The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)

Jack and Diane blares through Daddy’s ancient radio speaker from the open window of the hut-sized shed as I approach. Thatch had been quiet at dinner, only looking at me once the whole time we ate. He’d been polite to my parents and spoken to them with ease. It was easy to recognize he felt comfortable around them. But he still had a slightly on-edge air about him, too. As if he was ready to leave on a moment’s notice or be asked to.

Opening the squeaky door, I catch sight of Thatch pulling the level from Daddy’s toolbox as if it’s his own. As he places it atop a piece of wood he’s measuring, I take in his long-sleeved thermal, worn jeans and boots, which are almost exactly like mine. When I first saw him, I was blindsided. With his insane build, the view I currently have of his back side is no less mouthwatering. His muscular frame straining the material of his shirt and tapering down to his trim waist. His ass fills out his jeans to the point his shirt is hitched up a bit because of it. His thighs are just as impressive, bulging the denim, as are his calves. From what I can see, he’s all muscle. His strawberry blond hair is a beautiful blend. It’s on the redder side, but not obnoxiously so, and wavy. To the point it looks as if it would be curly but seems to be purposely cut exactly where it might start to.

“Looking for something?” he sounds up, his voice deep, gravelly before his jade-green eyes bolt to mine over his shoulder. Instantly stunned by the feeling of his full attention, he rolls his eyes down me briefly before shifting his focus back to the workbench.

“Thought my dad would be out here.”

“He’s picking up Whitney and Brenden from the movies. He announced it right after dinner,” he glances back again, brow quirked, “remember?”

“Oh . . . yeah,” I say, my neck heating a little as I swallow.

“So?” He stands to his height as I again try to guess his age. He’s got to be in his twenties. I just can’t place where. He seems too mature to be in his early twenties, but looks it.

“You were quiet at dinner,” I tell him, stepping inside and leaning against my stacked palms on the wall of the shed behind me.

“Yeah, well, you talked enough for both of us,” he quips, his insult delivered with a grin as he keeps his eyes on the two-by-four he’s measuring. “Off carbs, still debating on accounting or a business degree. Are over winter already. Not a fan of the dorm roommate because she’s a slob. And you will ‘just die if Wretched Gretchen comes to visit this Christmas . . . oh, and you’re positive Whitney stole your favorite jeans. Did I miss anything?”

“Whatever,” I roll my eyes, moving to step back out of the shed.

“You could just come out and ask me,” he says, turning his back against Dad’s workbench. The full view of him is too much to absorb in one pass. My eyes bounce from his muscled pecs to his bulging biceps, which I decide comes second to the rugged cut of his jaw and stunning jade eyes. His lips are a little mismatched in size. His top lip slightly smaller than his overly full bottom lip. One he rakes now as I follow the movement.

“Ask you what?”

“My age, Serena. You’ve been hinting around to it all night.”

“Have not,” I lie. During dinner, neither of my asshole parents were helpful at all on that front. Both knowing what I was subtly getting at, and neither giving me a clue. But something about tonight had me thinking that they invited Thatch over specifically to meet me. Especially with Whitney and Brenden at the movies. Too coincidental. Surprisingly, I’m not grossed out by it, not at all with the man standing in front of me. By the time I come out of my thoughts, he’s already turned back to the workbench, measuring again.

How long did I space out?

Obvious much, Serena?

Growing uncomfortable with his effect on me, I simmer where I stand while trying to gain my bearings. I’ve gone back and forth with a decent share of hot guys, but there’s something about this guy that’s both appealing and irking me.

“Instead of standing there, you could make yourself useful.”

Shaking my head, I step back in. “You so sound like my dad.”

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together since we finished the deck,” he offers.

“Don’t have any friends your own age?” I ask, closing the space.

My reply is a glimpse of perfect white teeth. “And what age would that be?”

I shrug. “No longer curious.”

“Uh huh. The handful I considered my friends back when are earning a degree. So, I guess you could say they left me behind.”

He’s college-age. Good enough. “And you didn’t go, why?”

“That’s personal, isn’t it? Hold this,” he states, screwing some metal into the wood as he runs a pencil down it before jotting some measurements.

“So, you’re into construction?” I ask.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Just making conversation,” I state as he steps up to where I am, so close I can feel his body heat and catch his scent. Which is light but heavenly. Thankful when he bends, missing my shiver, I watch his blond lashes flit along his cheekbones as he examines the wood.

“What are you making?”

“Just tinkering around,” he states.

“Now you really sound like my dad.”

“I can think of worse men to bear a resemblance to.”

“Such as?”

He stands to his full height, which I guess is about six . . . two? Tall enough to have me looking up at him as he zeroes in on me. The connection of eyes doing what it did to me when I caught sight of him in our living room the first time. My nerves fire as heat settles low in my belly.

“Worse men,” I watch his lips as he speaks.

“Okay, so,” I mumble, “you’re not much of a conversationalist.”

“You getting that?” He inches a little closer before making his request. “Excuse me.”

My neck heats as he brushes just past me to continue his . . . tinkering.

“So, classic rock, huh?” I wrinkle my nose.

