Page 48 of Tied Up In Tinsel
“Use me right now,” he whispered, his voice husky and low. “Let me be your escape.”
The words unraveled me. I clutched at him, giving in, letting myself drown in the way his hands gripped my hips, his thumbs dipping beneath the waistband of my tights. Clothes shifted, removed in the heat of the moment, just enough for bare skin to meet bare skin.
Passion sparked like a match. Fire. Heat. All-consuming.
Brooks let me take the lead, his hands anchoring me as I moved, claiming what I needed, chasing the sharp edge of release. I rode him hard, wild with want, each thrust driving me deeper into the escape he promised.
And for those moments—those fevered, breathless moments—I wasn’t a woman haunted by loss or heartbreak. I was simplyalive, burning bright in his arms, losing myself in the heat of Brooks Bennett.
Brooks
“I’m looking, Ruby!”
I was elbow-deep in the hall closet, trying to find the game she so desperately wanted. Something she and her mom always played this time of year. The problem was, I didn’t actually know what it looked like and Ruby’s seven-year-old description wasn’t exactly narrowing it down.
The closet was stuffed to bursting. Box after box lined the top shelf, stacked high, each one heavier than the last. I grunted, pulling one down and then another, wondering how Annie ever managed to hoist these up here herself. By the time I reached for the last box, my arms burned. It slipped, hitting the floor with a thud before the lid popped off and its contents spilled everywhere.
“Dammit,” I muttered, crouching quickly to gather everything back up.
Loose papers. Old photographs. Pieces of artwork scattered across the floor in a colorful mess.
One page caught my eye, a little painting of a Christmas tree with blocky presents drawn beneath it. At first, I assumed it was Ruby’s handiwork, but then I noticed the signature in the corner. Annie.
My chest tightened.
It wasn’t just a picture. At the top, written in bright, childish letters, were the wordsTo Santa.
Flipping it over, I found a list on the back, written in the uneven scrawl of a little girl. Annie’s Christmas list.
I couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out as I read through it.
Ballet shoes
A tennis racket
A puppy dog (pink please)
New sneakers that light up
Then one request stood out, circled four times in yellow crayon, with a big star beside it. The thing she wanted more than anything.
That’s when it hit me. The idea. Maybe the best idea I’d ever had.
I carefully stacked the rest of the things back into the box, but I kept the painting in my hand. Something about it felt too important to shove away again. Annie had carried so much weight—losing her parents, being left with Ruby and a broken marriage, trying every day to give her daughter magic while her own spark had dimmed.
She didn’t deserve to be stuck in the shadows of her own life.
Anniewasthe spark. Bright. Beautiful. She just needed someone to remind her.
I wanted to be that someone.
Finally, after digging into the back corner of the closet, I found something that matched Ruby’s description, a colorful game box. Triumph surged through me as I shoved the boxes back into place, shut the door, and carried it out to the living room.
“I found it!” I announced.
Ruby, curled into a ball on the couch, lit up like the tree in Rockefeller Center. She clapped and bounced, pure joy radiating from her small frame.
“But,” I said, tucking the game behind my back, “I need your help first.”
