“What kind of a question is that?” she asks, tugging that damn shirt down over her full hips. The fabric stretches to accommodate that perfect ass, and goddammit, I swear my mouth waters.
“A stupid one,” I tell her, gathering the supplies and tossing them into a shopping bag. I gather up the perfectly wrapped presents—and the crappy-looking one—and place them under the tree with their brethren.
“What are you talking about?” Her hands are just above her hips, emphasizing her delicate waist. “If you have something to say, Caleb, just say it.”
Maybe it’s the way she slips and says my name, or the way she looks in the moonlight, or the fact that I’ve had a few drinks, but my filter, admittedly faulty most days, is totally out of commission. “You’re perfect. You always have been. Perfect manners, perfect face. Fucking flawless body. You’re brilliant and efficient and organized and polite and kind, and Jesus Christ, do you have bad days? Do you ever fuck up?”
She opens her mouth to stop my tirade, but I keep right on rolling. “Let me guess...this one time, while you were taking notes in class, you used the wrong color highlighter. Oh, horror of horrors! Or wait. Maybe once you took a seven-minute shower when the Commission for Cleanliness recommends six?”
“Seriously? So I have my life together. Big deal. I’m sorry that’s so offensive to you. I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience my sense of organization has caused you. I’ll just...stay out of your way.” She backs up, sarcasm dripping from every word she says.
“Luce, you don’t have to stay out of my way. I—”
“Clearly, I do. Clearly, my very existence annoys you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what the hell did you mean? What was that tirade all about, if not to make me feel like crap. Am I a perfectionist? Obviously. Is my Type A personality probably a byproduct of my mom leaving when I was a kid? Probably. But is any of that any fucking business of yours? No.” She stalks away, then turns back sharply. “You know what? Maybe you’re the one who should stay out of my way.”
I feel like an asshole. I’m being an asshole. My issue isn’t with Lucy. It’s with myself. “Wait, Lucy Anabelle,” throwing a fake middle name in a desperate attempt to bring a smile back to her lips. “I was being a dick. I’m sorry.” I turn toward her but keep my damn hands to myself.
“I’m sorry, too,” she apologizes.
“Don’t be. This is on me. I came out swinging for no good reason.” Rubbing my hand on the back of my neck, I sigh.
“I don’t understand us,” she says, shaking her head.
“We’re…complicated,” I laugh.
“But cookie night was great. We were fine. We were having fun. And now we’re back to snapping at each other.”
I shrug. She’s right, and I could tell her that we fight like a brother and sister. But instead, I go for honesty: “It’s our foreplay.”
She just blinks up at me, unsure what to say or how to respond. I take the empty cocoa mug from her hand and stick it in the dishwasher.
“I...I’m going to head to bed.”
“Sweet dreams,” I say, and I’m more gratified than I should be at the blush on her cheeks.
* * *
It takesme a few more minutes to clean up the rest of my mess before I head up to bed. Stripping down to my boxers—Rudolph boxers, thank you very much, I brush my teeth and crawl into bed. But as expected, sleep is elusive. Palming my phone, I pull up my chat with Booker. No doubt he’s fast asleep in their ski chalet in Colorado, but I need to vent, and he sleeps like the damn dead, so I shoot him a text, knowing he’ll get it tomorrow.
Whit:How’s the weather? Have you debauched any snow bunnies?
Booker: That's a no. What the hell are you doing up? Everything ok?
I wince, knowing the panic laced through his text is all because of me. I’ve given my boys reason enough to worry this last year.
Whit:Had to stay up late playing Santa, so no sleeping pill tonight. And counting sheep doesn’t work for shit. What about you? What are you doing awake?
Booker:It’s just after midnight here.
Whit:True, but your ass is asleep by ten most nights. You good?
Booker:Yeah. Just watching a movie with Emersyn. How’s Christmas with Lucy?
Whit:I’m losing my goddamn mind...
