35. Sutton
Sutton
“It’s just you and me tonight, Don,” I say.
Candlelight flickers along the marble countertops in our new kitchen as I twirl my glass around and around and around.
The deep mahogany liquid spirals like my thoughts.
I tap my phone screen. It’s three o’clock, and our families should be here any minute for Christmas Eve dinner.
Warm, smoky tequila hits my tongue. “Everything will be fine. I won’t ruin Christmas,” I tell the bottle, taking a slow sip and savoring the sweet notes of honey and cocoa.
This isn’t exactly how I pictured hosting my first holiday in our home, but here we are: me pep-talking alcohol.
Footsteps pad across the wood floor.
“You breaking up with Don again?” Hunter leans against the archway, deep-blue pearl snap fitted to perfection, eyes soft in that way that makes my stomach flip.
“Maybe,” I say, sliding the glass away. “He’s unreliable.”
Hunter crosses the kitchen, plucks the glass from my fingers, and takes a long sip. He hums in appreciation. “You doing okay in here?”
I wrinkle my nose. “If by okay, you mean freaking out, then yes. Yes, I’m okay.”
“No need to be nervous.” His hand cups the back of my neck, thumb sweeping a soothing line. “You’ve known my parents forever.”
“Never as your girlfriend. Never in our house.”
Last weekend, we had the talk and, much to the surprise of no one, we decided it felt right for us if I officially moved in.
Time has been a thief for long enough.
We are done wasting it.
I step away, smoothing the table runner for the third time. The napkins are folded like little trees, candles lit, cider simmering, and the turkey’s in the oven. The warmth in the house surrounds me.
“This is supposed to be just right,” I mutter to myself, rearranging the silverware another centimeter apart.
“People are coming for Christmas Eve, not a home inspection. You know this, right?” Hunter says, lips twitching.
“This is my first time hosting our families. I would really like it if it was perfect.”
He crosses the room and tilts a perfectly straight candle off-center, then kisses my cheek. “It already is.”
The doorbell rings before I can demand he never sabotage my symmetry again.
The anticipation bursts, and soon there are boots stomping in, Greer’s voice echoing, Luke calling out greetings.
Mom looks beautiful in black slacks and a sequined holiday sweater.
Hunter’s mom, Jackie, hands me a bottle of wine like I’ve passed some hostess rite of passage.
Hunter’s dad, Rhett, drops a hideous sparkly Santa riding a reindeer in my palms. “For the mantel,” he announces proudly.
I swallow a laugh and tuck it safely on display.
As if we don’t even live here, everyone begins their own tours of the house—oohing and aahing at the backsplash, the light fixtures, the floors, the framed photos Greer insisted I hang, and especially the large oak dining table.
I stand back for a second and watch it all unfold. Rhett points to the mantle like he built it himself. Jackie already has her shoes off and is rearranging throw pillows. Greer and Mom are in the kitchen opening the fridge and putting out more appetizers.
Hunter catches my eye across the room and mouths, I love you. My heart stumbles over itself as I grin back it him, because somehow, after everything, this still feels a little like magic.
I breathe deeply and return the sentiment.
Laughter rolls, music hums low through the speakers, and drinks flow. Greer helps me chop vegetables for the salad while Luke and Hunter keep Rhett occupied. Jackie flutters between giving advice and pretending she isn’t. Mom compliments the napkin tree, and I preen like I knitted them myself.
Everything is fine.
Until the smell changes.
It starts subtle. Less cozy pine and more toasted panic.
“Do you smell . . . ?” Mom says.
Jackie sniffs. “Sutton, honey, is that the turkey?”
My heart drops into my patent leather Mary Janes. I sprint for the oven, and when I open it, I’m greeted with smoke.
Actual smoke.
“No, no, no, no!”
Greer bursts into snorts behind me. Rhett opens the front door while Luke waves a dish towel dramatically like it will help.
Hunter slips beside me, shoulder brushing mine. “Everything okay?”
“No! Does this thing look okay to you?” I feel it just under the surface. The tears are ready to fall, the apology on the tip of my lips. It’d be so easy to spin into the old Sutton.
I stare at the black turkey, grab the oven mitts, haul the bird out like a battlefield casualty, and deadpan, “It’s a beaut, Clark.”
At that, everyone falls into hysterics, and it’s too damn funny not to join them.
“I guess it’s a good thing I have steaks thawing,” Hunter says.
Jackie pats my back. “Everyone ruins the turkey the first time they host,” she says. “In fact, mine looked fine until Rhett went to cut it open, and it sort of imploded.”
