Chapter 52
Fifty-Two
E mmy paces outside Butch’s bedroom door, and the dog’s nails scrape the hardwoods as he scrambles along with her increasingly agitated steps.
“Daddy?” she ventures.
I don’t bother fighting a smile. It’s Christmas morning… of course she’s raring to go. A part of me is too, the giddy anticipation of giving and receiving already surfing through my system.
“Are you awake?” Emmy asks.
My sleep-rumpled, vaguely annoyed man glances at me. “What are you smiling at?”
“You, Lumberjack. Merry Christmas.”
He sweeps the hair off my face, caressing my cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
“Daddy! I hear you in there.”
Butch flops back against the pillows, all but admitting defeat. “Come on in, kid.”
Emmy plows through the door with Hemi at her heels and climbs onto her father’s chest. “Time to get up! It’s Christmas!”
We both recoil at her shrieking.
“Sweet daughter of mine,” he says, cupping her face in his giant hands. “It’s still dark. We can’t go to Mimi and PopPop’s for a couple of hours. Go back to your room and play with your toys or watch TV.”
“Gah! This is literally torture,” she huffs, a scowl forming on her pretty face.
My giggle bubbles out. “Merry Christmas, Emmy.”
“It will be if we ever get going.”
Butch kisses her forehead. “Now scoot. And shut the door on your way out, please. I’m trying to sleep.”
“How can you sleep at a time like this?” She huffs again and heads for the door.
“Easy.” He pretends to snore—loudly.
“C’mon, Hemi.” The dog pads after her, the door snicks closed, and their footfalls disappear down the stairs.
“The joys of parenting,” he mutters.
He extends his arm, and I roll into his side, hiking my leg over his. “I think it’s sweet. She’s excited.”
“I know. But more shuteye sounds wonderful.”
My fingers lightly trace his pecs. “Mm-hmm…or would you like an early present?”
He groans softly as my hand skates lower. “Sundance…”
I push down the covers, free his growing erection, and wrap my hand around his length.
Using a feather light touch, I stroke him from top to bottom, trailing my pinky below to gently graze the boys downstairs.
He’s smooth as silk but a rod of steel, and the sight and sensation whets my own appetite.
“Goddamn, that feels good,” he rasps.
I tongue his nearest nipple, flicking it lightly, rewarded when it stiffens from my wet strokes. He releases a constrained moan and his hand grips me where it lands on my back.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” he whispers.
It’s not long before Butch’s body tightens in multiple places at once: his chest where I suckle, his taut scrotum—a dead giveaway he’s about to blow—and his hand fastening me in place.
Give it to me.
I shift, positioning my mouth over his tip and catching his release as he bucks. Our eyes meet and I’m fixated on how his lips part in a silenced cry as he finishes. What a glorious sight. He regains his breath, slowly coming down as we watch each other.
“You give the best fucking hand jobs I’ve ever had,” he murmurs.
I resituate to nestle into him. “Happy to be of service.”
“I don’t know how you do that without any lube. It’s so…smooth.”
“Magic hands?”
“You have a magic everything, baby.” He kisses the top of my head. “Now I wonder,” he adds, his fingers coasting along the outer lace of my panties, “how wet are you ?”
I arch into his hand with a whispered admission. “Not going to lie. That was a massive turn-on.”
A satisfied hum leaves his lips. “I like how you use the term massive when talking about my dick.”
I stifle a laugh.
“Can you be quiet?” He plants kisses along the column of my neck while he teases me below.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Then spread those pretty legs.”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice.
“Good girl,” he says as his fingers wiggle under the fabric and begin their own masterful strokes.
He growls quietly as he explores, probes, and coaxes me to orgasm.
It takes every ounce of control to smother my moan when I explode.
I ride his hand through waves of contractions, gasping for air, my entire body soaring from the high.
He wraps me in his arms afterward, where we lay satisfied and content—until we worry Emmy will light the house on fire if we don’t get moving.
Christmas Day is a bounty of stockings and presents, food and drink, teasing and laughter, ease and comfort, and most of all, unity. The more I’m with the Hamiltons, the more I realize how authentic they are. No one pretends. No one acts ambivalent. No one ruins the day.
They love each other, even when they occasionally snipe. As a unit, they’re strong and unshakable. I never knew family could be like this. I mean, hypothetically, sure. But in reality? I’ve never witnessed it. They’re all living the fairy tale.
And even though Butch’s marriage ended coldly, leaving Emmy motherless and him to raise her alone, his family’s response gives credence to their solidarity.
They stepped in—unwaveringly—and helped rear her together.
There’s proof in the power of that, and her name is Emmy.
Her self-esteem appears fully intact, and she overflows with joy, spunk, wit, and affection.
The result of watering her daily with the same substances.
The easy way the Hamilton family welcomed me into the fold astounds me, fills me, and heals a part of me that remains so shattered I’m not sure it’s completely fixable.
In the afternoon, Butch and I take a breather, inhaling the fresh air with Hemi at our side as we meander the rear acreage.
We walk hand in hand, and my eyes tear from the cold.
I finger the fourteen-carat-gold necklace he gave me with the initials B&S hanging from the front, smiling.
It reminds me of a similar one I wore in junior high spelling out “ Jacqui.” I didn’t expect such an extravagant, personal gift—and I adore it.
“How’s it going, baby?” he asks. “Missing your parents…or home today?”