His chuckle sends another shiver through me and it takes him agonizing seconds to answer.

“Allen’s radio, so Allen’s station. Love this song, though.” He smirks. “What do you have loaded on your MP3 player—Pink?”

“Yes. Amongst other things,” I lean down and gaze along the opposite side of the wood. “If you’re looking for a pristine piece, hate to break it to you, but this one is warped.”

He frowns. “The hell it is.”

“No, look,” I say as he walks over, practically encasing me as I run my finger along the slight bend. “See?”

“Fuck . . . look at that,” he whispers, and I turn to see him staring directly at me. My scalp prickles as I drink him in up close. So close, we’re practically sharing breath.

“Looks like I have to start over,” he says, dropping his eyes as mine drop to his lips.

“Then you know what you’re making,” I conclude. He glances back at me before we both slowly rise to stand as I start to rattle due to the insane energy bouncing between us. Damn, this guy is hot. No . . . hot is not a good enough description for what he is. Thatch is . . . beautiful. The connection continues to thrum as he bends slightly, eyes lit as his lips twitch with amusement. Which is all I seem to be a source of for him.

“Ask me,” he states.

“How old are you?”

“Old enough,” he quips.

“Lame,” I utter as he rakes his lower lip.

“To you, I probably am,” he states, brushing past me. “And I’ve overstayed my welcome. Take care, Serena.”

“It’s only nine-thirty,” I call after him, glancing at the ancient hammer clock hanging over the workbench. A present Mom got Daddy years ago.

“Yeah, it’s past your bedtime, isn’t it?” he states.

“You do know I’m in my first year of college, right?”

“Fresh in,” he counters.

“I’m nineteen, thank you very much. Come on, hang out a little longer. I have nothing better to do.”

“In that case, I’ll pass,” he scoffs.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, you said it like that, so I guess you’ll have to entertain yourself.”

“No problems there,” I quip, producing the dime bag I secured earlier from my pocket. “So, if you want to join, be my guest.”

Both his brows rise as I wiggle the bag. “That’ll be a hell no.”

“Why? Afraid my parents won’t like you?”

“Yep, and I like them a lot more than you.”

“I’m hurt,” I palm my chest, “really, that’s going to keep me up tonight . . . say, at around one thirty. I’ll be in here pondering why I’m so unlikable.”

“Jesus, you really are a fucking brat.”

“There must be something you like because my eyes are up here,” I state. “You cracked on my lips, but you keep staring at them.”

“It’s the glare,” he spouts, “like a space station. Tell me, did you gloss after dinner?”

“As all girls should, and it’s your loss.” I tuck the bag away. “And if you’re worried about Allen and Ruby judging you, they used to smoke, and often. In fact, I busted Mom with a joint a few years ago.”

He shakes his head, flashing me the smile that hits me just so. “You.”

I grin. “Me what?”

He walks out of the shed as I call after him.

“So, you coming, or what, Handy Man?”

“I guess we’ll see, Brat.”

Gracie walks in from the garage, eyes downcast, and Peyton follows, neither greeting me as I finish whipping the mashed potatoes. I trail both their paths as Gracie heads for the stairs, and Peyton stalks into the living room before kicking his soccer ball. A ball that smacks into our newly installed blinds. Thatch walks in, his expression just as grim as he cuts his eyes between our kids before flicking them to me. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, Handy Man.”

His jade gaze softens substantially as he snatches a carrot from the cutting board. “Smells good in here.”

“Roast,” I tell him.

He lifts his palms with a shit-eating grin. “I know better than to ask.”

I can’t help my smile. Thanks to Eli, who told him years ago never to ask me what’s for dinner again, it’s been a running joke between us.

“Well, it’s the same dinner we had on the night we met,” I tell him. “Brown sugar carrots and all.”

He grins. “You remember what we ate?”

“I remember the whole day, every year. I just thought pressuring you to acknowledge the day we met anniversary, and a wedding day anniversary is a bit much. How did it go?”

“She tried to steal perfume and got busted by one of those stickers on the bottom. Amateur.”

His expression dims considerably as I palm his jaw. “It’s not your fault, baby,” I console. “It’s not, believe me.” The pain in his eyes is so evident, along with the knowledge that this latest blow has hit him hard.

“Probably why I haven’t spoken a word to her,” he glances over to where Gracie’s paused at the stairs, watching our interaction. When neither of us says a word, she slowly starts the trek up, and not long after, we hear her door close.

“Did she try to talk to you?” I ask, studying my husband as Peyton continually kicks the ball—destructively—at our expensive shutters before turning to glance in our direction.

“Don’t react,” Thatch says.

“I’m not. I see it,” I say, resuming my chopping.

“And yeah, she tried for about five seconds. I heard her bullshit excuse until I turned up the radio.”

“You didn’t,” I shake my head, biting my smile.

“Oh yeah, I did. Because what productive conversation could we have? So, me and John Mellencamp chilled on the way home. For the second time today.”

