Page 64 of Butter My Biscuit

She smirks while she chews. “Are we snuggling?”

My head falls back on my shoulders, and I laugh. “No.”

She pretends to pout, then grabs a napkin. “Yes, we are.”

I grab her elbow, turning her toward me. “Do you want to?”

There’s a small nod, but it’s there, and that’s all the fucking permission I need to lean forward and softly paint my lips against hers. She fists my onesie as our tongues slide together. Her hair, her touch, her mouth against mine is intoxicating. I can feel her in my veins, and it’s too much. I slowly pull away.

“You taste like milk and cookies,” she whispers.

I rest my forehead against hers. “You taste like my best friend.”

She playfully smacks me in the stomach then tries to walk away, but I gently pull her back to me.

Slowly, I lift her chin so she can look at me. “It’s not a bad thing, princess.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and I study her face and pretty, puckered lips, waiting for mine. A small smile touches my lips before I meet her halfway.

Why does it feel so right? Why does she feel like home … already? I push the thoughts away.

“Should we open gifts now?”

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely,” I tell her, following her to the living room. “One second,” I say, grabbing what I got her.

She’s already on the floor, sitting cross-legged, waiting for me next to the tree. I plop down beside her, and then we exchange packages.

“You’ll never guess what I got you,” she tells me.

“Uh, same. On the count of three?”

She nods. We count down, and then we begin opening them. I pull off the paper and unwrap the box, and inside of it is another box, then another. That’s okay. I wrapped her gift with an entire roll of paper, and the inside layer has a roll of duct tape slapped around it.

When she gets to the middle layer, she falls back in a fit of laughter. “I’m never getting this open.”

“Ugh. How many damn boxes are there?”

The living room is full of paper, but neither of us has found our prize. This is another one of our traditions.

Seeing her laugh so hard nearly has me in stitches, but she’s struggling to get through the layers of duct tape.

“Okay, this is hard as fuck,” she says. “No scissors?”

“You know the rules. Hands only,” I remind her.

“Next year, I’m gonna get you so good,” she playfully threatens.

“I look forward to it,” I say, hoping this won’t be our last year. It’s something I’ve thought about a lot lately.

Three more boxes, and I’m finally to the last one. Grace has found the final layer of paper. We nod at the same time, and I pull out a photo album.

“How did you …”

She holds up the photo album I got her. “Did we get each other the same gift?”

“Did my sister tell you?” I question, even though I didn’t tell Kinsley.

“No.” She shakes her head. “We haven’t talked about it at all. Swear.”

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