s dragging me out of it. Waking up next to her immediately starts a more positive mindset, making my days so much easier, so much better.