Page 64 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Fine,” I say, pulling out the gift card from my jacket pocket, “then dessert is on me tonight.”

He glares down at the card in my hand as I sink into my seat, knowing there’s a good chance he might very well kick me out of his truck. In the last three weeks, we’ve gotten close. Really close. Closer than I thought possible in such a short time. Then again, we’ve spent endless hours together. Probably more than most couples when they start out. Our nights often ending just before sunrise. Neither of us wanting to part until we’d been forced away. But regardless of how close we’ve become, he still remains guarded. Too damned guarded. Especially about his situation with his family—or lack of. His history with them is the one thing I know he keeps closest to his chest. Refusing to let me fully in, it’s clear now he has no intentions of breaking his stance as he treats my simple request as if I’ve just asked the impossible.

“It’s a gift card, Thatch. Can you not take me to do something as simple as get a freaking dessert?”

His eyes blister me in warning as he palms his neck. “I mean,” he glances toward my house, “I guess so, yeah.”

“K,” I flash him a grin, again blindly reaching for the buckle, “let’s go.”

“Your seatbelt is broken.”

I shrug. “Okay, so don’t wreck.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t like this.”

“Please?” I palm his knee, and he glances out of his window before muttering a low curse. It’s that curse that has me grinning again—in victory. Though I try to choose my battles, the suspense of what his life consists of outside our bubble is becoming too much. In thinking it, I take in my surroundings, or rather his. The dash is ripped, cracked by weather or age ofthe seventies, possibly early eighties model truck. Though the seats are a little ripped up as well, and it looks worse for wear, it’s clean enough. What little possessions he has inside consist of folded jeans and shirts, which look freshly laundered and are stacked neatly on the floorboard between us. Just next to them sits a tiny bag holding a few personal items like deodorant, a toothbrush, and paste. His eyes remain glued to my profile as I purposely shift my footing so as not to disturb his things. After turning the key, the truck strains to catch for a few tense seconds before roaring to life. Thatch gives it some gas to warm it as I shiver where I sit.

“The heater doesn’t work,” he imparts warily, “and you’re freezing.”

I nod. “I’m good. Promise.”

“Serena, we should take your car.”

“I want to be in your truck,” I tell him honestly.

“I don’t even want to be in my fucking truck,” he grumbles, his voice carrying the same edge it does every time we get too close to topics he refuses to delve further into. Aware I’m pushing him but too intent on some discovery, I speak up.

“Just fucking go, Thatch. Jesus, it’s just dessert.”

Blowing out a breath of irritation, he puts the truck into gear, and not long after, we’re off. Mere minutes into the drive, I’m tucked at his hip, inhaling his scent. He’d reached for me just as I started inching over toward him, and I revel in the knowledge that we’re rarely not touching in some way. Inhaling his fresh, woodsy scent, I close the last of any space between us, palming his chest as he drives with one hand on the wheel, his other on my hip, keeping me firmly pressed to his side.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to date a guy with a truck,” I coo sarcastically. “We’re truckin’ now,” I drawl cheerily, barelysecuring a lip twitch. Determined to curb whatever is ailing him, I go in again. “You smell good tonight, Thatchalamewl.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he sighs, but his lips lift fully just after.

“Ah ha! He smiles.”

He shakes his head in annoyance. “I have to stop for gas really quick.”

I frown before nodding toward his gauge. “It says full.”

“Broken, too,” he admits on exhale.

“Oh ... so, where do you live? Close?”

“Serena—”

“On my side of town?”

“Sure,” he lies as he pulls into a gas station and parks, tension again rolling off him when his truck backfires loudly just after he cuts it.

“Hey,” I say, palming his jaw. “It’s a cool truck, Thatch. A classic.”

“Stop,” he scolds gently, even as his eyes softly glitter on me.

“I like your truck, Thatchalamewl,” I bat my lashes.

“Yeah, you’re not getting away with that nickname,” his grin comes a little more freely this time, and I take it as a good sign.

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