“What’s with this one?” Ivy asks, holding up an ornament shaped like a stack of pancakes.
Ethan glances at it and catches my eye. His brows rise with humor even as his gaze goes hot. My cheeks flush warm in response.We’ve had plenty of pancakes at midnight since our first attempt. After all, a girl needs to keep up her strength.
“Inside-joke ornament,” Anna guesses, her nose wrinkling. “Quick, put it on the tree and move on before they feel compelledto explain.”
At her side, Drew kisses the top of her head before saying, “I’m pretty sure Dex would have to be threatened with grievousbodily harm before he talked.”
I hand Drew a mug of hot cider before giving one to Anna. She isn’t drinking any alcohol: three guesses why. I give them botha big, sweet smile. “I’m happy to tell you all about those pancakes—”
“No!” the room shouts as a collective whole. Well, all but Ethan, who snickers as he hops off the stepladder and comes tome.
He wraps me in his arms, bringing my back against his hard chest. His breath stirs my hair. “You’re so bad, Cherry.”
I relax against him. “Suckers. As if I would talk about our midnightlurve.”
His chuckle is a rumble I feel through my body. With a quick, affectionate kiss to my cheek, he walks off to collect the stepladderand put it away.
“How’s the shop going, Fi?” Anna asks.
Last April, I’d picked up my first client in New Orleans, Ethan’s teammate Rolondo Smith.
Rolondo had me redecorate his condo and then his beach house in Florida. When he found out I’d planned to open my own business, he offered to back me financially. And while Ethan had insisted that he wanted to help me with funds, I finally made him realize that I needed to do this without myboyfriend’s help. In October, I opened a furniture-design shop on Royal Street.
“Really well,” I tell Anna now. “I’m at the point where I need to hire an assistant.”
“More like two,” Ethan says. “So my girl can spend more time in her workshop.”
I love that he knows how cathartic it is for me to spend time working on my pieces, and how much attention he pays to my work.
“This is true,” I say to Anna. “Definitely two assistants.”
I’m still working with Jackson and Hal, selling furniture to their New York clients, who pay top dollar. To say business isbooming is an understatement.
When Ivy goes to check on Leo, who is napping in the bedroom, Drew and Ethan help me set the table. Anna and Gray fuss inthe kitchen. Apparently, they’re picking up an argument they started this morning about brining versus basting the turkey.
Gray had argued with a complicated mathematical defense, complete with statistics and water-retention ratios, that had oureyes glazing over. Though he’d gotten his way in choosing the method of cooking—mainly because no one could stand hearinghim talk nerd any longer—he and Anna are back at it again. Because Anna still thinks brining is better.
Ethan ends the argument by pointing out that the damn bird is done and could we please just eat it now?
“You’ll see,” Gray promises as he carries out a golden-brown turkey worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Simple butter bastingproduces a superior-tasting bird.”
“A dry bird,” Anna retorts.
Despite their bickering, we’re all looking forward to our meal as we sit down at the table—one of the first pieces created in my new workshop. Made of reclaimed cypress wood, it’s wide and long enough to seat twelve. With six of us here,we have room to spread out, which is good since the table is laden with food.
Football players eat. A lot. But I’m not complaining. Especially when I have Ethan’s big, strong body to play with on a dailybasis.
I watch him as he leans over to light the candles. He’s dressed in jeans and a dusky blue button-down that hugs his broadchest. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the colorful tats on his forearms. Those arms can toss around tractortires without breaking a sweat and hold me as gently as if I’m made of blown glass.
A beard—not as full as it used to be but no less sexy—shadows his jaw. His hair is growing out too, still super short on thesides and sticking up in thick, dark brown spikes at the top.
He’s so damn hot, he leaves me breathless every time I look at him. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t jump on him at thatfirst Christmas party.
Catching my gaze, he winks and sits at my side. One hand slips under the table to settle warmly on my knee while the otherlifts his wineglass high.
At his salute, we all pick up our glasses. “So then,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
Even though it’s technically Christmas Eve, we all toast.
