15. Tyler
FIFTEEN
TYLER
“Grab the berries, mon chou.” I open the oven a crack and peek in.
Every Christmas morning, my mom would make the same French toast casserole, and when it came out of the oven, she’d set the oversized baking dish on the table between us and hand me a fork.
The two of us would sit like that and eat straight from the dish.
Mom saved all year for gifts, but I couldn’t list more than a handful I received in the twelve years we had together.
But this casserole? I remember the way each one tasted, the things we talked about, the laughs we shared.
My mother made everything magical, and Christmas morning was no exception.
There were only two of us then. This morning, with five of us here, we can’t exactly eat out of the pan, so I pull a stack of plates from the cabinet.
If my mother were here, she would have figured it out, and the tradition would have continued. Then again, if my mother were here, so many things would probably be different. Me, for one.
“Bacon should be ready,” Bray calls from the living room.
He’s got Scarlett on his hip, keeping her away from the Christmas tree and all the presents I stashed under it last night.
The two of them are wearing matching pajamas.
Josie and me too. The kid rolled his eyes when I gave them their early Christmas present before my family showed up last night, but he donned them without complaint, and if I had to guess by the way he keeps smiling at the girls, he doesn’t mind matching too much.
I open the door of the second oven, and sure enough, the bacon is crispy perfection. “Can you put Scar in her highchair and set the table?”
“I’ll get Scarlett’s milk,” Josie offers as she drops the container of berries onto the counter.
Meals are always a little chaotic, but the kids love helping out, and I want to encourage that, even if it means cleaning up extra messes. Usually Maria is here with us too. She’ll pour the milk into the sippy cup, then Josie will carry it to her sister and act like she did all the work.
Worried I’ll have a big mess on my hands if I let her pour herself, I pull the bacon out quickly and set it on the stovetop, then hustle to where she’s already holding the milk carton, her little arms straining.
I get to her just as one hand slips and gently take it.
“I’ve got it. Can you go entertain Scar before she starts throwing things? ”
With an exaggerated nod, she wiggles her butt and makes a beeline for Scarlett.
“Alexa, play Bing Crosby Christmas tunes,” I say, recreating another one of my mother’s Christmas traditions.
When “Mele Kalikimaka” plays loudly through the speaker, Brayden eyes me from where he’s setting the table. I wink at him, and in response, he lowers his head and gives it a shake, his typical smirk the only indication that he’s enjoying himself.
“Hey, Bray,” I motion toward the kitchen, calling him closer. Before we sit down, I need to check in with him about what he saw this morning—a woman in my bed.
Brayden leans against the counter, staring at me. “What’s up?”
“About this morning.” I grip the back of my neck, trying to figure out what to say.
He shakes his shaggy hair. “It’s no big deal. You can do what you want. It’s your house.”
I glare at him. As much as I lament telling him the truth, I’m not sure how much I should share.
But letting him believe it was a casual fuck isn’t going to fly either.
I’ve never brought a woman around him. It’s been a long time since I’ve even considered spending the night with someone.
I don’t like how he thinks that I’d do that so casually.
But he’s too old to not question what Ava and I are doing when she arrived here last night with Xander.
So I decide to give him a shortened and diluted version of the truth.
“She needed a place to stay. You know that.”
He scrutinizes me, eyes narrowing, as if he’s thinking about the perfectly good pull-out couch in my office as well as the super comfortable one in the living room.
With a deep breath in, I give him more truths than I intended. “I’ve always liked Ava. I’d like it if you’d give her a chance. If she’s willing, she may become a more permanent fixture in this house.”
He lifts one shoulder and eyes me through his shaggy hair. “That will make Josie happy.”
I take a step closer and place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “I think she could make us all pretty happy if we’re open to it. I’m trying here, Bray. Really trying to give us a family.”
Brayden seems to relax beneath my grip. “You’re doing a good job.
” He nods over to the table where the girls are giggling as Scarlett whips strawberries at Josie, who’s pretending to catch them in her mouth but missing every single one.
That’s going to be fun to clean up. “They’re laughing.
And honestly,” he shrugs again, “this is the nicest Christmas I’ve had since my dad died.
