Page 44 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“You better not have put that on my credit card!”

“I don’t know how to credit card! Grammy boughted it!”

“You don’t deserve it! You can’t even use your tenses correctly!” I throw myself into it, lifting a second bird toward the door as I continue to make obscene gestures at my oblivious son.I even toss a leg up in the mix and shoot a bird beneath it as he goes in for the kill.

“Go away,Thatcher O’Neal.”

“Happy to Peyton smears poop on the potty seat!” I snap. “It’s bedtime anyway for me!” Turning to stalk back downstairs, I’m met by the unhinged jaws of my brothers and immediately point back at the door. “Did you see that? He’s a bully and the ringleader!”

Eli and Brenden—perched on opposite sides of the top of the stairs—begin to collapse into laughter as I push past them, shaking my head in aggravation. “Fuck you guys,” I say, still stinging as I glance back, only once, and meet my son’s glare through a crack in the door before he slams it closed. The little shit.

“Did you see that!?” I point out, as Brenden starts to usher me away, and I strain against him, “he’s the ringleader!”

Brenden glances back just as Peyton screams through the door.

“Go away, Daddy! We don’t want you!”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Brenden consoles with a palm on my shoulder, “you can be in our cwub,” he mimics as they guide me down the stairs, “‘causewe foundour mommy’s nog.”

Mom sets the platter down on the table, her eyes drifting to Thatch, who has hardly looked up since she called him in from the deck, all but ordering him to join us for dinner. His kisses still fresh on my lips from only hours before, I rattle across from him as Brenden and Whitney go back and forth, forever annoying Dad.

“Thatcher, sweetie,” Mom coaxes. “Want some ham?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he states, taking the large serving fork from her before pulling a tiny slice onto his plate.

“Shit, kid, nonsense, eat,” she orders, emptying half the platter on his plate before Thatch chuckles through telling her to stop. I look between them as Mom keeps her prodding focus on him. It’s when Thatch finally lifts his eyes to hers that I see it. It’s as plain as day—guilt.

He’s riddled with it, and it’s no mystery why. It’s for being with me. Kissing me, touching me. Maybe I should leave him alone. He’s made it clear since night one that we’re not a goodidea. Even as I think it, I sink back into the memory I’ve been playing on repeat all day. It was just after he delivered one of the most intense kisses of my life. A collection of thundering heartbeats passed as our snarky back and forth ceased to exist. Dazed by the kiss, we stared at one another, buzzing with the connection between us. Lips close to touching, he’d threaded his fingers through my hair, cupping the back of my head while tenderly running his thumb along my cheek. I’d leaned into his touch as his whisper hit me straight in the chest.

“Jesus, baby, I can’t ... fuck, I can’t get enough of you.”

It was that moment that flit through my mind the second my eyes cracked open this morning, and it’s that exchange that has me mentally willing him to keep fighting whatever reservations he has about us. If only so that we can have more of those moments. But as of this one, here and now, he’s refusing to even look at me.

He regrets it, has to, and yet his behavior isn’t really all that different than it was the first night at the table. Maybe it’s just the way I feel. Am I alone in this? I can’t be. He was there in every sense of the word last night.

Or, is it just that easy for Thatch to play things off? To play me? He said he wasn’t by any means a gentleman but was trying—for me.

From the way he talks, it’s like he’s ashamed of who he is, but he’s only twenty. Too young to have done so much damage already. Right?

These questions play on a loop as they have all day, the answers buried in the locked jaw of the guy sitting across from me. One I’m now allowing to fuck with my head. Even so, I told him this didn’t have to get complicated. That it could be just fun. So why does it feel like this? Why is he the one making it so hard?

If he’s a player, big deal. That I could deal with. I have before ... but what exactly is his true damage? He confessed he’s not in a good place with his parents but seems okay with it. The bigger question is, why do I care so damned much? The answer rings clear in my mind just after.

He’s all I’ve thought about since I walked through my door after driving back from college. Meeting him in that shed is the only thing I’ve had to look forward to since—besides being home. Maybe I’m being selfish by forcing him to push past his protests. I know I am, but the last three months have been some of the worst I’ve endured in the last year. My attraction to him has been a welcome distraction from it. Because of that, I’m most likely reading into this too much. Am I making something out of so little because I need it?

Gah, Serena, could you be more pathetic?

But even as I convince myself I’m alone in it and pushing too hard, I feel his kiss. I hear his whispers. I continue to feed on the memory of the look in his eyes that told me I’m anything but alone. I’m drowning in him already, in his mystery, but it’s keeping me from thinking about what lies ahead. About the return trip to school. Of what’s waiting, which is turning out to be a whole lot of fucking nothing.

Though now, and as he continues to speak the bare minimum while flat out ignoring me, his sweet words are starting to mean less and less. Especially when he excuses himself to chop wood the minute he cleans his plate. As he pushes his chair back, I search him, his face, his expression for any sign, absolutely anything. A subtle twist of lips, a smirk, something to show me I’m reading this wrong. It’s when I’m left with nothing that I glare at his retreating back as he walks out the door, not hesitating a single second.

Knowing that going after him is stupid and pointless and that I’ll probably be waiting in vain tonight, I continue to stare in the direction Thatch left as Whitney sounds up.

“What did the back door do to you, sis?” She chides. Feeling a complete fool now and knowing I’m making it obvious, I fix my glare on her. Whitney lowers her eyes, her grin growing as Mom scolds her.

“Leave her alone, Whitney.”

“What?” She feigns innocence. “She stares at him all freaky like, that’s probably why he ran.”

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