Page 7 of Reindeer and Restraints
"Thanks, but I need to do this alone."
Starla says, "We're a call away—day, night, meltdown o'clock. Backup squad activated."
Warmth spreads through my chest, easing the edge of the fear. This isn't the adventure I'd hoped for.
Chapter 4
Hudson
I crease the end of the wrapping paper into a triangle, making sure both sides are equal. Tugging it tightly against the side of the package, I apply a single strip of invisible tape—such a misnomer. It's clearly there, but at least it's less noticeable than other tape.
Jolene's been dodging my hints for weeks, but I've laid them out like blueprints: lingering glances over her favorite foods that I prepared, comments about her future, even a conversation about whether she wants kids.
Am I being too subtle? Am I not serious enough? Is she fearful of commitment because of how complicated our family feels sometimes? Marriage means something solid to me, ananchor against the maelstrom. I want to spend the rest of my life devoted to Jolene.
Or is she just being Jolene, freaked out by anything that will pin her down and end her adventures as she calls life?
This gift will change everything—a marriage proposal that she can hold in her hands, no chance for a misunderstanding. And I'll be able to explain that I'll take care of the things that bog her down like bills. She'll have guaranteed freedom… and me.
I carry the package to the tree and set it underneath. Back at the table, my phone buzzes. I hurry over to find Jolene's name on the screen. My heart skips a beat. Does she somehow know what I'm doing? Is she spying on me?
I glance over my shoulder even though I'm certain she's not home. She made a big deal about how excited she was that Bellamie asked for help with one of her charity projects.
Knowing that she'd be gone for several hours gave me the perfect opportunity to lay the engagement plan out on the table, survey it for accuracy one last time, then wrap it for a Christmas surprise.
Convinced she's not lurking, I swipe open the text.
Jolene:Super serious. We need to talk. On my way home
Me:Call me
Jolene:Has to be in person.
Maybe she caught the hints after all. Her friends probably nudged her—I've overheard their chatter filtering through walls, giggles about stepbrothers.
I manage a thumbs-up emoji before sending the phone clattering to the table. I snatch it up, check the screen. Fine, of course, with my Otter Box case.
This is it. I stride to the tree, nudge the box front and center. If she seems ready and even remotely acknowledges my hints, I'll give this to her today.
No more pretending we're just roommates playing house. No restraining myself at night when she masturbates far too loudly. I can be the reason for her moans.
She has to sense why I begged her to move in, why I foot every bill, scrub counters after her midnight snacks, and plate dinners like we’re at a five-star restaurant.
Jolene:Be home in 20 minutes
Another thumbs-up. Then inspiration strikes.
I grab the log of her favorite cookie dough that I stashed in the back of the fridge, then crank the oven to 350. I cut carefully, making sure not to squish the star shape that's in the middle of the dough.
The scent of fresh-baked cookies will set the tone the second she walks in the door.
In the nine minutes those need to bake, I bolt to the bathroom and shower as fast as possible, lathering up with Old SpiceKraken, another one of her favorites. I don't know if she actually likes the scent or is fascinated by the Kraken like she is with her monster romances.
Rinse, towel-dry, and I'm done in minutes. I yank on the light-blue Henley that she says brings out my ocean-blue eyes, and add my pair of new jeans. And since barefoot seems too casual for the day that will change the rest of my life, I add my Dude sliders.
The timer dings, and I rush back to the kitchen. Lightly golden edges and a bright star in the center look perfect. I pull the tray out and set it on a cooling rack.
Keys jangle at the door. She's here.
