Page 36 of Triple Tidings
The handsome doctor in question doesn’t argue as he reaches down and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it off without a second thought. “Sounds like a merry fucking Christmas to me.”
Fifteen
Lacey
While I totally get that Christmas is generally a family-friendly holiday, I think we, as a culture, need to normalize the giving of orgasms as gifts. Between members of non-platonic relationships. Obviously.
First of all, they’re handmade. Who doesn’t like handmade gifts?
Second of all, they cost no money but do require a decent amount of quality time to deliver. Isn’t that the point of the holidays? Spending time with the people you care about?
And, thirdly, I’m pretty sure the endorphins I got from Wells and August were significantly higher than what I would have gotten from a pressure cooker.
It was amazing. This whole weekend has been, actually. Only a few days ago, I was in a full-on panic/imposter syndrome spiral because my two one-night stands had booked rooms at The Chestnut, and I was convinced my lapses in professionalism would become known.
Granted, I don’t think this weekend’s activities did much to restore my professionalism, but I feel better than I have in months. Kind of. I’m happy, sure. A little orgasm drunk, too.Whenever I allow my mind to stray beyond the present moment, however, my stomach drops like a stone.
This was supposed to be… I don’t know what it was supposed to be, but definitely not this. The connections I had with August and Wells individually were strong enough to abandon my professionalism without a second thought.
Both of them?Together?
Good lord, I went fromnotohoein five seconds flat. It was totally worth it, too. Even if I should regret it, or at least be a little ashamed of myself, the negative feelings about how we spent the weekend are nowhere to be found.
The thought of it ending, though?
I shove aside the doom and gloom as I slide off Wells’ bed, yawning. It’s dark outside, and Christmas Day is officially almost over. The space is illuminated by the light from the TV, which is playing a muted holiday movie to the room’s sleepy inhabitants.
Wells is passed out on his stomach, dressed in only a pair of gray sweatpants—providing a truly unparalleled view of his butt—and snoring quietly. August is still awake, though, and watches me get up from his place leaning against the headboard beside Wells.
“Are you cold?” he asks quietly, offering me a gentle, tired smile.
I shake my head, pulling on the cute, plaid holiday dress I snagged from my cabin this morning. “No, I just need to go close up downstairs and check the reservations for tomorrow.”
The mention of tomorrow is enough to send my stomach plummeting through the floor yet again, and my hands are a little clumsy as I redo the bow around my waist.
August must see it, too, because his smile slips a little as he sits up straighter. “My flight is at noon,” he tells me carefully, glancing at Wells to make sure our talking isn’t waking him. “I told my brother I would stop by before leaving.”
So he’ll need to leave early, then.
I’ve been stubbornly avoiding thinking about saying goodbye, and now, out of nowhere, it’s dawning on me that this is probably one of the last moments we’ll have together. I might see Wells, if that’s something he’s interested in, but even that doesn’t take away from the sense of loss.
Somewhere in the magical few days we spent together, the three of us have started to feel like a package deal.
“Okay,” I whisper at last, turning away as—to my utter embarrassment—my eyes begin to burn. As I’m busying myself with putting my shoes on, I hear the soft rustle of sheets and sense, rather than see, August standing behind me.
“Lace. This weekend has been?—”
I don’t want to hear it, though. The very last thing I need is a reminder that he has important doctor things to attend to across the country, or hear that he had fun, but it’s better if we all go our separate ways.
“It’s fine, August,” I tell him, shrugging off the hand that comes out to land on my shoulder. “I’m just going to lock up, be right back.” And, without waiting for a response, I hurry out into the hall, closing the door noiselessly behind me.
The Chestnut is quiet as I creep downstairs to the lobby, moving through the familiar routine of adding logs to the fire and drawing the curtains on all the windows. Tomorrow, our housekeeper will be back in, the maintenance guy is scheduled to fix the leaking bathtub in room two, and a produce delivery is arriving.
Everything will be the same as it was, except, instead of enthusiasm for it all, I’m so, so sad.
My shoulders are heavy as I reach the last window in the lobby; however, my hands pause on the heavy drapes as my gaze catches on a set of headlights making their way along the dark road that leads past The Chestnut’s parking lot. While we don’tsee a ton of traffic so far out of town, there’s no reason at all to believe they’re headed here.
Still, I pause, my heart pounding as I wait for them to pass us by.
