Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Let’s go home and have some real fun.
By fun, Henri didn’t mean immediately stripping me naked and indulging in a Christmas orgy. Boo.
He meant music, cooking, and in my case… uninterrupted hours of reading. Stella and I have occupied a spot near the fire, me on the couch, her curled up on that favorite cushion she has, and the afternoon has drifted by like the occasional flurries of fluffy snowflakes swirling beyond the windows.
As I’ve sat here, it’s been impossible not to grin fiendishly to myself. Because, holy shit, if this doesn’t feel… amazing.
I love my own company, I truly do. I’ve been on my own for so long, it doesn’t even feel odd to me anymore.
Growing up without parents, being the orphan who family members felt obliged to look after and take care of year after year, I guess I just learned to make myself smaller and smaller.
My expertise was to take up the least amount of space humanly possible.
To spend holidays with my hands in the sink washing dishes, or with a tea towel draped over one shoulder, ready to dry and put things away, rather than taking part in whatever festivities might have been going on.
How could I not? When my memories were of whispered arguments around corners about who would take their turn to have to look after Mia.
I was something of a chore, and didn’t I understand that right in the pit of my stomach. Not that it was their fault, no one asks to be landed with someone else's kid when they’re already sort of independent. You grow up real fucking fast when you’re alone in the world from twelve years old.
However, moments like this give a glimpse into something I never really knew existed.
A place where I don’t feel like I’m imposing by being here.
In fact, the couple of times I’ve attempted to help, Henri has chased me off, threatening to flick my ass with a tea towel, and Reid has ordered me back to my reading nook.
I wouldn’t put it past him to pick me up and simply toss me back over here like some sort of rogue hay bale if he wanted to.
So I’ve stayed in this position, mostly reading, but absolutely getting distracted and sneaking glances at the two of them.
They’re both just so gorgeous, it’s impossible not to. But I think ultimately the thing that keeps on dragging my eyes away from the words on the pages beneath my fingertips is that they’re just… happy.
Happy and oh holy night, help me, so unbelievably hot my ovaries are about to combust.
Reid wears glasses.
As it turns out, when he’s not tending to cattle or strutting around wearing wranglers like it’s the very thing he was sent to do on this earth, he goes and puts on reading glasses for things like dicing potatoes and studying a recipe. It’s simply unfair.
One sight of him, with worn flannel shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, and those wire-rimmed frames, had me ready to maul him like a mountain lion.
Then, the other half of this equation of Christmas temptation is Henri.
Who has decided to wear the shortest rugby shorts known to mankind.
Revealing thick thighs, quads sent to short-circuit my brain.
The kind of physique that still very much serves to remind anyone who might glance his way of the athlete he used to be.
And trust me, I’ve looked.
Not just drooling over the sight of him in the flesh. One quick search online earlier this morning revealed images of him everywhere.
Every angle covered, and every inch of muddied, sweat-glistening skin on display. With high definition moments capturing tackles being busted, tries being scored, and fierce defensive feats of bravery.
I don’t dare admit the noise that flew out of my mouth when I saw a close-up, with his head tipped back, pouring a water bottle over his dark hair.
His tanned skin damp from training, and his top pulled up to reveal a sculpted V leading below what must have been the tiniest pair of shorts he could possibly squeeze those bulging, toned glutes into.
That one is saved in a folder on my phone. For research purposes.
Looking at him now, age hasn’t diminished the way those leg muscles are still doing the business.
The barely five inches of inseam on his black shorts make it extremely difficult to concentrate on my chapter.
It doesn’t matter that the heroine is being railed six ways to Sunday; I’ve re-read this page at least three times.
Those tattooed hands, with his silver rings, are all too captivating.
Earlier, while we were ice skating, the way he made quick work of the lacing on my skates?
Watching him do such a simple task with the precision that can only come from years of lacing up his rugby boots?
I’m not ashamed to admit that really did it for me.
It was such a tiny gesture, but it screamed volumes about his attentiveness and skill.
Not to mention the way I’ll enthusiastically watch those fingers at work all day long.
The guys come to join me. “Dinner is in the oven,” Henri announces, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.
“What are you making?”
“A special Quebec delicacy. Pig’s feet stew.”
