Page 89 of Wylder Ranch
“I’d rather see Father Christmas,” he grunts.
I walkthrough the front door of the cottage with a pep in my step and follow the smell of sugar and the sound of Christmas music to the kitchen.
It’s usually a noise that shrivels my balls to raisins.
But this December is not the same as previous years, and the reason is standing with her back to me, arsejiggling in a pair of tight black leggings while she waves a spatula around and sings along to Michael Bublé.
The sight fills me with immense pleasure, not least because Haven feels at home enough here to cover every surface of the kitchen in things I wasn’t aware I even had in the first place.
Outside of losing my dad, I always thought my life was pretty great, fulfilled in a way I never questioned. But since I met her, and even more so in the brief time after Everly entered my life, I know how wrong I was. How much color it was missing.
How much ofthemit was missing.
Despite my brothers taking the piss, there are reasons I never lived with anyone before, never had anyone in my space beyond sleepovers, and it’s because I like things the way I like them. I’m thirty-two years old, and I don’t want to return home to someone else’s shit everywhere. I don’t want to have to go hunting to find something that wasn’t where I left it.
I assumed I was set in my ways, when really it’s that I’ve never met anyone I wanted to change my waysfor.
But coming home tothis—toher—is a life I see myself not only living but wanting.
So I stand there, watching her dance her way around the kitchen, measure out ingredients, and pour them into bowls. There’s a freedom to her that I remember from last year. It’s what captured my attention in the first place.
And when she turns around, all loose strands falling over bare shoulders, tits pushed up tight, to find me leaning against the doorway watching her, the smile that stretches across her icing sugar-streaked face hits me straight in my dick.
“Hey!”
“Hey, yourself.” I push off the doorframe and step toward her, wrapping my arms around her so I can drop a kiss on her lips. “Where’s the baby?”
“She’s taking a nap.”
“What’s all this?” I gesture around the kitchen, trying to hold in my amusement.
My kitchen does not look the same as it did when I left it.
There’s messeverywhere.Not one surface is clear. I spy things I don’t recognize as mine—mixing bowls, rolled dough, baking trays. . . I know for a fact I donotown baking trays. And everything’s covered in a light dusting of icing sugar.
“I picked up a couple of the gingerbread houses.” Her eyes widen excitedly. “I never get to do the competition back home because I’m always helping. But man, this one ishard, ya know.” She puffs away a strand of hair. “The little edges don’t stay together.”
I nod. Because Idoknow. I spent the better part of three days making a gingerbread house for her last year. I bought two dozen kits to practice on, and roped my brothers into helping, but it got me first place,andher.
“I made your store out of gingerbread if you remember.”
She smiles wistfully. “I remember.”
Removing my jumper, I roll up my sleeves like the gingerbread house aficionado I am. “Then step aside and let the expert at it.” I pick up the bowl she’d been mixing. “The icing is too runny, look.”
Dipping my finger in, I scrape it around the edge of the bowl and hold it out to show her. The icing drips off.
Her eyes flick to the counter, where everything’s laidout ready to assemble. But after a long, exaggerated sigh, her gaze slides back to mine. A twinkle replaces the fake annoyance she’s wearing, and a flush rises like sunrise over her cheeks.
Sticking her tongue out, she sucks my finger into her mouth before releasing it with a loud pop.
I forget all about the gingerbread house.
Her eyes flash, waiting for my response. I’d be willing to bet a hefty sum that’s exactly what she wanted.Andshe’s already dripping wet for me.
“How long have we got until Everly wakes up?”
“Thirty minutes.”