“I didn’t burn mine.” Mom links her arm with mine. “I forgot to thaw it.”
Greer is suspiciously quiet.
“Greer?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, but,” she says, “mine turned out perfect. Granted, it was probably because Brian watched over it like a hawk.” Her smile softens at her late husband’s name.
No matter what, those three little words are always followed by something soul crushing.
Hunter kisses the side of my head. “Steaks?”
I accept turkey defeat and shrug. “It is what it is,” I say.
Within minutes, Luke has the cast-iron skillet warming, Hunter is seasoning the fillets, and Jackie cozies up to the island to tell us about the time Hunter caught her curtains on fire when he was six.
By the time the last toast is made and everyone hugs goodbye, the quiet settles like soft snow on the roof. The only light is the Christmas tree, casting colorful patterns across the living room.
“That was eventful,” Hunter says.
He really sucks at hiding his stupid little smile.
“You are the worst.” I punch his shoulder. But as I stand in the living room and take in the remnants of a very successful first Christmas Eve as an official couple, I’m overcome with happiness. And exhaustion. “You’re right though, it turned out pretty great.”
Hunter comes up behind me. “You did good, babe.”
He pulls me into the living room, and we snuggle into the couch. I slip my shoes off. Hunter lifts my feet into his lap and massages them. His hands wander up my calf, around my knee, and under my skirt, but my tights make it impossible for him to do much else.
“You look beautiful,” he says, “but these tights are a pain in my ass.”
I shrug and nestle into his chest. The thump of his heart and the whoosh of his breath lull me into a state of zen. It’d be so easy to fall asleep like this, but the night’s still not over. “I have a gift for you,” I say.
His hand grips my hip. “Are you pregnant?”
“What are you even talking about?” My chest rumbles in laughter. “Of course I’m not pregnant! We should probably get married, or, you know, at least live together for a while before that, right?”
He shakes his head. “Most people need years to date to know if that person is their person. But we’ve known each other our whole lives.
Sure, there are going to be things we learn about one another through time.
But the big stuff? The important stuff? We already know all that.
I’ve known you’re my person since that day—”
“I kicked your ass playing cards?”
He laughs. “That was the day I knew my feelings were more than platonic. I knew I loved you the day I searched for your purple rain boots.”
“Man,” I say wistfully, “those boots were the best.”
“So . . . what did you get me?”
I smile and start upstairs to our bedroom. He attempts to follow, but I spin, placing a hand on his chest. “You. Stay.”
His eyes spark with mischief, but he remains sitting. I back toward the stairs and fly up them at lightning speed.
“You know this is torture,” he hollers as I’m closing our bedroom door.
“You’ll survive,” I toss over my shoulder.
Our bedroom is aglow from the thin tree I placed in the corner. The full moon filters through our drapes. I’m so tempted to open them, to see what Hunter’s been up to back there, but as much as I want to see, I’m looking forward to his reaction to my reaction the most.
I balk as I sniff my clothes and hair. Burnt turkey eau de parfum is not really the vibe I’m going for. I slip off my black tights and woolen emerald dress, twist my hair into a clip, and step into the shower.
A floorboard creaks.
Hunter fills the doorway, sleeves rolled, shirt untucked, gaze dark.
“I thought I told you to stay.”
“You did,” he says, stepping into our room, voice all velvet and sin, “but I’m not good at following the rules.”
With one hand, he slips his shirt off his broad frame. The sight of his sculpted, hairy chest sends a wave of anticipation through me. He toes off his boots and unbuttons his Wranglers. He pauses when he’s down to his black briefs.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, adding soap to my loofa.
He holds out his casted arm. “You think I could cut it off myself?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
Hunter wraps his cast with a plastic shower protector. I’m not even sure why he bothers covering it up at this point—the cast is filthy and worn down and practically falling off his arm.
He steps near the shower. “Can I help you with that?” He takes the loofa from my hand and enters the shower.
I step toward him, slipping my fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs, and slowly peel them off his frame. When I kneel down to untangle them from his feet, he groans.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I tease, “you like me on my knees, but I’m too tired for that tonight.”
He cups my cheek with his good hand, thumb caressing my bottom lip. “I do like you like this, but what I like most is the way you care for me without thinking.”
I stand and wrap my arms around his torso.
“I always hoped and prayed,” he says, “that we’d find our way to each other. That someday we’d get our forever. I’ve never been more thankful that we finally figured out how to get out of the damn way.”
“Me too, baby,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his.