17. My fathers sack
Chapter 17
My father's sack
LETTIE
A s I scan the room, my chest expands to make way for all the warm fuzzy feelings. This party is everything I hoped it would be and more. It’s the right amount of silly and sweet. The laughter, the fellowship, the food, and the holiday cheer practically fill every inch of space. Floor to ceiling and wall to wall.
It’s positively perfect.
The only way this could be better would be if Freya and Stella were here with us. Perhaps next year. For now, they’re with their families for the holidays.
I’m with my Redleg family. And it feels right as rain.
Life’s funny. Crazy how I considered myself an orphan a little over a year ago. Look at me now, surrounded by more love than I ever thought possible.
Speaking of my new family, Boss Dad saunters his way through the crowd toward me, a big grin barely visible from behind his fake powder-white beard and mustache.“Welp, you were right, and I was wrong. Gloat away.”
I shake my head. “Papa always said if you need to brag about your accomplishments, you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. Good deeds should shine in their own light.”
At the mention of the man who raised me, I’m socked in the gut with regret for bringing him up. Not because I don’t love talking about him—I adore thinking and yapping about all the things he taught me over the years. However, I’ve noticed when Papa or Mama comes up in conversation, a tightness camps out in Boss Dad’s jaw. And I don’t want to rob him of any happiness, especially now. After all he’s done for these people, he needs a night to bask in the glow and spirit of the season.
He wears the weight of the world on his shoulders when it comes to everyone at Redleg. In all my born days, I’ve never seen someone with the capacity for so much responsibility. I’ve seen his compassion and love for his family shine bright with every decision he made straight from the day we met.
At least I know I come from good stock.
He clears his throat, recapturing my perpetually wandering thoughts. “I got you a present. Want to see it?”
“Is a five-pound robin fat?” I blurt without thinking—my signature style.
His laugh is rich and pure. It dawns on me I haven’t heard it enough.
“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says.
“I’d have to be as sharp as an overcooked noodle to reject an offered gift from the one and onlySanta Claus on Christmas Eve.”
Beaming at me, he gestures an open palm toward the conference room door.
“My present isn’t in your bag of goodies?” I fling my thumb toward the red sack on one end of the big conference room table.
“Nope. Down the hall.”
With a casual shrug, I head out, grabbing a cheese cube from the monstrous table on my way.
Sammy and I made Leo and the boys move the gigantic thing against the wall for decorating and food-holding purposes. Then I put a train set on top of it, surrounding the tracks with fake snow and little trees. Beside the train is a buffet of deliciousness and then supplies for the gingerbread house contest. Sammy and I decided to let everyone get good and sloshed on eggnog and jack frost punch before we did any contests or games. It’ll be funnier that way. Even though we can’t drink, there’s no harm in watching everyone else get silly.
‘Tis the season for alcohol-induced bad decisions at office holiday parties. Or however the saying goes.
Although this place doesn’t feel like an office. It’s more like our second home. Literally and figuratively.
When we approach the door, we’re stopped by an overzealous Buddy the Elf, squealing like the dickens and jumping around while pointing at Big Al. “Santa! Saaannnta! I know him! I know him!”
My father just waves him off, pushing me toward the door. As we go, the laughter from the party at Sawyer’s antics carries behind us.
Once in the hall, I swing my head from left to right, feigning being lost. “Which way, Boss Dad?”
“It’s at your desk.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Is this a trap to get me to do work?”
Teasingly, he purses his lips and wags his finger at me. Given the beard, hat, and Santa costume, it’s a hilarious sight. “Not tricking you. You’ve already done enough. This whole night is because of you.”
“And Sammy,” I remind him while we stroll a few feet toward my desk.
“Yes. She helped, but I’m well aware of how much work you took on, especially with her condition.”
“I have the same condition,” I quip, tapping my growing baby belly.
“I meant her Grinch-like attitude. Not the pregnancy.”
The more I’m here, the more I understand that one of Redleg’s love languages is shit-talking. It’s really growing on me.
“ Oh , stop,” I chide him while searching all available spaces for something gift-wrapped. “Sammy’s about to pop any day now. The poor girl has earned any attitude she may have.”
“Yeah, but she’s always been this way. More sarcasm per capita than?—”
I shriek with glee, cutting off his teasing mid-sentence. “Is that what I think it is?” Like they have minds of their own, my hands start clapping out thunderous applause. I even jump and bob on my toes like Sawyer was doing a minute ago.
While I’m busy resembling someone in the studio audience at a game show, Boss Dad sneaks behind my desk and extends his arms toward my chair, all flashy-like.“ Ta-dah . Merry Christmas, Lettie.”
