Page 13 of Kept for Christmas
“What’s going on with that Emma girl? I’m worried for you, man. We can’t have Santa hanging off some girl half his age.”
I realize Sam is coming from a good place, and I get that he’s only trying to help, but I swear to fucking God, if he says one more word, I’m going to put him into the snowbank.
“She’s just a friend. I’m helping her. Besides, last night you were all for me going for it.”
He laughs. “I was fucking kidding. I thought you knew that.”
I shake my head. “You’re about to let a woman pay you for your time like some kind of fucking gigolo. Maybe you getyourfuckin’ head out of the snow before you come after me.”
“I ain’t done shit yet. You were up on the hill about to fuck that girl in broad daylight.”
I hate myself for that moment. I’d have rather been anywhere else with her. I want our first time to be special, perfect, memorable, but things were happening. I hate my brother more for bringing it up so casually.
I toss the Santa hat into the back of the truck before climbing in and turning toward Sam. “Stay the fuck out of it.”
Sam stares toward me with broad shoulders and a downturned expression that reminds me so much of the one my father used to dole out when he was disappointed in one of us. I fucking hate it!
“You’re going to fuck everything up with the family for this girl,” he groans, holding that asshole stare firmly. “Don’t do it.”
“The guys are all with younger women. It’s not a big deal.”
“They’re notyou.Get your shit together, man. I’m serious.” Sam’s tone is flat and firm. Another echo of my father. “How can you not see the difference? Get it together.” He slams the door shut, and though I want to get out and beat the shit out of him, I know deep down he’s right.
I have no business with Emma. She’s young, innocent, and last I checked, she’s mentally unstable.
What the fuck is wrong with me, and why do I want more? I know the right thing to do is go home and avoid any talk of sex. But smelling her, tasting her, feeling her depths, breathing her in… how do I go stand next to her knowing I’ll never be inside of her? Never knowing what it feels like to sink between those thick thighs and paint her walls with my seed.
Snow falls heavier, covering the back roads with white as I drive toward the little cabin I’ve called home for the past tenyears. It’s not a big place, but rather a two-bedroom bungalow with a single bath and a kitchen that’s suddenly not good enough. I need more countertop space, a second oven, and a place for her to wrap and cool her cookies.
I need a third and fourth bedroom for a couple of kids and a tire swing out back for lazy Sunday afternoons. I need to remodel the bathroom so she has enough room to do whatever she wants. The one I have now is a single bath. Hell, I should probably add a second bathroom for the kids too.
I drag in a deep breath and let it out slowly as reality settles back in. As much as I want a life with Emma, I’ve got to put an end to this fantasy before I start believing it too.
Friends. Really good friends is where this needs to end.
Chapter Nine
Emma
I’d love to say I’m one of those friendly, outgoing people who can make conversation with anyone, but I’m not. I’m the awkward girl who asks you about your shoe size randomly and launches that into a conversation about sushi a minute later. I’m the girl who says exactly what she’s thinking. Not because I’m brave or opinionated, but because I have little control over what falls out of my mouth at any given time.
Mrs. Robinson makes all that go away. She sits at the dining room table with her long silver hair tied up into a bun, sipping on a cup of coffee as she watches me bake.
“Well, I didn’t think I’d get a front-row seat to the process. This is a nice surprise. I love visiting whenever I get the chance to these days.” Her voice shakes when she speaks.
“Do you like baking?”
“Used to love it. Back in the day, when my kids were small, my husband and I owned the general store. I used to post a new pie recipe every week on the town bulletin board. People would come in just to tell me how much they loved the recipe.”
I pour a full bag of chocolate chips into my mixing bowl as I say, “What was your signature pie?”
“Oh, dear. I made the original mile-high apple. They still make it down at the diner. Have you had a slice yet?”
“No,” I smile, “but I feel like I’m missing out on something.”
She leans in, holding the mug in her paper-thin hand. “Well, there are apples, of course, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, a few cranberries, and a little something secret.”
“That sounds delicious.” I narrow my brows. “I think I need a secret ingredient, too.”