Page 67 of Mistletoe Meet Cute
“Cookies just came out of the oven,” I tell my husband as he walks my way, his dark-blue jeans showcasing incredible thighs.
“Blame your brother,” he says, stepping into the room and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Luke insisted we rehang the banner, twice.”
Luke and Briggs shoulder in behind Camden. “Seriously. It looked like it said Cher was coming to the tasting room.”
“She’s still hot,” Briggs grins.
“Dude. She’s like eighty,” Hadley gags and throws a cookie at Briggs.
“I’d still do her,” he admits, and we all groan.
“I’d rather do you,” Camden murmurs with a wicked grin.
“Don’t make me put you on the naughty list, Grinch,” I tease.
His eyes go soft and smug all at once. “We both know I live there.”
“Okay,” Rainey claps her hands, switching into badass boss-bitch mode. I want to be my sister when I grow up. “Assignments... Ryleigh and Hadley, you’re on the tree.”
“Yes...” Hadley does a happy dance and bumps a box that starts playing Christmas music when it’s shuffled.
“Classy ornaments, Hades,” Luke laughs.
“No disco balls,” Ryleigh adds.
“Hold the glitter,” Camden joins in.
“Glitter?” Sophie repeats, firmly planted in her glitter phase at the moment.
“One tiny disco ball,” Hadley negotiates and holds a sparkly little silver ornament into the air.
“I say go for it,” I tell her, and she high-fives me.
“Victory!” she calls out like Braveheart, and I laugh.
Dad picks that moment to walk into the room, Mom’s favorite star tucked under his arm as he offers me his hand. “You ready, kiddo?”
“Born ready,” I smile, then wince as the baby delivers a swift kick to my ribs. I swear this little one is going to be a football player, just like his daddy. “Oof. That one hurt.”
“How’s my new little grape?” he asks with a palm on my bump.
“Kicking like he wants out today.”
“And my granddaughter?” He looks over at Sophie as she attempts to scale Uncle Briggs like he’s a jungle gym. He lifts her up and tosses her in the air, catching her high above his head until her squeal lights up the room.
I double over with another good kick. “Oh my garland, that one hurt.”
“Holly,” Rainey walks over and takes my hand. “How often is the baby kicking?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“Are you feeling any contractions?” she pushes, and Camden’s face pales.
“It’s just Braxton Hicks, Rain.” But I start thinking about them and wondering...
“How often are you having just Braxton Hicks?” she asks condescendingly, and I grab a cookie and think about it.
“Don’t be a bitch,” I warn and pop the cookie in my mouth as another one hits. “Maybe every three or four minutes.”