“A new chair? Butter my biscuits.”
Squealing with overflowing joy, I plop into the seat, unwilling to wait a second longer to test it out. I don’t care that I’m in a skirt, I cross my legs like I’m a kindergartner at storytime.
This man got me an ADHD chair.
It’s the type where I can cross my legs, hoist up a knee, or do whatever my fidgety, dopamine-seeking body needs to do while working. It’s wide, cushy, and it rocks. Has a tiny knee rest too.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
It’s adorable how he seems unsure. As if my over-the-top reaction didn’t answer him. Man alive . I must look like a five-year-old who just got a new puppy. Or a pony.
Nay. A llama.
My squirrel brain holds up his little paw for a high-five.
Messing with my father a little, I let my face wax over. “Hold on, and I’ll tell you.” I brace my hands on my desk and shove my chair to the right, sailing around for a full revolution.
Once I’m facing the front again, I bat my eyes up at him and let my appreciation shine through. “Yes. I honestly love it. Thank you so dang much. How did you think of this? It’s perfect.”
I spin it again.
“Well, I guess I wanted to ensure you knew I was glad to have you here. And I noticed the constant fidgeting like you were trying to get comfortable. You mentioned it was typical for your ADHD. I didn’t know chairs for this were even a thing, but I saw an advertisement for one and knew I had to get it for you.”
“I love it so much. Thank you.” I rise to my feet and fling my arms around him. “Thank you. Thank yooou. ”
From over Boss Dad’s shoulder, I catch sight of my sexy John McClane approaching. “Pipe down. We’re trying to have a party. What’s with all the squawking?”
Excited to show off my present, I release my thoughtful Santa Dad and dart over to grab Tomer’s hand.“Babe! Come look at my new chair.” I yank him toward my desk. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Unimpressed as the day is long, he simply nods. “It’s nice, I guess.”
“You guess?” Scoffing, I jut my jaw out and roll my eyes. “This is the best flippin’ chair. It spins, rocks, and I can sit cross-legged.”
“All office chairs spin, Lettie,” my fiancé drawls.
Clearly, he doesn’t comprehend the majesty of this chair. The poor dolt. It’s my civic duty to help him see the light.
“Try it out, babe,” I order him, dragging him the rest of the way to my desk. “I promise you’ll understand why I can’t stop gushing at Boss Dad.” I pat the seat of the chair twice. “Come on, now. Don’t be shy. Sit on your biscuits.”
“How many times did she thank you?” he asks Big Al as he begrudgingly drops into the heavenly chair.
“Can’t count that high,” Boss Dad responds with a sneaky grin.
Tomer wobbles from side to side, testing the chair like my good little Dom. I’d pat his head and tell him so to get a rise out of him if we weren’t in mixed company.
I lean over his shoulder. “Well? Do you love it, or do you love it?”
Again, not a hint of emotion in his tone or face. “It’s nice.”
Then I see it. The tiny quiver of his lips and teasing twinkle in his eye. He’s messing with me.
Well, played, sir.
“Get off,” I bark out in faux outrage. “If you don’t appreciate it, you can’t sit in it. Go get in your old crusty chair for all I care.”
He laughs while letting me yank him out of the chair. Once standing, he keeps hold of my hand. I run my thumb over his knuckles, butterflies in my stomach over the simple touch.
Feeling extra playful now, Iglance at Boss Dad. “I’m in charge of buying office supplies and replacing furniture around here, right?”
Cautiously, he nods, slow and controlled. “Yes. Why?”
He probably thinks I’m gonna attempt to buy one of these for everyone at Redleg.
Tempting. But nope.
Playing it up, I let my shoulders droop and exhale in a rush. “Oh thank goodness. Now I can make sure Mr. Underwhelmed gets the cheapest chair on the market once his breaks. On another, entirely different topic, do we keep a screwdriver or hand saw around here? Totally unrelated to chair tampering.”
Tomer pumps his hand around mine, smiling down at me like I’ve hung the moon just for him.
Maybe I have.
Big Al clears his throat. “Well, I better get back to the party. Tell me when it’s time for presents.”
“Games first. I’ll let you know when to get your sack ready.” My eyes spring open wide, and then I slam them shut. “ Please forget I said that.”
His rich laugh travels with him as he goes. “I’m glad you like the chair, Lettie.”
“Thanks, Santa Boss Dad,” I holler as he retreats, keeping my hand locked in Tomer’s and my eyelids fastened.
It’s entirely possible I’ll never open them again. If I can’t see anyone or anything, then it stands to reason I’ll never have to face my embarrassment.