I scoff. “Hardly. This is the most beautiful, heartwarming Christmas I’ve ever experienced.”
He pauses, finding my gaze. “That makes me really fucking sad—and happy at the same time.”
“Me too,” I admit quietly.
“I hope…”
“What?”
He smooths a lock of my hair from my face. “I hope it will be the first of many.”
“Nothing would please me more,” I say, placing a hand on his jaw and coaxing his lips to mine.
Hemi drops a stick at our feet and Butch hurls it into the field. The dog runs after it as if it’s a side of beef. “My family loves you, you know.”
I immediately call up how they unexpectedly showered me with presents earlier. “I feel the same toward them. They’re incredibly easy to be around. You’re lucky to have them. You all blow my mind.”
“What do you mean?” Hemi returns and Butch throws the stick in a different direction.
“The way you get along, respect each other, want to hang out together. I’ve never really witnessed that kind of dynamic,” I say, burrowing my hands into my coat pockets.
Butch cocks his head, a crease forming between his brows. “It seems normal to me, and I’m sorry it wasn’t like that for you.”
“I could get used to it.”
“I could get used to you getting used to it.”
We share a knowing smile just as something wet and flaky tickles my nose. I look up and gasp. It’s snowing .
“Oh my god!” I squeal, entranced by the delicate snowflakes dropping from the sky.
“Well, would you look at that,” he says, squinting up at the heavens. “It hardly snows here, and rarely in December.”
My smile broadens as I twirl in circles, my arms spread wide as snow dances across my cheeks and hair. “I’ve never seen snow falling before. It’s magical…and beautiful.”
Butch moves close, studying my upturned face. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”
The way he stares at me melts the ice. “Will we get a lot?”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t in the forecast. Maybe this is Mother Nature’s gift to you.”
“This day just gets better and better.” More of my happy squeals erupt as I catch Butch grinning. He’s unfazed by the snow…but not, apparently, by me.
When we return, Emmy’s running around in the new dress I gave her and dinner preparation is underway, so I hunt down his mother and ask if she wants help.
“Have you talked to your folks today, honey?” Jerri asks.
“Not yet.”
She levels me with an undecipherable look, then herds me down the hall to their home office and insists I call. “Take your time.” After she squeezes my arm reassuringly, Jerri leaves me in privacy.
I dial the number and my father answers.
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”
“Jacqui! Merry Christmas. It’s good to hear your voice.”
He sounds cheerful and isn’t slurring. “Yours too.”
“How’s your day going? You’re with your boyfriend’s family, correct?”
“Yes, the Hamiltons. It’s going well. There’s quite a crowd here, and everyone’s been so nice.”
“Did you get our gift?”
“I did. Thank you for the money. It was generous, and I can always use it,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. “Did you get mine?”
“Sure did. Your mother’s wearing the sweater you sent, and I look forward to reading the Chuck Yeager autobiography. He’s had a hell of a life. Respectable.”
“I knew you’d like it. Mom put on the sweater already?” Seems out of character.
“She misses you. We both do. It’s strange not having you home for the holiday.” He sighs. “I guess our little girl has grown up.”
My eyes prick suddenly. “Mm-hmm.”
“Let me grab your mother.” He puts the receiver down and hollers for her. It takes over a minute until she’s on the phone, and I stem the guilt over talking long distance on someone else’s dime.
“Jacqui,” she says, her voice wan and hoarse, as if speaking is an effort.
“Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas.”
“Same to you, honey. How’s everything?”
“Great, honestly. I love my job, and my boyfriend’s wonderful...” Despite knowing the answer, I ask anyway. “How are you?”
“You know…the usual. Nothing new.” She pauses. “Alright then, I’ll let you go. I know it’s costing a small fortune to say hello, but I’m glad you did. Be good.”
“Okay.” I falter. “I love you, Mom?—”
The receiver clicks in my ear. My chest heaves and I tamp it down. Before the undertow sweeps me away, I speed-walk out of that room and back to the kitchen.
I force my best fake smile at Jerri, who hands me an apron.
She puts me to work peeling russet potatoes, and it’s another sign I’ve been accepted into the Hamilton family fold.
Liz and Grandma Mabel stroll in, receiving tasks for table setting and unearthing fancy serving pieces.
Jerri chatters with me as she bustles around wrangling more dishes and ingredients, effectively keeping my attention in the present.
At one point, she checks on the biggest roast beef I’ve ever seen. The wafting aroma makes my mouth water.
She tells me a cute story about younger Emmy, and it’s then I remember.
“Hey, Jerri?”
“Hmm?”
“I would love to see any old photos of Butch, especially as a kid. Do you have albums?”
She crows. “ Do I have albums? Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle?”
When I stop cackling, I add, “Don’t tell Butchie,” stealing Liz’s pet name.
She winks. “Wouldn’t dream of it. We’ll figure out a time for a secret viewing while you’re here this weekend.”
We share a knowing smile—the partners-in-crime kind.
That evening, stuffed to the gills and overstimulated from nonstop activity, Butch and I say our goodbyes, sharing hugs with everyone.
A passed-out Emmy doesn’t wake when her father lifts her into his arms, lays her in the back of the car, drives us to his log cabin, and plants Miss Literally Crashed in her own bed.
Butch and I don’t last much longer, opting to crawl under the covers and talk quietly before passing out ourselves. His large body spoons mine, wrapping me in comfort, safety, surety…and something I think might be the essence of home .