“Me? Oh hell no. I lack the discipline. Besides, the only guys I’d want to jam with would be Ty, Booker, and Knox, and to be honest, they suck. Ty can’t carry a tune, Knox’s only contribution to the band would be as the resident bad boy who wrecks hotel rooms and collects groupies, and Booker? We were in choir together, did you know that?” She shakes her head. “We’ve been friends since birth, and my mom raised me by herself, obviously. Anyway, I was a handful, so my mom enrolled me in literally everything just to keep me busy. Well, on Thursday nights, I was Kim Zabek’s honorary fourth child and since she spent almost all of her waking hours at the church, Book and I joined the choir. He’s not half bad, honestly, but he’s much happier on the ice than in the choir loft.”
She can’t hold back a smile. “You got your start in a church choir?”
“Yup. My unholy ass was singing every Sunday there for a couple years. Miss Opal, the organist, knew I was a born sinner, so she was always giving me the side-eye. But she also needed a baritone with mad range, so that was that.”
I’m looking at Lucy instead of paying attention to the task at hand, so when I glance down at the gift I’ve wrapped, I cringe. In my defense, the package—a sampling of different Scotch varieties for Lucy’s dad—has rounded edges, but damn. It’s rough. I take a peek at the pile of “finished” gifts and curse, “Fuck, I suck at this.” I take a deep breath and tear the paper off, resigned to the fact that I need to start over.
“Oh my God. I’m dying a slow death watching you try to wrap that. Here, let me help.” She stands and her shirt is rucked up around her waist, leaving some of her very best parts barely covered.
“No,” I protest. “Youdon’t want to help. You want to take over.”
“Yeah, I do, before you cut yourself with those scissors. Gimme.” She holds out her hand and begrudgingly, I comply. Then I stand there transfixed as our hands touch and a damn near electric shock passes through me. Lucy’s big, beautiful eyes stare down into mine, her full lips parted. I drop my hands to my sides. More times than I care to count, I’ve been burned by Lucy’s touch. The temptation is driving me crazy, but I know I need to resist.
I nearly had whiplash from her hasty escape this morning. And her exit in St. Lucia wasn’t much better. And our goodbye this summer was hard, the taste of her kiss lingering on my lips.
So I’m not giving in this time. I’m not touching her, not holding her close, not teasing her with my words. And I’m sure as fuck not kissing her.
Lucy blinks, and just like that, the spell is broken. She sits cross-legged next to me, totally unaware or uncaring that her nightshirt hides nothing.
But fine. Message received. I can be a good stepbrother. How hard can it be to sit next to Lucy and wrap a few gifts?
Turns out, pretty hard. Literally.
Unsurprisingly, Lucy is totally over our moment. Maybe I should be offended, but I’m really just envious. “Hand me the tape?” she asks, and, of course, I obey. She could tell me to get in the car and grab her some drive-thru fast food, and I’d say sure. Hell, even now, she could use that soft, throaty voice to command me to strip and feed her my cock and I’d happily comply.
“Whit? Are you paying attention?”
“Honestly, no.”
She huffs. “Watch. You just measure by placing the box on the paper like so. Then you roll it to account for the edges. I always like to leave an extra quarter inch, but no more. Too much paper makes it look sloppy.”
I try following along, but then she goes origami-princess on me, and I’m lost.
“The fuck did you just do, Lucy?” The present she wrapped is beautiful, but it’s got all these extra folds and it’s fancy as shit.
“Sorry, I got a little carried away. Let’s try the simple method.”
Five minutes later, we agree that the simple method is too advanced for the likes of me. She’s basically taken over the wrapping now, and I can’t complain, but I do keep one awkwardly-wrapped package back from the pile.
“No offense, but why don’t you just buy gift bags? You can even get them with matching tissue paper and tags.”
“I know. And that was the plan. I was at the mall earlier, finishing up my shopping and I meant to stop at the card shop for bags, but it totally slipped my mind.”
“Well, no worries, you’re all wrapped and ready. Oh, wait, give me that one,” she says, reaching for the gift in my hand.
“Nope,” I say too quickly, holding it up and out of her reach. “This one’s not so bad,” I lie.
“Um...if you say so? Come on, give it here and I’ll wrap it. I love wrapping. Granted, I don’t usually do it at two o’clock in the morning on Christmas Day, but I do love it.”
“Of course you don’t. Bet you’re all done by what? Halloween?”
“Thanksgiving.”
“Oooh, cutting it close, Luce,” I tease.
“Hardly,” she says, standing, that cool, haughty tone back in her voice. “Thanksgiving is the perfect time to be done shopping. That way, I’m not stressed during the holidays, but I still get to enjoy all the magic, and most of the sales.”
“Why am I not surprised you’re done shopping at the ‘perfect time’? Jesus, Luce. You ever mess anything up? Ever?”
