I added the additional rule ofno womenbecause of Bash and his fucking accent. It doesn’t matter where in the world Christmas takes us, that smooth talking bastard always ends up bringing strays back to the house to celebrate with us. Any other time of year I wouldn’t care, but Christmas is just for the four of us. The only exception being if there is an intent to shackle a ring on the fourth finger.
I can’t believe my own damn rules are coming back to bite me in the ass.
Honestly, when I made them, I petitioned for vows to be exchanged before ever letting any woman ruin what we have.
That was before today.
Initially, the plan was to help Leigh out, make sure Monarch Hearts got set up in time, prove I’m no longer an asshole, and apologize for my crimes. She'd be here a day or two—tops.Maybe we’d have a repeat of that night in the vending machine closet, with the opportunity for future nights together when we were on the same coast. Afterwards, Leigh would be back home before Christmas, and the guys would’ve never even known she was here.
Now I’m forsaking every word I ever said—every rule I ever made—in order to get Leigh and that little boy to Telluride.
Because if he’s mine, then there’s not a chance I’m missing another Christmas.
Or birthday.
Or future school plays.
I’m done missing everything.
My hands fist in my lap. The urge to punch something back in full force.
“She has a kid,” I admit. Only because he’s my brother—my twin. He knows me better than anyone else. If there’s anyone who can talk this through objectively, it’s him.
Enzo cocks a brow, his interest clearly piqued. “And who is this mysteriousshe?”
I don’t immediately answer but relax when his amused expression gives way to concern. “Leigh Bennett.”
His pompous expression slips, and Enzo presses his lips together, holding back a laugh. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same Leigh Bennett you accused of stealing our mother’s priceless necklace, would it? Who is now Leigh James, the CFO of Renegade Hearts?”
“Yeah,” I confirm reluctantly, bracing for the ribbing I know is coming.
“The same Leigh James you let hate fuck you at the hospice gala because you were in your feels and had too much tequila.”
“One and the same.”
“And she has a kid.”
“He’s two,” I deadpan.
It takes Enzo all of two point five seconds to put the pieces together. His eyes go wide and he whispers a less than eloquent, “Oh fuck.”
You know it’s bad when you’ve reduced Lorenzo Donati to profanities.
I press my lips together and nod. “Exactly.”
“Are you sure he’s yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you just ask her?”
“I—” My gaze tracks to the large floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the snow fall in fat fluffy clumps as I try to find a way to admit my thoughts without making myself sound like a dick. “I wasn’t sure if I was ready to know.”
Asking makes it real. Right now, I can still exist in the space where the tiny shred of doubt lives. Because as much as I’ll gladly step up and become Dad of the Year, the idea still terrifies me.
“So you invited her to Christmas instead?”
“Listen, it wasn't my finest moment of thinking on my feet.” I meet my brother's scrutinizing gaze. “I told her to bring him with her.”
