Page 66 of The Sleight Before Christmas

His head whips toward me, his fury now directed to me. My own anger wins as I press in. “Tell me.”

“You really don’t want to know, Serena.”

“Yes, I fucking do, and frankly I’m sick of begging for crumbs.”

“Well, I’m not going to fucking tell you. Deal with it.”

“Did you love her?”

“Love?” He scoffs. “Who in the fuck has time for that? Not me...” he runs his hand through his hair in exasperation before leveling me with his cutting jade eyes. A look I’ve never been on the receiving end of. One that singes me. “Jesus Christ, you can’t be this oblivious—this clueless, and you aren’t. It’s exactly what it looks like. I’m exactly what you think I am.”

“You don’t know what I—”

“Can’t you fucking see I’m just trying to survive right now? I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Thatch—”

“Just ... go inside, Serena. This is done. We’re over.”

“What?”

“This is over. Get inside,” he snaps. “I never should have laid a hand on you, and I won’t again,” he shakes his head. “Just ... go.”

“Thatch, don’t—”

“Please, just get out,” he rasps, desperation lacing his words.

“Fine, fuck this,” I say, ramming my shoulder into the door. It’s as I exit that panic seizes in my chest. Furious and fed up, for some reason, I turn back to look at him anyway, only to see him staring right at me. His expression muting any more angry words because, inside his green eyes, I see nothing but ... pain. It’s so clear that he doesn’t want this to be over, but I can’t allow myself to be humiliated anymore. Endless hours of kisses, of murmured words, of looks, and feelings I’ve only ever experienced with Thatch leave me aching, my words coming out raw as tears shimmer in my eyes.

“Please take care of yourself,” I whisper out of fear as his eyes frantically search my face. “You know,” I swallow as the first hot tear lands, trailing down my cheek. His eyes follow as I manage words around the hurt, “I really did want to be your girl, Thatch O’Neal.”

His eyes close as I slam his door and stalk to the porch without looking back. He idles until I’m behind the front door, my face buried in my hands. It takes him only a minute, maybe less, to pull out of the driveway.

Chest stinging from the memory, I push my buggy down the lighting aisle. The air around the breakfast table this morning was tense, so I insisted we accompany Thatch to Lowe’s when he said he wanted to pick up some last-minute things for something he was working on. Intent on giving my family a break and stinging from my mother’s wrath, I bundled the kids up to give them all a much-needed reprieve.

When I had tried to press Thatch for what he was working on during the ride here, he’d grinned at me and told me I’d know soon enough. The rest of the way to town, I could feel the kids scattering their gazes between us until Thatch grabbed my hand. Kissing it, he’d given me a reassuring wink, one that told me this too shall pass. Once we got here, Gracie offered to take Peyton down the blow-up aisle to keep him occupied.

Thatch had left them both with a stern warning before leaving me with a kiss and a few more words of assurance. Feeling like a pariah and deciding on a little retail therapy, I’ve been perusing the luminaries in search of the right light for our half bath. Another perk of being a carpenter’s wife is that he’s added them to every room in the house. Making each room a little more inviting—cozier. My heart warms at the truth that no matter how many I’ve ordered or brought home, he’s never bitched about installing them.

Just as I pile a few in my cart on clearance, I hear a woman’s overly exaggerated laugh and pause when it’s followed by the low rumble of my husband’s voice.

Perked, with a ready glare, I quickly push my cart down and perch it between aisles. Peeking the next aisle over as covertly asI can, I see the hyena standing too close to my husband. So close that my blood immediately starts to boil. Well aware of just how appealing Thatch is, it’s evident I’m not the only one who thinks so as she practically drapes herself in the space between them. Her eyes sweep him repeatedly as she pretends to be interested in what he’s saying.

Did this hoochie approach my man?

To Thatch’s credit, he seems to be keeping the conversation casual while subtly inching back from her as she practically presses herself against his cart.

The possessive fire I felt moments ago from reliving my memory kicks in full force, licking along my spike as I watch another woman ogle my husband. Furthermore,watching himfor any sign that he’s encouraging and indulging her evident flirtation. I’m not a girl who gets jealous often, but with the vibe we have going, the sexual tension, along with the hurt currently stinging my chest, I’m about ready to fuck shit up. The more I watch her—especially when a manicured hand lands on his forearm—I decide I might as well take it out onHyena-Harloton aisleget-your-hand-the-fuck-off-my-man.

Ready to pounce, but deciding to have some fun with this—even as Thatch backs further away—I go in guns blazing.

“Oh, Thatchalamewlllll,” I snark, seeing him tense immediately as I fully take the corner with my buggy and begin aggressively closing the space toward them both. “There you are, honey! Oh, I see you made a little friend. Never have met a stranger, have you, Snatch?” I go low.

Thatch glances back at me, a ready glare in his eyes, which I decide is better than guilt or a ‘busted’ expression. It’s at the sight of it that I decide to forgive him a little faster. But it’s the memory of her hand on his forearm that fuels me.

“Oh, h-hi,” the woman, who does have such an expression, starts to stutter while taking me in. “Your husband is just the best, he was helping me pick out some flooring.”

“Is that so? Well, he’s just the man for it,” I pipe overenthusiastically. “He’sreally goodatinstalling,” I continue, stopping my cart so abruptly they both jump.

---