Chapter 8 Tripp
Tripp
For the first time in several decades, I find myself actually excited for Christmas morning. I sneak downstairs to make pancakes while Harley sleeps naked in my bed, knowing full well Mandi will cuss me out for spoiling the breakfast spread she’ll have for us later.
For us.
There’s a warmth in my chest I don’t recognize, but I kind of like it. Harley has thawed the icy layers around my heart without even trying.
Now, I’m just pissed at myself for wasting so much time.
“Hey,” Harley says, sidling up to me in one of my flannel button-down shirts, her red-painted toenails on display. She looks so fucking cute and sexy I can hardly stand it. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“And whose fault is that?” she challenges.
For months, I’ve avoided Harley because I thought we’d make a big mistake, like sleeping together once and making things completely awkward between us.
I was certain that nothing good could come from us giving into our base desires.
That what I was feeling was nothing more than lust, when I realize now it’s been so much more.
It’s love.
“What are you wearing under my shirt?” I ask, hoping to deflect. We have a lot to figure out when it comes to us, and I don’t want to put too much pressure on Harley. Despite the urge to call my sister right now and announce that we’re together.
“Who says I’m wearing anything,” Harley teases, biting down playfully on her bottom lip.
Despite how ravenous I am since we only had cookies for dinner last night, I wish I’d waited to start the pancakes until after I claimed Harley in my kitchen.
“If I burn the pancakes because I’m fucking you, you’ll never believe I’m a good cook.”
“Oh, now it’s fucking, huh?” She flashes me a mischievous smile as she presses her lower back into the counter beside the stove. They way she arches back tugs up the shirt, revealing her bare pussy.
“It’s good to have variety.”
“No complaints there.”
I try to focus on the pancake in my frying pan, but dammit, I can’t stop glancing at that bare pussy. Just as I reach over, intent on multi-tasking, Harley’s phone pings.
“Suppose that’s Mandi,” I say as she pushes off the counter to retrieve it.
“Actually, it’s my dad.”
“Where are your parents?” I ask, flipping a pancake.
“My mom passed some years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” She offers me a smile as she rejoins me in the kitchen. “My dad is on his yacht somewhere with my new stepmom who’s two years younger than me.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Nope. It’s one of the reasons I moved to Caribou Creek. He’s never around, and I’m okay with that. But I wanted something…more, you know?”
“You think you’ll stay in Caribou Creek?”
“For a while at least, yeah,” she says, focused on her phone.
“You sure you’re not upset about your dad?”
“Nope. I’m used to it. He was never big on holidays, and his idea of a gift is a bank deposit.”
“You were serious about the yacht?”
“Yeah, he’s loaded. Every Christmas, he sends me a text that says ‘Merry Christmas. Check your bank account. Love, Dad.’ That’s it.
That’s literally the whole text.” She holds the phone up to me as proof.
“I usually spring for one thing for myself and donate the rest. This year, I’m donating the money to the local animal rescue. ”
I mean to ask her if she’s a dog or cat person, but another text pops up, this one with my sister’s name on the screen. Harley pulls it back before I can read what it says. She types back and forth for a couple of minutes before curiosity gets the best of me.
“Everything okay?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah. But I need to get going. Mandi needs help. Do you think my Jeep will start?”
I’m hurt by how nonchalant she is about leaving. “But you haven’t even tried my pancakes yet.”
“I believe you can cook,” she says, reaching on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.
My fucking cheek. She scurries around the living room, collecting her clothes, undressing and dressing like it’s no big deal.
“I promised your sister I’d be there to help, and well, if I’m late she might… read into things, you know?”
“So we’re not telling her?”
“Right.”
Frustration kills my good mood instantly. Not telling Mandi about a kiss we both deemed a mistake is one thing. But pretending like last night was just for fun? What the actual fuck?
“Last night was a one-time thing then,” I say, testing her response.
She locks her gaze with mine for a few seconds, and I wait for her to crack. Instead, she pulls on her boots and says, “Glad we agree. See you at Mandi’s.”