Page 82 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Santa is real.”

“Mep. You have a tee time set up at the country club for the first slot available—weather permitting—and a standing reservation every freaking week.”

He frowns. “Baby, I can’t play every week.”

“You’re taking it, Thatch. Daddy time. You time. Alone time. Because what’s the fucking point of being successful if you can’t enjoy it?”

“Baby,” he sets the clubs against the edge of the couch and scoops me beneath my ass, gazing up at me. “Damn, thank you. I know those were expensive as hell.”

“You deserve them. Period. Merry Christmas, Thatchalamewl.”

He rolls his eyes, his grin only amping. “Best one yet.”

“I can think of another present to give you, Handy Man.” I bounce my brows.

“I would be agreeable to that,” he drops his voice, “but you’re not really feeling that offer.”

I gape at him.

“I know when my wife wants it, don’t insult me. So ... tops and bottoms tonight?”

“It’s just, to be honest, I’m a little sore. I’m not as ... flexible or quick to rebound as I used to be. If I’m brutal, my pussy feels like it got hit by a Mack truck. I. Am. Sore.”

“I got a charley horse at the end,” he admits sheepishly, “it totally almost fucked up my finish.”

“Oh my God, I thought that was a new move!”

We both burst into laughter, and I shake my head. “What a life,” I say on exhale. “Come on, baby, let’s attempt some sleep. The kids will be up very soon.”

We start to turn off the lights and toss all the remaining trash in the bag as I glance over at Thatch.

“You know, we’ve been dysfunctionally functioning fortwenty-two years. Not that many couples can claim that. I’m proud of us. Hell, we even renewed our wedding vows.”

“Like idiots,” he jokes.

“Yeah, well, who’s the idiot whoasked twice?”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “And had two kids.”

“You mean Gracie and theOops—”

“Yeah, too bad we changed his name from Oops O’Neal. It suits him perfectly. They say you should always stick with your first instinct,” I joke, tying off the trash bag as we both chuckle. “You think they talk shit about us like we do them?”

“Worse,” he answers instantly, “and it is going to get worse. Think about how you, Whit, and Brenden talk about your parents.”

“With the utmost respect,” I defend.

His face screams skepticism. “Delusional.”

After placing the trash just outside the front door, we glance back at the tree, the snow falling behind it as morning light threatens to break, a slightly purple hue filling the living room.

“Another all-nighter with my Handy Man,” I say as he pulls me back to him, nuzzling me.

“Worth the loss of sleep,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, but only for you and for our babies,” I agree before we make our way upstairs. Not long after, my husband pulls his pajama top over my head before kissing me like he would his brat. Just after, tucking me into him. As he sleeps, I run my fingers through his hair with a thankful heart, sending a prayer up for twenty-two more years. Just after I doze off, Peyton knockstwice, announcing himself a split second before bursting through our door.

“Mommy! Daddy! Rudolph comed!!!”

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