Page 6 of A Loser by Christmas
I’m fully dressed right now in a thermal jumpsuit emblazoned with a Juno Speedboats logo. Despite its warmth, Ishiver like I have done under those rumpled blankets since the onboard heater also gave up the ghost. “H-hey.” He isn’t done with turning in that slow circle, so I speak to his broad back. “I asked why you want me to make you look like a loser.”
He doesn’t answer, and sure, another Trelawney used to paylaSylvieplenty of visits back when Reece let me film his lifesaving work, but he was never intimidating. Reece couldn’t have been—apart from when he was face-to-face with traffickers, he was a human version of my pile of bedding, all soft, crumpled, and far too gentle to ever ping my danger radar. That radar pops off as soon as his brother turns to face me. I’m still in the galley, which puts me almost level with a pair of ice-chip eyes, and with what takes a while to register as a major difference between this and our last meeting.
“What happened to your beard?” That’s such a stupid question. I can see exactly what a pair of clippers has done to it. “It’s shorter.” I frown even though this neat and tidy version suits him so much better. “Doesn’t that break a hockey tradition?”
He blinks. “You’re a fan of the game?”
“Hardly.” I’m not about to admit what I spent the last few hours doing. He doesn’t need to know how many post-game interviews I’ve watched featuring him nearly naked in locker rooms full of other huge and hairy players. I sniff as if I didn’t just waste ages watching his beard grow, game after game, to reach its former wild and bushy glory, yet I can’t help saying, “You told reporters your beard was the reason you won that cup last year, so you’ve only got yourself to blame if you have bad luck for the rest of your season.”
He’s as bleak as I was earlier. “Pretty sure my season’s already over.” He raises a hand to a neatly clipped jaw, and there’s fuck all scruffy about his face now, nothing rumpled or crumpled or soft and squishy around the edges like his olderbrother about him. Apart from his lips, that is. They look plenty soft to me.
It’s a weird time to be reminded of Lito, but the sharp lines and acute angles he said could make my fortune are nothing compared to the cheekbones belonging to this visitor who I wasn’t expecting. And who I don’t know how to handle.
I really don’t.
It’s that plain and simple when the dim lighting of the cabin shows me something I should back away from.
He’s desperate.
Instead, I pass a hand over my chest-mounted camera, turning it on to capture what else he shows me.
And he’s drowning.
I’ve videoed enough people in the same situation to know it when I see it. I hear it too in his low rumble.
“As for luck? I need to make my own, and soon.”
If I have a fatal flaw, it’s sharing the kind of curiosity that gets felines into trouble. One step forward puts me almost against his chest, and he growls a gritty warning.
“Careful.”
Maybe I do have a preservation instinct—I go stock-still. Part of me wants to call outPapa, like I’ve only done once as an adult, when a pod of orca snacked onlaSylvieand I thought I’d lose her. The rest of me wants to see what will happen if I don’t follow thatcarefulorder.
I’m so fucking tempted to find out. To push closer and shove him. I’m certain it would make for fireworks. And for some fantastic footage if I edited him into a split screen with Reece, because if this Trelawney is as soulless as my research has suggested, the contrast with his brother could be another way to wow those contest judges.
I keep pushing. “What if I don’t want to be careful?”
He growls again, reminding me that he has good reason to hate me. “Then I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”
Not to me, it turns out, which is almost disappointing until he rummages in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie to pull out my missing Secret Santa gift. He cups an egg I could have crushed if I had pushed any closer to him, and I let out a weak-with-relief sound I’ll have to delete later from this footage.
All his sharp lines soften. “Don’t worry. You didn’t crack it.” He promises that without a hint of hate. In fact, his soft Cornish accent brushes my cheek like a feather. That should be a sign I’ve drifted too close for my own safety. I’m virtually chest-to-chest again with someone known for thumping first and asking questions never, only right now, it’s hard to picture what else the internet showed me.
Neither of his huge fists are raised to bash me for my crimes against his closest friendship. And no blood smears the teeth a second surprisingly sweet smile of the day shows me. “Go ahead,” he urges. “Feel it.”
If Lito Dixon gave me the same order, I’d assume it was dick related. From Calum Trelawney, I do as instructed and take hold of an egg that, against all odds, is intact. And warm.
“I kept it safe for you, see?”
“Oui. C’est vrai ça.” Emotion always affects my internal language selector, but it really is true. I cup a gift that shouldn’t have been on my Christmas wish list. All I should want from Santa this year is that trophy engraved with my name and enough prize money to buy my freedom, yet here I am, smiling like a sap over a shell that might hold a fluffy baby.
That’s when I catch him staring, although this time, Calum’s jaw doesn’t drop like it did out on the mooring. If anything, it tightens, and it takes a second to compute the reason—he holds in laughter.
I’m instantly defensive. “What’s so funny?”
“Just something my brother-in-law predicted. Hang on.” He brushes past me to climb the hatch steps back up to the deck, and, before I can follow, he yells, “Pat? Tell Seb he was right.”
My poor oldlaSylvie. She was already too low in the water. She sinks even lower when another Trelawney jumps aboard to peer through the hatch opening. He’s joined by someone slighter who snaps, “Of course I was right.” He’s cute enough to pass for one of Santa’s elves, or he would be if his eyes didn’t narrow. At me. “Ugh,” he says, as if I’m as slimy as Lito Dixon. “Of course he’s your type. Don’t you dare have hate sex with him.”