My face drops. Contorting through a somersault of not wanting to offend him, while feeling nauseous at the prospect of having to politely try to stomach his special meal.
“The organ meat is the best part,” he adds.
The blood rapidly drains from my face. I’m not a vegetarian… but…
“It’s my grandmother’s recipe she passed down.” He lifts a glass of whiskey to his lips.
Beside me, Reid sits down, and as I glance in his direction—maybe looking to him for salvation from this hideous-sounding pig trotter situation—I notice he has one palm over his mouth.
Massive shoulders shaking. Creases at the corners of his eyes.
His laugh escapes as he eases into the cushions, sounding a bit raspy. “You should see your face, sugar.”
That has me dropping my book into my lap, incredulous at their teasing. With an exaggerated pout, I flop my hands at my sides. “You’re mean. Not fair. Teaming up on me like that.”
Henri’s eyes sparkle at me. “The mean one was my grandmother. God, she was a miserable old trout. Bigoted ‘til her bitter end. I would never torture you, or anyone for that matter, with any recipe of hers.”
“My entire life just flashed before my eyes.”
“Cross my heart, I’m only joking. We’re having potato and herb gratin with four very fancy cheeses, and chicken pie, thanks to our cowboy. Then, chocolate torte for dessert.”
Is this real life?
“Sounds delicious. You should have let me help, though.” I pin him with a disapproving look.
“Maybe we just liked having you stare at us for a few hours, thinking you were being sneaky over here. Your eyes are not very well behaved, ma petite chérie.”
Okay, it’s confirmed. I will officially die of embarrassment here on this spot. RIP me.
“Other than ice skating and cooking, do you usually do anything special?” Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I ask. One part an attempt to deflect from being snapped checking them out, when I thought I was being subtle, one part wholly unsure whether I’m interrupting their usual plans.
Does Henri read me so easily? He shifts toward me, looming close.
“We love to stay up all night on Christmas Eve…” One of those tattooed hands of his nudges my legs apart, spreading me in order to cup my pussy through my leggings.
“And open our presents at midnight.” Resting a thumb on my clit, that aching bud throbs under his touch.
My mouth goes dry.
His touch is magic. Lingering there a moment longer, he gives me a little added pressure, then takes his hand away before shooting me a wink, leaving my body buzzing with anticipation.
“How about you?” Reclining against the cushions, Henri oozes the kind of bad boy who knows how good he looks right now confidence that makes my heart flutter around giddily inside my chest. These men want more than just sex?
They want to talk, hang out, and spend time together?
“Do you have anything you’d usually do?”
It feels like running complex algebra to figure out where we were in the conversation a few seconds ago.
Oh. Right. Holiday plans. I shake my head.
“Nothing really. My friend Keri and her wife have a running joke now that they claim me as their honorary bonus lesbian lover each Christmas.” A wry laugh puffs past my lips.
“That’s who was supposed to be here with me for the holidays. ”
“Our lucky gain in that case,” Reid says.
“Do you usually do something with your brother?” I twist to look at him.
He volleys his head from side to side. “Well, I have two, for my sins. One here and one we only see rare sightings of when he’s not winning buckles for bull riding.
Sometimes Boone and I will hang out, since he lives here, but only ever in a very casual way.
We’ve never been Christmas people. Most of the time, we end up working around the ranch, have a drink together, then call it a day. ”
Henri clicks his tongue. “What he’s trying to say is that he and his brothers are the ultimate Grinches. If it were up to the three of them, there would be no Christmas decorations, carols would be banned from radio stations, and it would be just another day riding horses and feeding cattle.”
I can’t help but smile. “But the ranch looks gorgeous. The lights. The tree. The activities. It’s a whole thing.”
“That’s all Tanner’s doing. Or at least, not really his doing—but he’s very good at organizing that kind of thing, for the guests’ sake. Every year, he brings in a fancy event planner type person who handles all the decorating of the place.”
Twisting my lips, I pry a little farther. “Are they…”
Henri sighs. “A couple? Let’s just say they’ve been friends for a long time.”
Reid shakes his head and pinches his brow. “Translation: my brother is an idiot.”
“One day, peut-être, they’ll figure their bullshit out.”