Page 21 of Santa's Pucking Hat Trick

“Christ, Rachel, I knew you’d come like a goddamn freight train. That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, but I was smiling, and that made him laugh.

Roman and I could barely look each other in the eyes when the afterglow faded. We both scrambled back into our clothes, not speaking another word as we slunk off to our cars. It wasn’t a walk of shame, though—no matter how much my rational brain wanted to admonish me for losing control, hooking up with someone whose personality I found insufferable, crossing professional boundaries in the worst way, I was practically giddy from the thrill of it all. Replaying Roman’s well-honed moves, the feeling of his lips, the sound he made as he came.

There was a tiny moment of worry about the fact that we’d never even discussed using a condom as I headed to my car, but I was diligent about my birth control, so it wasn’t much of a worry. STIs were more of a concern, but I was no stranger to getting tested, and I got the sense that Roman did that a lot too. Wishful thinking, maybe, but the way he cared so much about my pleasure made me think he must at least care a little about not spreading love bugs to all the other women he aimed to please.

Honestly, just the thought that he’d go sleep with someone else after the crazy good sex we’d just shared…that was the most upsetting part of it all. But that was ridiculous, and like my other worries, it was easily squashed.Just enjoy this,I told myself.You haven’t been thoroughly laid in a long time.

After, I drove home with my legs still shaking, sneaking into the guest house through the backyard so none of my family could see me. The Hennings were cool and loving and supportive as anyone, but there were limits even to their kindness. No way could I let them see me like this: just-fucked, clearly a little guilty, but not enough to regret the best sex I’d ever had.

12

RACHEL

“Pass the potatoes,” my brother told me for the third time since dinner started. Not because he was gorging himself on starches—though he surely was doing that too, all in the name of “carbo-loading” so he could be in tip-top hockey captain shape—but because I hadn’t heard him the first two times he’d asked. This third request was mercifully louder, but it had its own drawbacks. Like how it made my parents and Bria all stare at me, wondering why I was so spacey.

I couldn’t very well tell them I was fantasizing about Roman Jett and his plentiful giving of orgasms. You couldn’t waterboard that information out of me. Especially at the family dinner table.

We’d restarted this long-standing family tradition the second I got home, so it wasn’t a particularly special occasion, though it was slightly rarer that Bria was able to join us. Plus, it felt different sitting down to a meal with my parents as a grown adult with a job and a degree—more a gathering of equals than it had ever been when I was a kid. Regardless, I simply shouldnotbe spacing out while I sat at the dinner table with my family, especially when the thoughts drifting through my idle brain were so sinfully explicit.

“Anyway, the Douglas firs are in prime shape this year,” my dad resumed a story I hadn’t been listening to. “Those big-city farms aren’t gonna know what hit ’em.”

Typical. My dad always talked about Christmas trees, even when it was the offseason for such a thing, since he was obsessed with his self-built tree farm business and frequently boasted that his was the biggest one in Mistletoe. Steve Henning was a proud, self-proclaimed “tree nerd,” even studying the best sustainable farming practices and the genetic differences in the different evergreen tree varieties in his spare time. At least I hadn’t missed anything really important while I’d been mentally replaying the way it felt to be impaled on Roman’s cock.

“As long as you save the biggest and best tree for my gala,” Mom piped up, pointing her index finger at Dad, her eyes narrowed in playful admonishment.

“Of course, dear,” my dad said, ever the dutiful husband. My mom beamed.

This was another predictable turn of the conversation; every year, my mom’s biggest showcase of her socialite talents was the Christmas charity gala she organized. Glitz and glam galore, all wrapped up in a charitable cause she and her other well-off friends would feel good about supporting; the proceeds from the ticket sales and the hefty donations the event solicited went toward local food banks and buying gifts for low-income kids. It was the perfect picture of Christmas-spirit philanthropy, and Mom made it her personal mission to turn an event for a cause intotheevent of the season. Just about everyone in town attended the gala every year. I wondered, still feeling too X-rated for this wholesome family moment, whether Roman ever came to the shindig. There were certainly plenty of women and booze to go around at such a thing, and that was his bread and butter.

“Isn’t that right, Rachel?” Mom’s voice broke through yet another reverie, and before I could process what she was askingme to agree to, I was playing the perfect daughter. I knew my lines anyway.

“Yeah, totally,” I said, and when Mom’s face became sneakily self-satisfied, my stomach dropped. What had I agreed to? My twin seemed to sense my distress and confirmed my fears, leaning in to whisper while Mom and Bria picked up talk about the theme of this year’s gala at the other side of the table.

“You just signed on to be Mom’s personal lackey for gala-gate,” Michael said, almost snickering. “Good luck picking out centerpieces and whatever the hell else.”

I almost groaned aloud. If Michael and I had been alone, I definitely would have, and he definitely would have told me to “suck it up”—not“man up,” since I’d beaten that misogynistic phrase out of his vocabulary when we were in middle school. In theory, helping my mom with party planning shouldn’t be that bad—but I knew better. Paula Henning was a nightmare control freak when it came to hosting. I could still remember the Great Roller Rink Twin Birthday Fiasco of ‘09, and just the thought of it made me shudder.

It served me right, honestly. After the world’s biggest lapse in judgment had turned intolotsof sexual satisfaction, I deserved to be punished in some way. Sleeping with Roman Jett could only end in trouble, and this was just the start of it.

The bigger trouble that loomed on the horizon, though, was how badly Idefinitelywanted it to happen again. And again, and again, andagain.

It wasn’t like I wanted a relationship with him or anything. But if I could learn to tolerate his presence enough to make a longer-term, friends-with-benefits situation happen, I’d gladly throw caution to the wind and do it. Anything to taste his mouth, to experience his incredible physique, to feel his hot seed pump inside me again.

God, I needed to think ofanythingelse. But the more my brain grasped at non-horny straws, the more it found reasons to fantasize about a certain two other hockey players instead. Sawyer’s lips on mine that morning at the ice center, a kiss so different to Roman’s but no less incredible which neither of us had the guts to address since it happened. Wes Robbins’ blue eyes, the sweetness he seemed to still have underneath his jock exterior.

Damn it, it wasuseless.I couldn’t bring myself to focus on idle family chatter with all of this hormonal hockey hoopla in my brain. I never thought I’d look forward to the start of hockey season in Mistletoe, but at this point, I’d do anything to see less of the three men my body wanted far more than my brain did. I prayed for a disproportionate amount of away games this season so I could achieve maximum distance from them all.

When we wrapped up dinner, Bria found her way to my side, nudging me with her shoulder in the familiar way she’d done a lot when I was a teenager. I could tell the look on her face was one of concern even before she quietly asked me, “You alright, Rach? Wanna take a walk with me?”

I nodded even though I knew this walk was just a pretense to get me to open up. Bria was good about getting people into that vulnerable talking state, but I wasn’t exactly interested in sharing my internal angst. Still, a walk might help clear my head. Bria and I left Michael to help Mom with the dishes, heading into the chill evening for a stroll around our neighborhood.

“Your brain has been whirring ever since you came back,” Bria started, not pulling any punches as we passed our neighbor’s impressive willow tree. “Is there something wrong? There’s this…distance, and we all just want to be close to you.”

I watched my feet as we walked, not wanting to look Bria in the face as I confessed to her. “I know. I…I want to be close to you all too. Just…maybe notthisclose.”

“What do you mean?”

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