Don’t you dare tell me why that doesn’t make sense. I don’t care. I’m clinging to the hope, okay? Let me have this. It can be your Christmas gift to me and Delulu Bell.
“I can’t believe I just referenced my birth father’s sack in casual conversation.”
As the sound of Tomer’s laugh skitters over my body, the tingle it gives my nipples convinces me to open my eyes. He’s still grinning at me, but when our gazes connect, fire dances behind his turquoise irises.
“That was a lot of sassing about the chair, sugar bear.” He clicks his tongue at me and squints one eye. “Better watch your mouth.”
“ You better watch my mouth.”
His gaze burns into me, embers flickering in his irises. “Behave.”
I lower my chin so he doesn’t see me gulp and hit him with the motto of the Brat Pack. “Make me.”
A growl emits from his chest as he dives in to capture my lips. His kiss is possessive and commanding, yet his touch on my cheeks is tender. It doesn’t take long before he presses me against the wall with one of his hands working its way under my skirt.
I break the kiss, rasping for breath. My head swivels left and right, searching to ensure no one is out here where they could see us fooling around. “Feeling naughty, babe?”
He runs his mouth over my throat and rumbles, “You, wearing this dress, makes me ho ho horny .”
A giggle bubbles out of me, big and brash. “Who are you right now? That was a puntastrophe.”
He pulls back an inch, his eyes licking over me. “I’m entering my dad joke era.”
As impossible as it seems, my smile spreads wider. I trail my fingertips over his scruff, then attempt my own pun. “Ho ho ho, no you don’t.”
Tomer presses a chaste kiss on my lips, then slowly retreats. He tugs my hand, hauling me away from the wall. “Let’s test out the comfort of this chair. Think it will hold us both?”
With unblinking eyes, I watch him ease onto my new chair, then beckon me onto his lap. Before I lower all the way down, I peek over my shoulder, once again checking for an audience. Since we’re all alone, I adjust my position and straddle him. His strong hands fall to my thighs, quickly traveling under the white ruffle on the edge of my skirt.
I can’t resist a pulse of my hips, dragging my needy center over his growing erection.
My exhibitionist kink is raring to go. But this isn’t the place.
However, there’s nothing wrong with making out for a bit, right?
And if he happens to flip the button on the remote, perhaps I can distract him with my mouth for long enough for me to climax so I can get rid of this blue bean.
As our lips reconnect, a shrill scream that could shatter glass rings out. We both go rigid and whip our heads to the source of the sound. Moving in tandem, I extricate myself from him, and we bolt to our feet.
He leads me by the hand down the hallway, my legs barely able to keep up with his fast pace. “Stay close, sugar.”
“Okay.”
Heavy footsteps pound down the hall behind us, and my heart threatens to thrash out of my chest.
Fuck-a-ding-duck, we’re being chased.
Tomer must also hear it because we’re racing toward the party one second, then ducking into an empty office the next. Shep and Kri sail by at full speed.
Phew . It wasn’t the bad guys chasing us.
Once Tomer determines it’s clear, we follow them into the conference room where the screaming originated. We breeze in as an even louder pained wail than before rattles the windows.
Shit . It’s Sammy.
Writhing in pain, she lies on her side on the floor. Her legs tuck up close to her swollen belly, putting her in the closest thing to the fetal position she can manage. Sawyer is kneeling on one side of her. Leo’s on the other.
Shocked faces greet us. Everyone’s gathered but unsure what to do. My eyes land on the back of Kri’s dress, partially unzipped. Guess we know what she and Shep were up to. Doing her a solid, I discreetly zip it for her.
Kri throws a grateful look over her shoulder at me.
Demonstrating impressive calmness under pressure, Tomer speaks up first. “I’ll bring my SUV around to the front. Stay here.” Without waiting for a response, he gives me a peck on my cheek and releases my hand.
“Don’t go alone,” Boss orders. “Pair up.”
Jonesy and Aaron spring into action, trailing Tomer at a fast clip.
Sawyer wedges his arm under Sammy’s upper back, attempting to lift her. “Princess, they’re bringing the car around. Let’s get you downstairs.”
“No. Can’t move. Argh !” she wails, batting his hand away. “It hurts too much.”
“I know, baby. But we need to get you to the hospital.”
“ Fuuuck ,” she yells at the top of her lungs, the curse morphing into an ear-piercing scream better than you’d hear in any slasher flick.
Dang . Sammy has a fantastic horror movie scream. That would have been good to know during spooky season. There’s always next year.
Ah , thanks, dear ADHD squirrel. He always reports for duty right when I need him, providing a lovely distraction from the sympathy pains I’ll likely start having soon.
