Page 81 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Stop joking, Thatch. I’m trying to make you realize that I understand now that we’re the lucky ones. The kids and me. Have always been. We are the lucky ones—Gracie, Peyton, and me, and I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel differently.”

He stalks over to me and kisses me softly, then deeply, and for a brief second, I’m the terrified nineteen-year-old holding her heart out for the first time to a boy, praying like hell he’ll take it. In that kiss, he does, with every swipe of his tongue, his tender touch ringing out the same promises he made all those years ago. When we part, we touch foreheads. Pulling back, his eyes glitter down on me and, in those seconds, I feel it. The fleeting butterflies, the initial zing that bound us. But it’s our lasting love and the life we made after that keeps us connected now. In keeping the promises we made so long ago, when we were far too young, too naïve, and had too much life to live to know if we would be able to keep them. But we did, and to this day, we do. Through it all, year after year.

“I’m just as proud to be your husband.”

“Thank you, baby.”

“Sometimes when I pull into the drive,” he says, “I think about the road we’ve traveled,” he states, reaching down and dipping into his jeans pocket, “and during every step, you made whatever house we had into arealhome. Every single time.” He takes my hand, opening it so my palm is up before depositing a locket into it, slowly piling a chain on top of it.

“Thatch, it’s beautiful,” I say, studying the uniqueness of it.

“Yeah, it’s a pretty shiny thing, and I know how you like those, but it’s what’s inside that takes my breath away,” he murmurs.

“My husband, the newborn romantic,” I state. “I could really get used to this.” I frown. “I hope it isn’t a phase, like the faux hawk. I really love the damned faux hawk.”

“Let me finish,” he states.

“Sorry.” Noting the O carved into the metal for our last name, I lift it so we can both admire it as he moves to stand closer to view my reaction.

“Baby, open it,” he urges, his eyes alight as I press the tiny button on the side to release it, and it pops open. The hinge tight, I crack it wider and gasp when I see pictures of both Gracie and Peyton, and ... me. Each of them in my arms, what looks like mere seconds after I gave birth. In both, I look an utter mess in my hospital gown, my hair plastered to my head, my eyes glued to the baby in my arms.

“Aside from the first time I laid eyes on you and the day you wore white and pranced down the aisle toward me—smugly,” we share a smile.

“I totally pranced,” I agree.

“These are the two images that stick out most in my memory. I mean, you looked like hell, let’s be honest.”

I glare at him, and he chuckles.

“But you still managed to be the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. These images I’ve managed to memorize without needing a photo, but damn, am I glad I took them.”

“When?” I study the photos that are so perfectly captured.

“Kicker is, I was obvious about it when I did, but you were too in love with our babies to notice. And baby,” he draws my gaze to his with his tone, “that look in your eyes, the one you have for them right there, that’s the way you look at me. How could I ever fucking leave that?”

He hooks a finger under my chin, keeping my watering eyes to his. “We joke about you being my bitchy wife. Hell, I just made one, and over the years, I know you’ve felt guilty for the way you’ve spoken to me at times, Serena. But it’s one of the reasons I fell for you. Even if my little masochistic kink has backfired here and there.” He laughs as more tears spill over. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were a handful and expect you to at some point settle the fuck down. Let’s face it, no amount of good dicking was ever going to tame you, Brat.”

“Never mind, I’ll never add romantic to your repertoire, Thatcher,” I press my lips together before bursting into laughter. “You’re the worst, but you have been so romantic this week. Is it over?”

“I hope not. But you and I both know we can promise one another to death and be a pathetic mess next week. I’m cool with whatever as long as it’s forever,” he declares.

“Me too.”

“I mean it. That’s why I want your family’s motto right next to ours.

“What?”

He runs his finger down to the bottom of the locket and points at the inscription as I read it. “Chaos.”

“And,” he flips it over.

“Gravity. So cool, Thatch. I love it.”

“Got to have one to appreciate the other, right?”

“You’re awesome. And to think, all I got you was anEliteset of clubs.”

His girly gasp follows me as I walk over to the coat closet and drag out the heavy bag that I donned with a giant bow as his jaw drops.

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