Page 36 of Spicy Nick

“Idon’tthink that’s how that metaphor works,” she replies, speaking sternly. But I’m not fooled. There’s a hint of a smile quirking at the edges of her lips.

“Unpin it?” I say, hoping to tease that smile into coming all the way unstuck. “Unslide it? Uncircle the wagons?

“Worser and worser!” Scout says. “That’s hardly even English.” Her lips are still mostly firm, but her eyes are agleam. I count that a win.

“Well, whatdoyou want to do?” I ask, and then she does smile. And it is glorious.

“Well…” she tells me. “I wasreallyhoping you could show me a little more of that Spicy Nick action you were telling me about.”

“I can do that,” I say as I tumble her down into the bedding. I brace myself on one arm, ravage her throat with kisses as I set to work on the belt of her robe. Her hands slide up my back, beneath my shirt, skin to skin, trailing pleasure in their wake. “I can definitely do that.”

“Wecan do that,” she corrects, right as usual.

“Yes,” I agree. “We can.”

And then we do. And it’s a very, merry Christmas.

Eight

I’m sure you can imagine what happens next.

No, not that!

I mean yes, that happens too, of course. But after that—after I tease my wife through another climax and she happily returns the favor, after we collapse at last in a sweaty, satiated, salty heap, all our responsibilities forgotten?—

We oversleep; that’s what happens. On Christmas morning, of all days!

We miss the alarm that I also, perhaps, may have forgotten to set. We sleep straight through the flurry of texts that briefly light up our family chat group shortly after sunrise. And we only return to consciousness when a commotion coming from inside the house—something my cop senses are primed to respond to—and my son’s high-pitched voice calling loudly for us both, shocks us awake.

“Oh, shit,” I grumble, after a quick glance at the clock reveals the lateness of the hour. “They’re already here? How is that fair?”

“Oh, no!” Scout wails as she fumbles into her robe. “This is terrible! How’d we sleep so late?”

“You know exactly how,” I tell her, just as?—

Still shouting, “Mommy! Daddy!” Cole bursts into the room, making a bee-line for Scout and throwing himself into her arms. Good instincts—like I said. “Santa was here! Come down and see!”

Ho-ly shit.I clap a hand to my mouth and mutter, “Crap!” just as Kate follows her brother into our room looking uncharacteristically annoyed—which strikes me as odd for Christmas morning, until I remember that she’s probably already seen our lack of prep work. “Sorry,” she sighs, sounding not all that sorry. “He’s just too fast. I couldn’t keep him out. But why are you guys still in bed? Do you even know what time it is?”

Scout’s gaze meets mine over Cole’s head. “We forgot about Santa!” she mouths in dismay.

“I know!” I mouth back. Then I wave Kate over and whisper, “Look, can you keep him occupied until we can get downstairs and hang the stockings, and put a few presents under the tree?”

Kate frowns. “What are you talking about? Everythingisset up.”

“Everything’s set up where?”

“Where do you think? Under the tree, hanging from the mantel. Did you forget you already did it?” She shakes her head. “Bruh. Is this ’cause you’re old? You’d better start doubling up on the gingko, or something. I’m too young to be an orphan.”

Mystified, I look at Scout. “Did you…?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the staircase.

She points at her chest and shakes her head. “I didn’t. You?”

“When would I have done that?” I snort, meaning:where would I have gotten the strength to move? “After everything else?” I gaze at her meaningfully. “No. Of course not.”

I can’t help smirking at the blush that heats Scout’s cheeks. Yeah, she caught the subtext just fine.

Luckily, however, my daughter did not. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she says. “Maybe one of you’s a sleepwalker now. Because there was nothing set up yesterday when I stopped by to grab our stuff, and now there is.”

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