Page 44 of Winter Wishlist
Reaching out for her chin, I tilt her face to lift toward the two of us. “This? This is the least you deserve. Let’s go home and have some real fun.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Let’s go home and have some real fun.
Byfun, Henri didn’t mean immediately stripping me naked and indulging in a Christmas orgy.Boo.
He meant music, cooking, and in my case… uninterrupted hours of reading. Stella and I have occupied a spot near the fire, me on the couch, her curled up on that favorite cushion she has, and the afternoon has drifted by like the occasional flurries of fluffy snowflakes swirling beyond the windows.
As I’ve sat here, it’s been impossible not to grin fiendishly to myself. Because, holy shit, if this doesn’t feel… amazing.
I love my own company, I truly do. I’ve been on my own for so long, it doesn’t even feel odd to me anymore. Growing up without parents, being the orphan who family members felt obliged to look after and take care of year after year, I guess I just learned to make myself smaller and smaller. My expertise was to take up theleastamount of space humanly possible. To spend holidays with my hands in the sink washing dishes, orwith a tea towel draped over one shoulder, ready to dry and put things away, rather than taking part in whatever festivities might have been going on. How could I not? When my memories were of whispered arguments around corners about who would take their turn tohave tolook after Mia.
I was something of a chore, and didn’t I understand that right in the pit of my stomach. Not that it was their fault, no one asks to be landed with someone else's kid when they’re already sort of independent. You grow up real fucking fast when you’re alone in the world from twelve years old.
However, moments like this give a glimpse into something I never really knew existed. A place where I don’t feel like I’m imposing by being here. In fact, the couple of times I’ve attempted to help, Henri has chased me off, threatening to flick my ass with a tea towel, and Reid has ordered me back to my reading nook. I wouldn’t put it past him to pick me up and simply toss me back over here like some sort of rogue hay bale if he wanted to.
So I’ve stayed in this position, mostly reading, but absolutely getting distracted and sneaking glances at the two of them.
They’re both just so gorgeous, it’s impossible not to. But I think ultimately the thing that keeps on dragging my eyes away from the words on the pages beneath my fingertips is that they’re just… happy.
Happy andoh holy night, help me, so unbelievably hot my ovaries are about to combust.
Reid wears glasses.
As it turns out, when he’s not tending to cattle or strutting around wearing wranglers like it’s the very thing he was sent to do on this earth, he goes and puts on reading glasses for things like dicing potatoes and studying a recipe. It’s simply unfair.
One sight of him, with worn flannel shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, and those wire-rimmed frames, had me ready to maul him like a mountain lion.
Then, the other half of this equation of Christmas temptation is Henri. Who has decided to wear the shortest rugby shorts known to mankind. Revealing thick thighs, quads sent to short-circuit my brain. The kind of physique that still very much serves to remind anyone who might glance his way of the athlete he used to be.
And trust me, I’ve looked.
Not just drooling over the sight of him in the flesh. One quick search online earlier this morning revealed images of himeverywhere.
Every angle covered, and every inch of muddied, sweat-glistening skin on display. With high definition moments capturing tackles being busted, tries being scored, and fierce defensive feats of bravery.
I don’t dare admit the noise that flew out of my mouth when I saw a close-up, with his head tipped back, pouring a water bottle over his dark hair. His tanned skin damp from training, and his top pulled up to reveal a sculpted V leading below what must have been the tiniest pair of shorts he could possibly squeeze those bulging, toned glutes into.
That one is saved in a folder on my phone. For research purposes.
Looking at him now, age hasn’t diminished the way those leg muscles are still doing the business. The barely five inches of inseam on his black shorts make it extremely difficult to concentrate on my chapter. It doesn’t matter that the heroine is being railed six ways to Sunday; I’ve re-read this page at least three times.
Those tattooed hands, with his silver rings, are all too captivating. Earlier, while we were ice skating, the way he madequick work of the lacing on my skates? Watching him do such a simple task with the precision that can only come from years of lacing up his rugby boots? I’m not ashamed to admit that really did it for me. It was such a tiny gesture, but it screamed volumes about his attentiveness andskill.
Not to mention the way I’ll enthusiastically watch those fingers at work all day long.
The guys come to join me. “Dinner is in the oven,” Henri announces, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.
“What are you making?”
“A special Quebec delicacy. Pig’s feet stew.”
My face drops. Contorting through a somersault of not wanting to offend him, while feeling nauseous at the prospect of having to politely try to stomach his special meal.
“The organ meat is the best part,” he adds.
The blood rapidly drains from my face. I’m not a vegetarian… but…
