Page 17 of Secret Santa

Both the girls shrugged in tandem, and launched into a long winded discussion about the tournament in Toronto, and accusations of doping. But the pair fell over each other trying to explain that it had to be a misunderstanding. I learned way more about keeping muscles warm between heats and using Icy Hot and hot tubs to stay warmed up and limber than I ever needed to know.

“What’s going to happen?” I asked.

“We’re not sure.” Graham offered, “I think the people in question have to submit hair follicles to USA Swimming. And once they’re tested, we’ll find out what happens. If there actually was doping—”

“Which there absolutely wasn’t—like no way in hell—” Sheila cut in over her friend.

“If therewas,Coach Murray would be sanctioned and those caught doping would be cut from both teams if they were part of them. They’ll likely have to serve sanctions as well.”

“It would be terrible.”

* * *

I closed early. I didn’t even stay open for the dinner rush. Instead, I packed as much food as I could carry in two take out bags and marched straight to Presley’s apartment. If things were as bad as the girls said it was, he more than likely hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping.

A younger version of Presley answered his door. Not quite Presley. His hair was blonder, his eyes a pure green, but he had the same athletic build, high, proud cheekbones, and heart shaped mouth.

“Prez—there’s a gorgeous woman out here with hair the color of a freshly minted copper penny, whose hands are overflowing with food, looking like she’s seen a ghost,” he called over his shoulder while relieving me of the two bags in my hands.

“You must be Priscilla. Beckett hasn’t stopped teasing Prez about you so you’re kind of infamous. Nice to put a face to the name. I’m Harris.”

He kept talking while walking toward the kitchen of Presley’s apartment. I closed the door and followed him, noting how similar our apartments actually were. Though his was stark and a little sad looking. Though the three men taking up space there, looking like Poseidon personified in triplicate, stood in glorious dichotomy to their surroundings.

“That’s Beckett.” Harris tossed his head toward the sofa where Beckett presently sat with his phone pressed to his ear. Hearing his name, he cast an annoyed glance toward his brother until realization exploded across his face like a fourth of July firework. “Jaron, I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. Get me any intel you can.”

“The infamous woman with the Shakespearean hair. I’m Beckett. I see you’ve met the youngest of the bunch already.”

Presley walked into his living room from the hall where the bedrooms and bathroom were. Seeing all three of them standing there, all in some variation of casually crossed arms, each with nearly identical faces, was the trippiest thing I’d witnessed in ages. I knew they weren’t triplets. Presley mentioned older brother and younger brother enough times that I knew there was at least a few years between them. But lord knows no DNA test would ever be needed to prove they were related.

“Hi.” Presley ran his hand around the back of his neck before pointing to Beckett. “I see you’ve met my brothers—Priscilla, this is Beckett and the one in the kitchen is Harris.”

“We weren’t raised in a barn,” Harris busied himself setting out the food I’d prepared, “we introduced ourselves.”

“Apparently I’m the woman with very descriptive hair?” I asked.

“Long story.” Presley rolled his eyes. “You brought me dinner?”

The way his voice went all soft when he asked. It was too much and absolutely perfect at the same time. There was nothing special to what I brought. The pre-prepared stuff I had for busy times, and had I not brought it, it would have just gone to waste

“Sheila and Graham were at the diner,” I explained. “I assumed you hadn’t yet gone grocery shopping.”

“Wait she just randomly appeared with food like some angel who heard our stomachs growling?” Harris asked around a mouthful of food.

“Didn’t youjustfinish saying you weren’t raised in a barn, yet here you are wolfing down a plate of food?” Beckett shot me an apologetic look and shrugged as if to say he wasn’t responsible for his brother’s actions.

“I realized as I was walking over here that I don’t even have your phone number—” I turned toward Presley who pulled me into the hallway, cutting off the rest of my sentence. Then kissed me. No, kiss is absolutely the wrong word. He pressed me against the hallway wall, sucked my entire being out of my body, washed it in some kind of magic spell that ensured every pulse in my body beat in tune to the pattern of his name, and then escorted it softly back into my body on the sensual turning of his tongue in my mouth.

“Eight-four-seven-two-two-one-seven-one-six-eight,” he said before pressing his lips to mine again.

“Am I supposed to remember that? I don’t even know if I can feel my fingers at the moment and you start randomly rattling off numbers.”

He ran his thumb across my lips, and my brain scrambled to capture every single molecule of that moment. From the feel of the soft pad of his thumb tickling along the expanse of my mouth. To the clean, fresh scent of his skin, the rough abrasion of his five o’clock shadow, the sounds of ESPN blaring in the background, and the ambient noise of his brothers giving each other shit just steps from where we remained stubbornly locked in our bubble.

“Thank you for this.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

“Jesus Harris, what are you, ten? Just wait.”

“You pulled me out of bed, told me to pack a bag, drove to the airport like we were being chased, ushered me onto a flight, and we’ve been going nonstop since we landed. I didn’t even get to eat breakfast and you’re telling me to wait? I literally haven’t eaten all day. I’m starving.”

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