Page 50 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“I’m keeping this, just so you know.” No way I’m throwing it back this time.

“Good. Because you have a pretty good arm,” he teases, tapping his finger on my right bicep.

I smirk and flex my other arm, and Noah’s head falls back with a quick laugh.

“That’s right. You’re a lefty.”

I tug him close with my left hand, sliding my palm up his jawline and rising on my toes so I can kiss him. I’m about to deepen it and convince him to follow me into the business office when a throat clearing startles us from the kitchen door. Noah looks over his shoulder as I peer around his body to see my brother standing in the doorway and covering his eyes.

“I’ll be glad when the honeymoon phase wears off. I’m getting sick of walking in on . . . stuff.”

“Then, maybe you should knock!” I holler. I’m only half kidding.

“Yeah, I know. But there’s someone out here asking for Noah. Something about the food donations, and I don’t really know the deal, so . . .” Anthony points his thumb over his shoulder, and my stomach tightens because this is happening earlier than I expected. It’s Noah’s dad.

“I’ll be right out,” Noah says, turning back to me.

He flinches when our eyes meet, and I realize it’s probably because mine are book-owl wide.

“You okay?” he laughs out softly.

“Oh, yeah.” I shake my head. “Just, I hate when he walks in on us. That’s all.”

Anthony is a far better liar than I am, but thankfully, I can kiss away suspicion, which is exactly what I do.

“As long as he doesn’t walk in on us later. Because I have things I want to do to you before this outfit goes back in the box for the season.” He grabs my ass under my skirt, and I yelp.

“You know, I doownit. I can pull it out anytime I want.”

“How about whenIwant,” he suggests, waggling his brows.

I pat his chest and roll my eyes as I encourage him to follow me to the door.

“My dress, my rules, buddy,” I say, pausing with my hand on the kitchen door.

It’s quiet on the other side, and I hope Noah doesn’t notice the sudden drop in conversation. Before he has a chance to mentally compute it, I crack open the door to meet my brother’s gaze. When Anthony nods, I push it open fully and guide Noah into the dining room.

“Where is the pers?—”

Noah’s words cut off the second his gaze lands on his dad, and without another second passing, he breaks into tears and cups his mouth.

“Damn, did you do this?” He moves toward his father while eyeing me, his smile at war with the tears welling up.

“I’m pretty sure your dad did this,” I say. “We were all just decoys.”

Noah shakes his head at me, then rushes the rest of his way toward his father, slinging his arms around the man who could be his twin were it not for the graying in his closely trimmed hair. His father falters back a step or two on impact, then pats his son’s back with two heavy hands, both tucking their faces in each other’s necks and letting the moment swallow them up.

“Thank you for helping with this,” Noah’s mom says, linking our arms together and looking on as father and son cling to one another amid applause and whistles from their neighbors.

“He really misses him,” I tell her.

She runs her fingertip under her eyes, then twists to face me so I can check her mascara. It’s a mess. I grimace through my smile and shake my head.

“It doesn’t matter. You look beautiful.”

She laughs as my mom hands her a tissue. She cleans up some of the black smears, leaving her eyes smoky and red as she steps into her family’s embrace, her husband holding both of them close.

While Noah spends some very needed and deserved time with his parents, I slip into the kitchen and make the three of them and myself a plate. As I’m configuring the plates in my hands, balancing one on my forearm, Anthony slips in through the kitchen door.

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