The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 16

Shutting myself into the cab of Thatch’s truck before he has a chance to take off, he gapes over at me in surprise. His complexion reddening just after in . . . embarrassment?

He ate quickly tonight, barely dropping his napkin on his plate with a ‘thank you’ before making an excuse to take off. Even knowing we have a standing date later, I followed him out just after, determined to delve a little deeper into his life outside of our hideout. Knowing I’m crossing a line he’s continually drawn and made clear, it’s evident in his reception now that I’m flirting too close to it as he says as much. “What the fuck are you doing, Serena?”

“Coming with you,” I tell him, palming the space behind my right shoulder in search of my seatbelt and coming up empty as he shakes his head in refusal.

“No, you aren’t. Go back inside. I’ll see you later tonight.”

“It’s only fair. You’ve seen my room. So, now I want to see yours.”

“That’s a definite fuck no,” he counters quickly and adamantly.

“Fine,” I say, pulling out the gift card from my jacket pocket, “then dessert is on me tonight.”

He glares down at the card in my hand as I sink into my seat, knowing there’s a good chance he might very well kick me out of his truck. In the last three weeks, we’ve gotten close. Really close. Closer than I thought possible in such a short time. Then again, we’ve spent endless hours together. Probably more than most couples when they start out. Our nights often ending just before sunrise. Neither of us wanting to part until we’d been forced away. But regardless of how close we’ve become, he still remains guarded. Too damned guarded. Especially about his situation with his family—or lack of. His history with them is the one thing I know he keeps closest to his chest. Refusing to let me fully in, it’s clear now he has no intentions of breaking his stance as he treats my simple request as if I’ve just asked the impossible.

“It’s a gift card, Thatch. Can you not take me to do something as simple as get a freaking dessert?”

His eyes blister me in warning as he palms his neck. “I mean,” he glances toward my house, “I guess so, yeah.”

“K,” I flash him a grin, again blindly reaching for the buckle, “let’s go.”

“Your seatbelt is broken.”

I shrug. “Okay, so don’t wreck.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t like this.”

“Please?” I palm his knee, and he glances out of his window before muttering a low curse. It’s that curse that has me grinning again—in victory. Though I try to choose my battles, the suspense of what his life consists of outside our bubble is becoming too much. In thinking it, I take in my surroundings, or rather his. The dash is ripped, cracked by weather or age of the seventies, possibly early eighties model truck. Though the seats are a little ripped up as well, and it looks worse for wear, it’s clean enough. What little possessions he has inside consist of folded jeans and shirts, which look freshly laundered and are stacked neatly on the floorboard between us. Just next to them sits a tiny bag holding a few personal items like deodorant, a toothbrush, and paste. His eyes remain glued to my profile as I purposely shift my footing so as not to disturb his things. After turning the key, the truck strains to catch for a few tense seconds before roaring to life. Thatch gives it some gas to warm it as I shiver where I sit.

“The heater doesn’t work,” he imparts warily, “and you’re freezing.”

I nod. “I’m good. Promise.”

“Serena, we should take your car.”

“I want to be in your truck,” I tell him honestly.

“I don’t even want to be in my fucking truck,” he grumbles, his voice carrying the same edge it does every time we get too close to topics he refuses to delve further into. Aware I’m pushing him but too intent on some discovery, I speak up.

“Just fucking go, Thatch. Jesus, it’s just dessert.”

Blowing out a breath of irritation, he puts the truck into gear, and not long after, we’re off. Mere minutes into the drive, I’m tucked at his hip, inhaling his scent. He’d reached for me just as I started inching over toward him, and I revel in the knowledge that we’re rarely not touching in some way. Inhaling his fresh, woodsy scent, I close the last of any space between us, palming his chest as he drives with one hand on the wheel, his other on my hip, keeping me firmly pressed to his side.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to date a guy with a truck,” I coo sarcastically. “We’re truckin’ now,” I drawl cheerily, barely securing a lip twitch. Determined to curb whatever is ailing him, I go in again. “You smell good tonight, Thatchalamewl.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he sighs, but his lips lift fully just after.