So, if I haven’t said it lately, thanks. ”
I pull Brayden against my chest and hug him. We don’t do this enough—clearly—because for a second, he freezes, but when I squeeze him tighter, he relaxes and hugs me back. Then he pulls away. “Okay, don’t get all emo on me.”
Laughing, I throw him a bone and act like the cocky hockey player he’s used to, pointing toward the scene before us. “I did good, didn’t I?”
The first thing I did when I came downstairs was plug the tree lights in and start a fire.
It’s now crackling and keeping the oversized room warm while big white flakes flutter from the sky on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It’s one of my favorite things about this house—the view of the backyard filled with oversized trees and the lake. Reminds me of Canada.
The scene only gets better when the woman dressed in my long-sleeve Bolts shirt and sweats enters the room. The clothes hang from her tiny frame, and her wavy red hair falls loosely past her shoulders. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are bright as her mouth drops open.
“It’s like a Christmas dream,” she says in raspy wonder. With a hand to her mouth, she surveys each one of us. “You all look so perfectly Christmasy in your matching pj’s. I don’t fit in.”
It takes effort to remain where I am rather than stride over to her. “These pants came with a matching flannel shirt,” I tease. I went for a white long-sleeve T-shirt instead, knowing I’d overheat in the flannel top. “I could get it for you.”
With a light laugh I’ve never heard directed my way, she shakes her head. “I’m okay. Thank you, though.”
“Might give you more coverage than that T-shirt alone,” I call, turning around and closing my eyes to banish the image of her that threatens to haunt me. Damn, did she look good in nothing but my shirt last night. Fresh-faced and bare-legged, with a sassy attitude she reserves only for me.
I like that last part a bit too much.
Makes me want to push her buttons.
“Come sit next to me,” Josie calls from her spot beside Scarlett.
When I finally make it over to the table with Scarlett’s sippy cup, everyone is sitting, leaving one open spot, the place between Ava and Brayden. The instant the cup is in her hands, Scarlett pulls back, ready to throw it, but Josie grabs it before it can clatter to the floor.
“Come on, sissy. No milk on the floor.”
Heading back into the kitchen to grab the plate of bacon and the French toast casserole, I blow out a relieved breath. Looks like I won’t be mopping the floors just yet. Though after breakfast, I’ll have no choice in the matter.
“I can help,” Ava offers, following me. “Holy crap, this looks delicious.”
“Tastes even better,” I promise.
She arches a brow. “Did Maria make it?”
With my head tossed back, I cough out a laugh. “Think I can’t cook?”
A saucy shoulder lift is all I get in response.
Huffing, I snag a fork from the drawer and scoop a bite of casserole, being sure to get a berry in the mix to give her the full effect. Fork held aloft, I stalk up to her. “Open.”
She sucks in a surprised breath. “You’re going to feed me?”
“ Open. ”
The woman loves to push back, but she gives up pretty easily this time.
The moment she opens her mouth, though, I’m rethinking my actions.
Shit. I should have known that the sight of her closing her lips around the fork would affect me.
What I couldn’t have imagined, though, was the delicious moan that escapes her.
At that simple sound, all the blood in my body rushes to the one place it has no business being right now.
“Holy crap,” she mutters. “That’s delicious.”
“Lucky for you, your future husband’s more than just a pretty face.” I toss the fork into the sink, then don oven mitts and pick up the casserole. With a nod, I gesture to the bacon. “Can you grab that?”
“So we’re still doing this?” she murmurs as she steps up beside me and picks up the platter.
“Serving breakfast?” I tease.
What she really wants to know is whether, in the light of day, I’ve changed my mind about her proposal.
Up until thirty seconds ago? Fuck yeah, I was questioning it.
Concerned we couldn’t really pull this off.
Unsure that I could commit to spending the next however many years in this woman’s presence without pulling my hair out.
Then I heard her moan, and it changed everything.
“ War ,” she grits out.
It’s perplexing, the way her anger makes me giddy. I thrive on pissing her off. It’s probably something I should discuss with my therapist.
Later. Like after we’re married and he can’t talk me out of it. Because yeah, I want to marry Ava. I want to marry the shit out of her, and then I want to find out whether she’ll make that sound when it’s not her mouth doing the work. When my lips are doing the tasting instead.