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After a few seconds, though, he pulls away with a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Get some sleep, Minx. Early start in the morning.”

And then he’s gone.

As I lie there, exhaustion finally sinking heavily into my limbs, my body still covered in the memory of him, I know one thing for sure. One taste of Doug McMann is not going to be enough.

LANE

Christmas is usually one of my favorite times of year, but this year, I just can’t get into it. My mom’s house is busy, with my nieces and nephews running around from room to room high on the sugar I’ve been sneaking them. Uncle Lane is the best.

“I fucking hate you,” my eldest sister, Catherine, hisses at me as she shoves her long blonde hair out of her face.

My mouth twitches but I don’t dare laugh as I give her an innocent smile. “That doesn’t seem very festive, Sis.”

Stalking over to me, she starts to pat me down. “What did you give them this time?”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I swear. It wasn’t me.”

“I’ve got a good mind to take you down to the station and shove you in a cell for the night. You’re a fucking liar, Lane.”

Laughter bubbles out of me and she punches me in the gut. “Fucking hell.”

“What’s going on?” Liz asks, popping her head around the corner. Her face is red from cooking in the kitchen with Mom, and she’s stirring a bowl of something.

“Nothing,” I wheeze, clutching my gut. “Cat forgot to leave the badge at home. I’m going to put in a complaint for assault and battery.”

“The hell you are.” Cat turns to our other sister with her hands on her hips. “He’s been sneaking candy to the kids.”

Liz’s face falls. “Oh, Lane. Why would you do that? You know Bruno has ADHD.”

“I didn’t give Bruno any. I swear. I brought special sugar free candy for him.”

“Ah ha!” Cat pokes a finger in the center of my chest. “So, you admit it! You’re such a douchebag.”

“What’s going on in here? Dave, Cat’s husband, booms, stalking into the room. Six-year-old Bruno, Liz’s son, is hanging around his neck and Ophelia and Emilia, his daughters, are clinging to his legs. “Why are you fighting? It’s Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Ophelia says, looking scarily like Cat. “Stop fighting.”

“Lane!” Mom hollers through from the kitchen. “Come help me set the table.”

Grateful for the excuse to get away from my sister’s accusatory glares, I high tail it out of there.

Mom is in the kitchen, pans bubbling on the stove and the air thick with the smells of Christmas dinner. Her blonde hair is in a messy bun, damp flyaway strands spiraling out from her red face.

“What trouble are you causing in there?” she asks as I head straight to the cupboard and start hauling out plates.

“Trouble?” I say innocently. “Me?”

She tries to glare at me, but she manages it for all of five seconds before she’s laughing. It’s one of the reasons my two older sisters hate me. I’m the baby. I can do no wrong.

“He’s giving the kids candy, Mom,” Liz moans, setting the bowl down on the side.

“Lane,” Mom scolds. “After what happened at Thanksgiving?”

I grimace. All three kids vomited everywhere and despite my best efforts, I was the one who had to clear it up.

“They only had one each,” I reason. “Come on. It’s Christmas.”

Liz and Mom share a look and I roll my eyes, turning back to my duties.

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