Page 125 of Bleacher Report
He leans over and gently pulls my chin towards him to lay a kiss on my lips. “It’s fucking perfect. I can’t wait to take him on his first stroll with you.”
“Did I take it too far? People are going to think we’re crazy,” I say.
Hunter shakes his head. “It’s Seattle. Last week I saw a dog pushing a guy in a stroller. We’re not even the craziest peopleon that block.”
Then he gets up and grabs a small box from under the tree.
“This one’s special,” he says, placing it in my lap. “Promise not to yell?”
“Not making any promises,” I murmur, tearing into the wrapping paper.
Inside is a black Speedo. A very tiny one. With…my face on it. Right over the, well…front.
I stare. Then blink. “Is this…?”
“For when I wash your car in February,” he says, grinning smugly. “Some rules, I think we should keep.”
“You got this custom-made with my face over your cock?”
Carly bursts out laughing, and my cheeks go fire-engine red the second I realize I just saidcock—out loud—in front of hismother.
“Yup,” Hunter says, grinning. “Had to explain it to the lady at the embroidery shop. Pretty sure I’m banned now.”
“You really shouldn’t have…” I start.
He ignores me, tapping the side of the box. “Don’t forget the coupons.”
I reach in and pull out a homemade coupon book, flipping it open—already bracing myself:
Water Sproutacus in a thong
Vacuum the living room in just Crocs
Drive you to yoga, Speedo only
Each one is more ridiculous than the last—a collection of favors I can cash in, all involving him half-naked and probably violating a few local ordinances.
“You didn’t…” I say, laughing as I shake my head.
“Oh, I did,” he says proudly.
He’s practically vibrating with excitement. He’s clearly been dying to give me this gift, and I can see it written all over his face.
Carly watches us, amused but trying not to ask questions.
“This was…creative. And deeply on-brand for you. Thank you,” I say, tucking everything back in the box.
The doorbell rings just as I’m closing it up, still laughing.
Hunter stiffens beside me, and Carly pauses mid-sip of her tea. “Who on earth would be stopping by on Christmas morning?”
“Probably Mrs. Bramble from next door,” Carly says, standing. “She usually brings over her spiked Christmas morning eggnog—”
“I’ll get it,” Hunter says quickly, already rising. “But spiked eggnog…at nine in the morning?”
His tone is light, but something in it makes me look up.
I watch him cross the living room, still relaxed, still casual—until he opens the door.
