The Plight Before Christmas(85)
His eyes drill me as his words pummel my chest.
“Love for your brother and all, but I’m not here to spend Christmas with him. I came here for you. As kamikaze as the idea might have been—hoping it was still there between us and for the possibility of a second chance—it’s apparent now it wasn’t so far-fetched. You still feel a lot for me, too, whether it’s nostalgia-based or not. So, don’t insult me by denying it another fucking minute.”
“You just expect me to—”
“Jesus, how the tables have turned.” He grips my face in his hands. “I already told you I expect nothing, and I sure as hell didn’t expect to feel so damned much so fast, but I should have known I would because it’s you,” he whispers, his eyes filled with affection. “I hoped…I hoped you weren’t so different that I couldn’t recognize you. I hoped for a lot, and now I’m simply asking you. I’m asking you to spend time with me, talk to me, to let me kiss you if you want to be kissed by me.” He swallows as he strokes me with reverent fingers. “I’m asking for another chance with you.”
All I can do is stare back at him.
“God, if you would only let me,” he lowers his hands around my neck and slides his thumbs along my throat. “I’m asking you to think about Whitney and what she wants and needs because that’s all I’m doing. Just think about it.”
Releasing me, he disappears around the corner of the house. The sun sets as the timed lights click on. It’s then I spot a lit plastic wreath adorned with mistletoe hanging from a hook on the siding next to me. The sliding door opens, and I hear the rustle of the bags as Eli gathers them before he steps in, my mother’s greeting muffled as he closes the door. Utterly mystified, fingers numbing, I stare after him in the cold. But inside? I’m on fucking fire.
Pizza and plastic plates meant no dishes tonight, which also meant no one-on-one with Whitney. I had my say, and I’ve got nothing until she makes a decision and gives me some sort of a leg to stand on. Girl’s night started the second those plates were trashed, and Thatch got to work making it a point to keep the kids upstairs. He built a gigantic fort in the media room to keep them entertained, which I helped with before retreating downstairs.
Stuck in limbo, I decided to chill out in the King’s study, reading up about the man himself after plucking one of a dozen bios from the shelf.
From what I’ve read, Elvis Presley, a man arguably blessed with one of the greatest voices in music history—and gifted with the looks to match—committed a long, slow suicide.
Elvis didn’t want me to know anything about him personally, and that I can relate to being a private man myself. I’ve never been an open book for anyone, not even Whitney. A personal issue I’ve fought hard to remedy over the years.
All Elvis wants from me is an appreciation for his music.
But in trying to keep his private life outside of my opinion of him, I fail because I can’t look away from his personal life due to the fact I have a real fucking problem with people who purposefully throw good health away.
Maybe it’s because of my belief that the human body can turn in an instant, from temple to host—if not treated properly.
Laughter spills in just outside my window, interrupting my inner musings as I flip a page. Serena’s laughter rings out the loudest, and I’m thankful for it. After their fight, Serena and Thatch entered the house looking exasperated and drained. At one point, Brenden had gone to talk to Thatch after noticing his defeated demeanor. With as much as I have gathered—by spying on the house in an attempt to gain traction with Whitney—I was tempted to follow to give him some behind-the-scenes insight but stayed back knowing I haven’t earned a place in that conversation.
Since this afternoon, I’ve done nothing but think about the kiss we shared and Whitney’s reaction to my words. I’m pissed at myself for having another reason to apologize to her, but fuck, that kiss. Feeling her needy moan in my mouth truly made the leap worth it. She was always so receptive to me, opening for me again and again like I was the thing she needed most. She did the same for me today, and I wanted nothing more than to add some stolen seconds to remind her repeatedly—in whatever way she would allow—of just how good we were and could be again…but it wasn’t the time. I had to end that kiss before it went any further and find a better time. Time that seems impossible to locate in this atmosphere.
More cackling laughter cascades into my King suite as the girls’ huddle in the loungers that sit just outside the den windows—louder pieces of their conversation drifting in. Unable to resist a second longer, I unlatch the lock and crack a window, holding my breath while hoping it goes unnoticed. I breathe easier as the conversation drifts in uninterrupted and decide I’m a bad man.
That I can live with for the moment.
“I swear to God,” Serena says, “if Thatch asks me ‘what’s for dinner’ one more time, I’m going to lose my shit.”
“I know!” Erin chimes in, fluidly enthusiastic, no doubt due to booze consumption. “It’s like the kiss of death. I can’t stand it. I want to rip my hair out when Brenden asks me.”
“Oh, to go back to the beginning,” Serena sighs, “when I had no idea what he would say and waited on bated breath just to hear him talk—about anything and everything but the subject of fucking dinner. Thatch used to chat me up like crazy when we got together. Sometimes we’d fall asleep on the phone. I woke up one morning, and he was still on the line, waiting for me to wake up. That’s when I knew he was the one.”