“Ah ha! He smiles.”

He shakes his head in annoyance. “I have to stop for gas really quick.”

I frown before nodding toward his gauge. “It says full.”

“Broken, too,” he admits on exhale.

“Oh . . . so, where do you live? Close?”

“Serena—”

“On my side of town?”

“Sure,” he lies as he pulls into a gas station and parks, tension again rolling off him when his truck backfires loudly just after he cuts it.

“Hey,” I say, palming his jaw. “It’s a cool truck, Thatch. A classic.”

“Stop,” he scolds gently, even as his eyes softly glitter on me.

“I like your truck, Thatchalamewl,” I bat my lashes.

“Yeah, you’re not getting away with that nickname,” his grin comes a little more freely this time, and I take it as a good sign.

“We’ll see about that. I’m going to go grab some gum, want anything?”

“No, but hold up,” he says, pulling some cash from his pocket.

“I can get my gum,” I tell him.

“I’ve got your fucking gum,” he forcefully places a twenty in my palm. “Put the rest on this pump.”

“Okay, Grinch,” I mutter, getting out and heading in. After grabbing some spearmint, I put the rest of the cash on his pump number and head back out. Just outside the door, I’m stopped short when I see Thatch in a standoff with some guy on the small sidewalk patch of island between pumps. Posture-threatening, Thatch’s hostile gaze flits toward me as I quickly approach.

“Come on, man. Don’t be a dick,” the guy he’s squaring off with says. “It’s been a long time.”

Following Thatch’s murderous gaze, when the guy catches sight of me, his grin morphs into something more sinister. The sight of it nauseates me, and I know instantly that the threat this guy is posing isn’t at all physical. He’s inches shorter and a lot less built, though dressed immaculately. His new Timberlands gleaming in comparison to Thatch’s tattered black boots. It’s clear he has history with the preppy douchebag taunting him, and it’s not good. But it’s the roll of the asshole’s eyes over me which tells me all I need to know and has me hastening my steps to get to Thatch’s side. “Ah, I see why you were trying to get rid of me so fast. Who’s your girl?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, hating Thatch’s expression and the vibe coming from him.

“Get in the truck, Serena,” Thatch orders without looking my way, positioning himself subtly in front of me.

“Or, you could stay out here, and Thatch could introduce us—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Thatch delivers in a tone I’ve never heard, “and it’s not like that.”

“No,” he taunts. “So, she’s not yours?”

“Oh, I’m his,” I hiss. “All his.”

Thatch exhales a low curse as the guy’s eyes light up. “Until next week, and you trade up, right, Snatch?” The asshole shakes his head at me as if I’m delusional. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but my man here isn’t the faithful type. He’s fucked a lot of prime pussy in this city. Oh . . . wait, this is too good. You didn’t know—”

“Shut the fuck up, Daniel. Serena, get in the truck.”

“Yeah, Serena, get in the fucking death trap.” Daniel drops all bullshit pleasant pretense, his new demeanor downright hostile. “Tell me something, asshole, if you think you’re so much better than me,” he kicks Thatch’s bumper. “Why do you drive this piece of shit when you could be riding like me again?”

“Fuck off, Daniel,” Thatch warns again, and I can feel the tension rolling from him from the other side of the truck where I hesitate, hand on the handle. Unsure of what to do, I decide not to add to his stress. Just as I climb into the cab, Daniel swiftly situates himself in front of Thatch’s driver’s door, blocking him from getting in.

“Don’t fucking take this there, man,” Thatch hisses.

“I think you owe me an explanation, asshole. I think you owe us all one. So quick to fucking ghost us, but we were in this shit together. Aren’t you going to at least say hi?” Daniel nods to the driver’s side of his car—or rather his Porsche. Thatch briefly eyes the girl sitting in his passenger seat through the windshield, and I follow his gaze to see her eyes already glued to Thatch. A possessiveness starts to take hold, Daniel’s words already searing me as Thatch looks away just as quickly.

