Page 81 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
Last night I barely slept. Just lay there staring at my ceiling, fighting the urge to walk down the hall and stop by her room. See if she was awake. See if she needed anything.
Ask if she’d let me touch her the way I’ve been fantasizing about since the moment I scented her.
It’s not much better this morning.
So I’m making breakfast. Pancakes from scratch because the boxed shit is an insult to food. The first batch is already plated and waiting on the dining table. Now I’m chopping strawberries and bananas into perfect slices. Whipping cream with the mixer is done and in a bowl because I want this to be perfect for her.
The whole house smells like vanilla and butter and maple syrup, and if this doesn’t coax her downstairs, nothing will.
I’m working on the second batch, watching bubbles form on the surface before flipping, when I hear her burst out laughing from the living room.
“Corn Dog! Should you be in here?”
Fuck, no! That goddamn reindeer got inside again?
I drop the spatula and sprint out of the kitchen, rounding the corner to find a complete disaster.
Corn Dog is up on his hind legs, front hooves braced against our Christmas tree, stretching his neck to try to catch a walnut ornament with his mouth. The nut keeps swinging away from him, and he’s making these frustrated huffing sounds that would be funny if I weren’t so annoyed.
Around the base of the tree, candy cane wrappers lie torn, open, and scattered everywhere, baubles knocked off branches and rolling across the floor, walnuts that have fallen and been partially chewed.
On the dining table, one corner of the tablecloth is bunched up where he clearly tried to climb up, and there’s half a pancakeon the floor with teeth marks, the rest sitting on the table looking violated.
“Corn Dog!” I bark, noticing the front door now swinging open. Did I forget to latch it properly?
The reindeer pauses, peers at me over his shoulder with those big brown eyes like he’s sayingOh, you said something?, then immediately goes back to trying to catch the walnut.
I shake my head, already moving to shut the door properly then toward him, when I spot Hannah stepping down from the final step from upstairs.
And fuck me, she’s gorgeous.
She’s wearing jeans, these soft-looking denim ones that sit perfectly on her hips, not tight but draping over her curves in a way that makes my imagination run wild. Her shirt is a long-sleeved thermal in a deep burgundy that skims her body, loose enough to be comfortable but clinging in places that make my hands itch. The neckline dips just low enough to show her collarbones, and the way the fabric moves when she breathes is mesmerizing.
My gaze drops to her breasts. I can’t help it, not even going to pretend I’m trying, and the way they press against the fabric with each breath has me captive.
“Morning,” I manage, forcing my eyes up to her face, where she’s fighting a smile. Then I’m marching toward Corn Dog again and swing an arm under his belly, wrenching him off the floor and tucking him under my arm like a very large, very indignant football.
He makes outraged reindeer noises, bleating and grunting, and starts thrashing his legs.
The bastard isn’t light. He’s got to be a hundred pounds of muscle and attitude, and I need my second arm to keep him from squirming free as I haul him toward the back door.
“Yeah, yeah, express your feelings,” I mutter as he tries to headbutt me. “You’re still in trouble.”
I manage to get the door open one-handed and carry him out to the pen, which is swinging wide because this escape artist has figured out how to work the latch.
“Get in there, troublemaker.” I release him, and he immediately rushes toward the snowman we built this morning when we fed him. And proceeds to absolutely demolish it.
He’s headbutting it, stomping on it with his front hooves, destroying our work with obvious glee. Snow explodes everywhere.
“You have serious aggression problems,” I tell him, pulling out the padlock from the side gate we bought specifically for this purpose. “You know that? Might want to talk to a professional about all that pent-up rage.”
Corn Dog knocks the snowman’s head clean off, sending it rolling.
The other reindeer are just standing there watching him like they can’t believe they’re related to this maniac.
I secure the lock, testing it twice. “Try getting out now, Houdini.”
He’s too busy stomping on snow chunks to care about my threats.
