CHAPTER 23
Remy
If I sit here any longer, waiting for Chris to come out of his father’s den, I might have a nervous breakdown.
Alice and Dean are fast asleep in the recliner like two overworked, overtired parents who deserve a nap.
Gale is passed out on her back, sporting her brand-new Christmas bandana from ‘Grandma’ and possibly chasing a squirrel in her dreams. Rose disappeared into the kitchen a little while ago, and the boys are transfixed by a new game one of them got for Christmas—a football game, imagine that. That leaves just me and my thoughts.
Ugh, I can’t do this.
Shoving off the couch, I amble back through the dining room.
Maybe burning off my restlessness will keep me from worrying that any semblance of peace Chris has found over the past two months won’t be shattered by whatever is happening behind that closed door.
I already called my parents earlier and sent a message to Jamie.
I could go up to Chris’ room to wait for him there, but that won’t keep me from wondering how his chat with ‘daddy’ is going either.
Or keep me close enough by to hear if it comes to blows.
It wouldn’t go that far, would it?
Not the image I needed right now.
The sound of dishes clanking on the other side of the kitchen door catches my attention.
I think I just found a distraction that will keep me near the potential war zone in the other room.
Swiping two dirty mugs off the dining table, I take them with me.
Rose is elbow deep in soapy water at the sink, doing a mother’s labor of love.
“Oh, did you find more for me?” she asks, gracing me with an appreciative smile.
How the woman can manage to sound cheery about that further solidifies the picture of patience and exuberance I saw from her over the evening. Smiling, I set them down on the counter and then move to the other side of the sink and grab a hand towel.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. You’re our guest,” she scolds.
“You made dinner. It’s the least I can do. Besides, Chris and I do dishes together all the time. It wouldn’t be fair if I dry for him and not his mother.”
“You’re so sweet,” she says softly, affectionately, not just a throwaway comment.
But is your husband? I want to ask.
Chris hasn’t mentioned much about him other than Vince may not approve of his current career choice. If he could have seen his son the other day at the college, he’d have known he was meant to use his voice.
It takes me a second, but I locate the cabinet where Rose keeps the dinner plates. I set the ones I dried inside and turn back to my duty station. Her forearms are resting on the edge of the sink, head hung, eyes closed. Did she…fall asleep standing up? Is she sick?
“Rose…are you all right?”
I hear her before I put two and two together—a sniffle. Her lower lip quivers. The sponge in her hand splashes into the water. Just as I lay my hand on her shoulder, she practically throws herself at me. Arms going tight around my waist, she hugs me and sobs against my chest.
I am officially terrified, a thousand-pound weight dropping into my stomach. Did something happen to Chris? What is going on?
“Rose?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she sniffles, straightening up. Swiping her eyes, she takes a second to compose herself. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen my son smile?”
The question stuns me. It sounds rhetorical, emphasized by the watery appreciative look on her face. She reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze, whispering, “Thank you.”
I thought I knew how much Chris loved me, but the weight of it settles on me more now, hearing her words. And now I might be on the verge of crying. Clearing my throat, I squeeze her hand in return.
“No thanks needed. I like making him smile, and I should be thanking your good parenting; he makes me smile, too.”
The loving look she gives me is as powerful as if she were my own mother, and I’m grateful to know Chris has her in his corner. We finish up the dishes, and she hugs me again, wishing me a good night.
I find the same scene in the living room when I return.
The door to the den is still closed, so I give up and head upstairs.
Inside Chris’ bedroom, damp heat and the scent of shower gel hit me.
Light from the bathroom spills out, but it’s interrupted when Chris steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist. His gaze seems far off as he rubs the muscle in his shoulder before spotting me.
There are tired lines around his eyes, but he’s still as handsome as ever, flashing me an exhausted smile.
He put on a good face at dinner, laughing with me and the rest of his family, but I didn’t miss the way his expression shuttered when it became apparent that Vince had little to contribute to the conversations.
