Page 1 of Eggnog and Edging
Chapter 1
Ryker
The barber did a great job this morning. Short on the sides and longer on the top. I run the comb through my hair one more time, then tousle it just a little. I’ve seen the difference in the way Starla looks at guys with perfect hair versus thecasually not giving a fucklook.
Working beard balm through my facial hair, I turn my head to each side for one last look in the mirror.
My fate will be sealed in about an hour.
I fumble the lid to the beard balm. Crap. I thought I’d feel more prepared.
Shaking my hands, I attempt to get rid of some of my nervous energy. It doesn’t work.
I grab my phone and refresh the courier app so I can watch the delivery’s progress. Thirty-five minutes before my stepsister finds out who her secret admirer is.
Taking a deep breath, I make sure I didn’t get anything on my t-shirt. All good. Starla will appreciate the Def Leppard logo. I’d appreciate my stepsister pouring some of her sugar on me—and licking it off.
First things first—calm the fuck down and arrive at her house right after the gift is delivered, giving her time to read my note. It’s a small window of time though because I have to get there before her dad, my stepdad, gets home.
I rethink my plan and decide to leave a few minutes early in case there’s a delay on my way over. I can park down the street and watch the delivery in person.
That’s smarter. With my new departure time, I reset my alarm for ten minutes.
Pacing through every room in my house, I confirm that everything’s tidy, fluff the pillows on the bed, and decide to turn the top edge of the freshly washed sheets back. That’s more inviting.
Rolling my finger over the circular ignitor, I test the lighter I’d placed on the dresser. Still works—same as thirty minutes ago. Then I hold it up to check the fuel gauge and make sure I haven’t tested it so much it’s empty.
I lit each of the candles yesterday to test the wicks. They all work. Have wicks ever not worked?
If my plan works out, Starla will receive the gift, read my confession of love, and jump into my arms. We’ll laugh about how long we’ve repressed our feelings, agree that our five-year age gap is nothing, then I’ll bring her home to claim her. I’ll only have to leave her in the living room for a minute to get the candles lit to set the romantic mood.
It’s hard to be sure, but if I’ve kept proper tabs as a good older brother does, she’s still a virgin. This evening must be perfect.
She means everything to me.
But so does her dad. Getting his approval for us being together will be the hardest, and final step.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
My heart stops at the sound of my alarm. Showtime.
Turning the bedside lamp on and the overhead light off, I grab my keys, get in the car, and commit to this pivotal step. Images of her crooked smile and bright eyes when she realizes that I’m her secret admirer have me throwing the car into reverse so fast, I almost forget to open the garage door.
Fuck!
I press the button. Watching the panels slowly rise, I question why it feels like hours for the garage door to open. I remind myself it’s only a few seconds and force myself to take a deep breath.
Bringing Starla home to a splintered garage door, or worse, picking her up in a car with the bumper hanging off are not ways I want to surprise her.
The twelve handpicked gifts I’ve been sending her over the last eleven days are the good kind of surprise—all specialty foods she can experiment with and talk about on her food vlog.
And of course, the biggest surprise with today’s gift—my handwritten confession that I’m in love with her.
The note is my safety net in case I don’t make it for some reason. Or if I chicken out.
That’s not going to happen. I’ve waited for this day for far too long.
But fate is being a bitch. Every traffic light is red. Every person who ever wanted to drive below the speed limit is in front of me. And the unmistakable crunch of metal comes from behind as my car lurches forward.
