Page 21 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Fresh in,” he counters.

“I’m nineteen, thank you very much. Come on, hang out a little longer. I have nothing better to do.”

“In that case, I’ll pass,” he scoffs.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, you said it like that, so I guess you’ll have to entertain yourself.”

“No problems there,” I quip, producing the dime bag I secured earlier from my pocket. “So, if you want to join, be my guest.”

Both his brows rise as I wiggle the bag. “That’ll be a hell no.”

“Why? Afraid my parents won’t like you?”

“Yep, and I like them a lot more than you.”

“I’m hurt,” I palm my chest, “really, that’s going to keep me up tonight ... say, at around one thirty. I’ll be in here pondering why I’m so unlikable.”

“Jesus, you really are a fucking brat.”

“There must be something you like because my eyes are up here,” I state. “You cracked on my lips, but you keep staring at them.”

“It’s the glare,” he spouts, “like a space station. Tell me, did you gloss after dinner?”

“As all girls should, and it’s your loss.” I tuck the bag away. “And if you’re worried about Allen and Ruby judging you, they used to smoke, and often. In fact, I busted Mom with a joint a few years ago.”

He shakes his head, flashing me the smile that hits me just so. “You.”

I grin. “Me what?”

He walks out of the shed as I call after him.

“So, you coming, or what, Handy Man?”

“I guess we’ll see, Brat.”

Gracie walks in from the garage, eyes downcast, and Peyton follows, neither greeting me as I finish whipping the mashed potatoes. I trail both their paths as Gracie heads for the stairs, and Peyton stalks into the living room before kicking his soccer ball. A ball that smacks into our newly installed blinds. Thatch walks in, his expression just as grim as he cuts his eyes between our kids before flicking them to me. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, Handy Man.”

His jade gaze softens substantially as he snatches a carrot from the cutting board. “Smells good in here.”

“Roast,” I tell him.

He lifts his palms with a shit-eating grin. “I know better than to ask.”

I can’t help my smile. Thanks to Eli, who told him years ago never to ask me what’s for dinner again, it’s been a running joke between us.

“Well, it’s the same dinner we had on the night we met,” I tell him. “Brown sugar carrots and all.”

He grins. “You remember what we ate?”

“I remember the whole day,every year. I just thought pressuring you to acknowledge the day we met anniversary, and a wedding day anniversary is a bit much. How did it go?”

“She tried to steal perfume and got busted by one of those stickers on the bottom.Amateur.”

His expression dims considerably as I palm his jaw. “It’s not your fault, baby,” I console. “It’s not, believe me.” The pain in his eyes is so evident, along with the knowledge that this latest blow has hit him hard.

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