Page 293 of Coach
I snorted into my sleeve.
Before anyone could pile more onto poor Jeremiah, the front door swung open and the cold whooshed in—followed by Dane and Patrick, both grinning and each carrying a bottle of champagne.
The room damn near exploded . . .
Because Dane was wearing an ugly sweater so heinously fantastic I almost choked. Santa, ripped and shirtless, with suspenders, tight red pants, and an ax slung over one shoulder—fireman fantasySanta.
Next to him, Patrick rocked a matching sweater featuring a half-naked Santa posing as a naughty teacher: glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a ruler in one hand about to spank an unsuspecting football player’s butt.
Dane waggled his brows as they entered. “Are we late to the debauchery?”
Patrick smirked. “Or perfectly timed?”
Sisi clapped like a deranged seal. “OMG! I want Santa’s next spanking!”
“Santa’s a myth. You’ll have to settle for me. Bend over, baby,” Dane rumbled, earning another round of raucous laughter and taunts.
Jeremiah, still wide-eyed, leaned across the coffee table and whispered to me, “Am I at the right party?”
“Oh, you definitely are.” I grinned. “Just remember to buckle up and keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.”
“The car?” His face scrunched up in the most adorable way. “It’s outside—”
“Not the actual car, silly. I meant—”
Shane, bless him, chose that exact moment to return, rumbling a soft chuckle and leaning down to murmur, “Told you this crew was something.”
“Where is Stevie?” Jeremiah asked. “At least she would take some of the heat off me.”
I shook my head. “Not a chance. She’d be more likely to pile on.”
Jeremiah sat back, his shell-shocked expression reminding me of Tom Hanks inSaving Private Ryan—but without all the mortars and war.
Mrs. H let us chatter, drink, and tease for a few more minutes before sweeping into the den, wooden spoon in hand like a queen with her scepter.
“All right, you pack of queer hyenas!” she barked, her faux Scottish brogue thickening with amusement. “Get your arses in the kitchen. Food’s on!”
There were groans and chuckles as everyone scrambled upright.
The kitchen table was barely big enough for six on a good day, but somehow—after much shuffling and a great deal of Sisi ordering everyone around—we managed to wedge in eight.
I ended up between Shane and Omar, which I couldn’t complain about.
Jeremiah, poor kid, had no chance.
“Next to me, love,” Sisi declared, patting the chair beside her. “Or I can sit on your lap. It’s your choice. I promise not to grind or bounce too much.”
“Until dessert when she turns into a right vixen,” Omar jabbed.
Jeremiah’s entire face went crimson. “Uh—I think the chair’s good. Just me. In that chair, right there, withoutany grinding or . . . whatever.”
Mike snorted. “Wise man.”
Meanwhile, Dane and Patrick—who’d arrived with all the confidence of men wearing pornographic Christmas jumpers—were banished to the folding card table in the corner. Patrick eyed the lone Uno card forever fused to the padded top. “Charming.”
Dane grinned. “Remind me to bring cleaner next year.”
“And takeout Chinese,” I whispered, leaning back their way.