Ignoring Sammy’s protests, Leo and Sawyer work together to scoop her up and carry her out. They’re met at the conference room door by a frazzled Sue and Mrs. Mason.
“Was it the broccoli?” Sue yells in an utter panic, making no sense at all.
Madeline cups her cheeks, sucking in an excited gasp. “Sammy! Is it time, my sweet girl?”
“Sweet?” Leo frowns, shakes his head, and mouths the word, No .
Despite carrying his sister out of a holiday party while she’s in immeasurable pain, he still manages to tease her. Having gotten to know Sammy the way I have lately, I’d wager she appreciates it wholeheartedly.
She flips her head around like the Exorcist, pinning her brother with a glare that would make Medusa proud. “Fuck off, you jolly green giant jackass.”
Well, she’ll appreciate his teasing tomorrow.
Sue and Madeline move aside, giving them room to pass.
“Oh my fecking hell,” Sue blubbers, her face blanching like she’s seen a ghost. “Not the broccoli. It’s happening. Oh no. Oh nooo . What do we do?”
Nah . Not a ghost. More like a glimpse of her near future. It’s mine as well. But she gets to go first. Lucky her.
On frozen feet, Sue flaps her hands in front of her like her nails are wet, which makes the hundredth odd thought I’ve had since the party went to shit.
From somewhere down the hall, Leo hollers, “Boss, bring Sue and Mom with you.”
“On it, Lionheart.” He bounds over to Sue and Madeline, wrapping one arm around each of them to lead them out.
So much for presents and reindeer games.
But this is way better. Sammy and Sawyer are having Christmas babies!
Big Al stops at the door, turning around to scan the rest of our faces. Pretty much everyone is statue like, shock still rendering us mute. The only sound is the music playing.
Right as I think that, I hear a moan from the other side of the room. All heads whip toward Mia, who’s shamelessly gobbling down a huge slice of chocolate cake.
She raises her shoulders to her ears. “Sorry, I eat cake when I’m nervous. It’s my emotional support food.” Her fork jabs into another hunk. “And this one is really good. I’m not leaving the party without eating it.”
Laughter trills around the room.
Santa Boss Dad shakes his head, blinking off his amusement. “I need backup.” His gaze ping pongs from face to face, locking on Shep and Kri. “You two. Come on.”
They hesitate a split second, giving Val time to interject. “If they’re going, so am I.”
Shep groans, then tips his head toward the door, silently granting her permission.
Junior trails behind her.
The party guests are dwindling by the moment.
At this rate, I’ll be alone.
Yeah . Not a fan of that.
“Hold your horses. I’m coming too,” I yell after Shep and Kri.
Klein races over to cut me off before I can follow.“Lettie, hold up.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m not sure Tomer would like the ratio of guards if you joined them. You should stay here.”
I worry my lip. “But . . . but . . .”
For once, I heed someone’s good advice where my safety is concerned.
“Fine.”
“Get the bag,” a meek voice cries out.
My searching gaze finds Klein’s mother standing beside the long conference table, trying to lift Santa Dad’s big sack.
Of presents.
Don’t be gross. He’s my father.
“Ma, we don’t need the bag.”
Louder this time, she yells, “The bag.” Her facial expression crumples with a mix of desperation and sheer panic. “The bag. He needs it.”
Klein and Mia approach her calmly, one on each side.
On a loop, Mrs. Klein looks at the bag, then at the door where everyone has exited in haste.
Door. Sack. Door. Sack.
The sweet woman taps her forehead with one finger, closes her eyes, and shakes her head. A mournful cry leaves her, and I start to tear up.
“What is it, Ma?” Klein asks, lowering his face to her level and speaking in a soothing tone. “I’m right here. It’s okay. What do you need?”
She doesn’t answer other than to tearfully point at the bag and the door.
“Want something to eat? How about some meatballs?” Mia asks, opting for distraction.
Growing agitated, Mrs. Klein shakes her head aggressively and begins pulling at the roots of her hair.
And it hits me.
I ease over at a snail’s pace so I don’t startle her and quietly ask, “Mama Klein, did you want us to bring Santa the bag of presents?”
Her sweet, sad eyes meet mine, and gratefulness dusts her features. A subtle nod and sigh of relief is our answer.
“Santa needs the presents,” Klein repeats, flashing questioning eyes at Mia.
She whispers, “We have to take her, or she’ll melt down.”
I clap my hands, eager to blow this pop stand. “I’ll get my purse. You get the presents.”
Right after I stop by the bathroom to remove this vibrator.