“You remember the details too?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“I can’t believe you remember so much,” I rasp out, still shocked by his recollection this morning of what I wore. Thatch has delivered enough real sentiment over the years to hold me, but never quite like he has in the last twenty-four hours. Twenty-two years together, and other than during sex, he’s never this vocal or intimate. PDA, always, but even that has waned over our decades as a couple. I pray it lasts as he gazes back at me and speaks as if he’s reading my thoughts.

“It’s not at all hard to remember the night that changed my life,” he relays thoughtfully, “so, yeah, I played our song again on the ride home. Fuck the Wiggles,” he chuckles, even as his jade eyes sting with disappointment. Itching to comfort him, I’m taken away when Peyton again kicks the ball. This time, his aim has a lamp toppling over. A very expensive lamp. I cringe inside, having spent weeks looking for the right one for the hall.

Having spent even more endless hours setting up the dream house we moved into not even a year ago. One we dreamed of, saved for, and imagined our whole adult lives. A home that is being treated like it’s nothing. Like all our hard work was for nothing as our kids continually trash it. Tearing up the walls and spilling on the floors and furniture. And now, ripping out ceiling fans and breaking décor we could never have afforded a few short years ago. My heart breaks that they care so little about the home we broke our back to provide them. Peyton’s behavior is a little more understandable, but the fact Gracie doesn’t so much as try to stop him from the destruction is painful. I cringe as our shutters are battered a third time, biting my tongue as Thatch stiffens next to me.

Wincing as the ball pings again, I look away to keep myself from lashing out. “Jesus, Thatch, aren’t we here, present as much as we can be every day? I work from home.”

He slides his arm around my waist and nuzzles me as he speaks. “If you need to hear it again,” he places a hot kiss on my neck, “I’ll say it, Mrs. O’Neal. You’re an amazing, highly attentive mother. That’s why the presents they know nothing about are so specific and special because you know them so well. Things I would never have thought of giving them. You gift as well as your mother in that sense. So yes, we’re present for them, Serena. You more than me, but as much as we can be.”

“Don’t be offended, but I can’t wait to get to Triple Falls,” I admit. “I need it.”

“Me too, babe,” he says on an exhausted exhale. “We could both use a little gravity,” he adds, a firm believer in our family motto. Grammy P’s words keeping us all tethered.

“Just remember when times get hard, when your problems are blinding you, that you’re on a floating planet in the middle of a vast galaxy filled with the unexplainable, and the only thing holding you to it is an invisible force you can’t see.”

The momentary piece I find in her words shatters with the next thwack of Peyton’s soccer ball before as I blow out a breath of frustration. “Maybe we shouldn’t go with the way they’re acting.”

“Leave that to me,” he assures. “I’ll make sure everyone is clear on what’s going on.”

“You know they won’t listen.”

“Your mom has been subtly warning us for years. It’s Eli and Whitney we’ll have to reign in. But once they spend an hour with the latest version of these two, I don’t think it will take much convincing. Trust me, okay?”

“I am, I do,” I whisper as he kisses my neck again, his tongue included in the mix, sending goose bumps in their wake. This level of intimacy still a little jarring while at the same time a welcome balm to the sting. A comfort amongst the chaos.

“Me and you, baby,” he murmurs in solace before pulling away and flashing me a boyish grin. “Hey, want to make out tonight? Pay homage?” He asks as I turn to him, my lips lifting at his expression.

“You’re serious?”

“After they’re down, you and me, and the firepit on the porch we never use. We’ll bundle up, drink a little wine, smoke a little. Maybe play a little 311.”

“I was reminiscing about our love shack before you walked in. I’ve been thinking about it all day, honestly. So, yeah, let’s do it.”

His haunted expression—one he’s trying hard to shield—eases some as he seals our date with a promising kiss. As we pull away, Peyton kicks the ball right toward us. It bounces over the island, coming close to nailing me. Miraculously, Thatch manages to snatch it before calmly walking over to the knife block. Grabbing the butcher knife, he slams it into the plastic ball and pushes the air out until it deflates before dropping it ceremoniously in the trash.

“Daddy! That’s my ball!”

“Not anymore, Son,” Thatch states, “I’m going to shower, babe, then I’ll set the table.” He leaves me with a heated look before sauntering past Peyton and shutting our bedroom door.

Peyton and I stare after him, dazed for different reasons. For the long years we dated and after Gracie was born, I had to work hard to make Thatch a more active participant in the area of discipline and decision-making. He didn’t trust himself and was far too passive at times. Which was extremely challenging because of his mission to give our kids a better environment than the one he grew up in. But it’s apparent now that Daddy Thatch is in the house, and he’s taking charge. Somehow our children have finally managed to snap the most level-headed parent they have into action—and I’m so fucking here for it. In fact, it’s turning me the hell on.

Bring it on, Daddy Thatch.

Grinning after my husband, I glance over to my son as he turns to me, his lips parted due to his father’s actions. “Mommy, did you see what Daddy did?”

I flit my gaze from Peyton to my favorite lamp, which is currently lying in questionable condition on our hardwoods. Simmering because of it, Peyton continues to fruitlessly badger me until finally taking my cue and following my line of sight.

“I didn’t broked it,” Peyton exclaims loudly as I wordlessly turn and put the squash casserole in the oven.