“Feel better?” An hour and a half drive in a truck for Chris feels a lot different than it does for me.
“Yeah. A little bit.”
Moving to the side of the bed, I pat the top of the mattress. “Come here.” The look he gives me doesn’t change my mind. “No arguments.”
His shoulders sag with a defeated sound, and he crawls onto the mattress, settling on his side so his back is facing me. I’m curious to see his reaction tomorrow when we go home and he opens the Christmas stocking I made up for him. Santa had time to track down some flavored massage oil this year.
I set to work on his shoulders. Little bells of victory ding inside me when he sighs. I’m afraid to ask him about his talk with his father, but I don’t have to remain in suspense too long.
“It went all right,” he murmurs against his forearm.
That information does as much to relax me as any massage. Bending down, I press a kiss to the back of his neck.
“I’m glad.”
I had asked him if he’d ever brought a man home before, to which he replied that he’d never brought anyone.
He said he suspected his father may have known about his sexuality all along, but that it had been one of those unspoken things that became more difficult to broach the more the years went by.
And then, of all things, he apologized to me, as though he’d been hiding me from Vince for fifteen years, and asked if I was sure I still wanted to come to his family’s Christmas.
I told him I’d ride into any battle with him, and I don’t think I let go of his hand for the entire drive.
“He just stood there…not saying anything,” he adds, the words cracking something in my chest, hearing what he just went through.
“I got more and more pissed off, even though I didn’t want to be.
And then…” My hands still in the middle of his back as he makes a disbelieving sound.
“I found out he’s just as fragile as me, just as fragile as anyone else.
” His ribcage heaves, and he reaches back, squeezing my hip. “I love you, Remy.”
I think I understand now why people adore fairy tales. You can’t help but want a happily ever after for the hero when they have to fight so much. I rest my hand in front of him on the mattress, leaning down to kiss his shoulder.
“I love you too.”
Chris doesn’t let me get away, though. I don’t mind at all when he turns his head, cups my face, and tastes me like I’m the last drop of water in the desert.
His skin is still warm against my palm from his shower as I make soothing passes across his chest and down his stomach.
His hand covers mine, redirecting it to a bulge at the front of his towel.
He tightens his grip, making me hug what’s underneath the terry cloth fabric.
A grunt spills over his lips and into my mouth.
That is certainly one way to ask for what you want.
“Does your door lock?”
“Oh, yeah, but they won’t come up here.”
I’d feel better if it were locked, but I take his word for it, slipping loose the knot in his towel.
It falls away, leaving him looking like a Greek god who was meant for loving.
This was supposed to be a massage. I make up for the deviation by trailing a path of kisses down his spine, cascading my palm across the velvety skin of his ass.
I know he scoffed at me for saying that taking care of him is like an addiction, but making him feel good does as much for me as it does for him.
It’s why I don’t stop when I reach the seam between his globes, too tempted by the work of art he is that he’ll never see.
The first kiss I land on that tight dark crevice is followed by Chris’ deep exhale.
He reaches up for one of his pillows, brings it to his stomach, and rolls onto his stomach.
Clearly, he was full of shit when he once insinuated he’d like his belly scratched.
Smoothing my hands down the uncharted territory, I wet my lips and drag them in a slow kiss between his cheeks.
“I think I like this massage,” he whispers, shifting his legs apart.
Tomorrow cannot come soon enough. I might have to unpack his stocking for him as soon as we walk in the door.
I’ve decided there are some things I don’t want to chance my new friend Rose seeing, so I rush to lock his door.
She doesn’t need to discover all the ways I make her son smile.
Planting my hands back on the mattress on either side of him, I let my breath ghost his seam to tease his senses.
How many times did I dream of doing this to him? Merry Christmas to me.
He’s hot and soft, the hair in his crease tickling the tip of my tongue when I drag it up and over his pucker. The moan he lets out vibrates all the way to my cock, firming my nuts behind my jeans.
“Fuuuck. Remy…”