The Plight Before Christmas(83)

Whitney’s posture deflates as she slows her efforts in gathering the bags. Physically, I feel the ache in her. It’s when Serena starts to cry that Whitney hangs her head.

“I’m sorry. Tell me what to do,” Thatch pleads. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t make you feel what you obviously don’t feel for me anymore. I guess I just miss the man I married.”

“The boy you married was an irresponsible pothead without two kids and a mortgage to pay. We used to fight about me taking more responsibility in case you’ve forgotten, and now you’re saying I’m too responsible? I’m too boring? Jesus. I’m so lost.”

“No, Thatch, no. It’s not that. I…fucking miss you. I miss my best friend. I miss the man who could read my mood in mere seconds and actually gave a shit. It’s like you can’t stand me now.”

“Whit,” I say softly, my front flush to her back as she sniffs, “this is not for us to hear.” She nods, and I coax her away from the SUV, several bags in both our hands as we leave the rest in the trunk. Wordlessly we walk around the cabin to the back porch. Whitney clears the steps and turns to stare at the mountain view, bags still in hand, confusion in her expression as if she doesn’t know what to do.

I set my load down and eye the back door, thankful the curtain covering the glass door is closed.

“That was so stupid,” she croaks. “I didn’t mean to start a fight.”

“You didn’t,” I say, gently pulling the bags from her hands and placing them at her feet.

“As selfish as it is to say,” she whispers as she brings watering eyes to mine, “I don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t make it.”

“It’s just a fight.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen her this way. And I’ve never heard him be so venomous with her. He’s losing his patience with her when she needs it most. They can’t break up. They can’t. There’s got to be something I can do. Maybe I can watch the kids so they can spend some time alone. Or—”

I tip her chin, cutting her off, so I have her full attention.

“When did their marriage become your responsibility?”

“What?”

“Matter of fact, let me ask you this. When did being the caregiver for this entire family become your responsibility? When did you decide everyone else’s well-being was on you, Whitney?”

She averts her gaze.

“Stop fucking looking away from me. I’ve watched you, closely, for the last four days, and you’ve done nothing but cater to them—every single one of them—even when they’re capable of fending for themselves.”

“I love taking care of them. It’s who I am.”

“No, it’s a selfless part of who you are, and there’s nothing wrong with it to a point, but you’re exhausted. How in the hell are you supposed to enjoy yourself—your own holiday—if you’re running around trying to please everyone?”

“And just what is it that you think I’m denying myself, huh? What is it that you think I’m miss—”





Eli places a palm on my chest, cutting my rant off before aggressively walking me backward. My feet move on their own accord due to the intent in his eyes as he bypasses the house before pushing me against it. Paralyzed by the blazing heat of his gaze, I gape at him as he flicks my jacket aside before gripping my hip, easily tugging my body forward to mold against his, our ragged breaths mingling.

“What are you missing? I think it’s me, and I think I’m missing you, and I think we’ve been missing each other for a long fucking time. Mistletoe,” he rasps out, a second before his lips crush mine.

My entire body jolts on contact as my eyes fly to his before fluttering closed. The strength behind his kiss shoots through me like lightning as he swipes his tongue along my lips, and immediately, I open. All outside noise disappears as he sweeps my mouth with an urgent tongue, and I moan onto it, body going lax against the house.

All I can do is feel as Eli fuses our mouths together, his tongue gliding along mine as I sink into him, my palms sliding up his muscled chest, his scent surrounding me, intoxicating me as he feasts.

A groan vibrates in his throat as he pins me further into the house, running his hard cock along my stomach as we explode into motion and touch, exploring, tasting.

Gripping the top of his jacket in my fists, I kiss him back furiously, our tongues dueling as he tilts his head, angling to go deeper. I feel every single bit of my restraint melt away with each sure swipe of his tongue. It’s when he breaks our kiss far too soon that I realize how instantaneously I gave into him and how much of the truth he spoke back at the store.

He could have totally effed me.

“Jesus Christ, Bee,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against mine.

Stupid, stupid, twenty-year-old Whitney!

But I can’t entirely blame her anymore. The truth is thirty-eight-year-old Whitney has done nothing but imagine touching him again and being with him intimately since his day one confession at the store. He inches away, studying my reaction to it, the act so intimate, so familiar, a ball forms in my throat.

Lips tingling, I stare up at him, praying some sort of self-preservation takes over as he palms the siding of the house, breaths coming fast.