“Don’t remember your girl? Well, not much has changed. Pussy’s still fucking good, but she’s got a mouth on her,” he imparts smugly as if she’s disposable. “So, I’m thinking maybe you leveled up—or down,” Daniel eyes me through Thatch’s windshield where I sit with my door cracked, “yeah, no, she’s no fucking model.”

“Say one more word, and I break your jaw,” Thatch delivers with so much venom and promise that I don’t recognize his voice. “Say two more, and I take your nose.”

Daniel lifts his palms in the air in feigned innocence, moving out of Thatch’s way before stalking over to his driver’s door. His last words drifting into the cabin as Thatch opens his to climb in.

“Well, I guess we all move on, partner. But then again, you know I’ll be catching up with you sooner or later. I always do. See you, Snatch.” His sickly grin replaces me through the windshield. “And you too, ‘all his’ Serena.”

Daniel’s departing wink sickens me before he slams the door of his Porsche and tears out of the parking lot. Thatch follows suit, wordlessly starting his truck up to do the same. I don’t bother to voice my objection, knowing it’s futile, as Thatch barely acknowledges the traffic lights before pulling right back into my driveway.

My prompt to exit obvious, I ignore it, and instead, we idle for several tense seconds as fury continues to roll off him. The tension in the cabin stifling, I refuse to back down from the anger and the burn spreading through my chest.

“I’m trying really hard not to take the bait—”

“So don’t,” he snaps.

“But that was your girl?”

“Not really, no, and it was a long time ago.”

“So I heard, Snatch.”

His head whips toward me, his fury now directed to me. My own anger wins as I press in. “Tell me.”

“You really don’t want to know, Serena.”

“Yes, I fucking do, and frankly I’m sick of begging for crumbs.”

“Well, I’m not going to fucking tell you. Deal with it.”

“Did you love her?”

“Love?” He scoffs. “Who in the fuck has time for that? Not me. . .” he runs his hand through his hair in exasperation before leveling me with his cutting jade eyes. A look I’ve never been on the receiving end of. One that singes me. “Jesus Christ, you can’t be this oblivious—this clueless, and you aren’t. It’s exactly what it looks like. I’m exactly what you think I am.”

“You don’t know what I—”

“Can’t you fucking see I’m just trying to survive right now? I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Thatch—”

“Just . . . go inside, Serena. This is done. We’re over.”

“What?”

“This is over. Get inside,” he snaps. “I never should have laid a hand on you, and I won’t again,” he shakes his head. “Just . . . go.”

“Thatch, don’t—”

“Please, just get out,” he rasps, desperation lacing his words.

“Fine, fuck this,” I say, ramming my shoulder into the door. It’s as I exit that panic seizes in my chest. Furious and fed up, for some reason, I turn back to look at him anyway, only to see him staring right at me. His expression muting any more angry words because, inside his green eyes, I see nothing but . . . pain. It’s so clear that he doesn’t want this to be over, but I can’t allow myself to be humiliated anymore. Endless hours of kisses, of murmured words, of looks, and feelings I’ve only ever experienced with Thatch leave me aching, my words coming out raw as tears shimmer in my eyes.

“Please take care of yourself,” I whisper out of fear as his eyes frantically search my face. “You know,” I swallow as the first hot tear lands, trailing down my cheek. His eyes follow as I manage words around the hurt, “I really did want to be your girl, Thatch O’Neal.”

His eyes close as I slam his door and stalk to the porch without looking back. He idles until I’m behind the front door, my face buried in my hands. It takes him only a minute, maybe less, to pull out of the driveway.

Chest stinging from the memory, I push my buggy down the lighting aisle. The air around the breakfast table this morning was tense, so I insisted we accompany Thatch to Lowe’s when he said he wanted to pick up some last-minute things for something he was working on. Intent on giving my family a break and stinging from my mother’s wrath, I bundled the kids up to give them all a much-needed reprieve.

When I had tried to press Thatch for what he was working on during the ride here, he’d grinned at me and told me I’d know soon enough. The rest of the way to town, I could feel the kids scattering their gazes between us until Thatch grabbed my hand. Kissing it, he’d given me a reassuring wink, one that told me this too shall pass. Once we got here, Gracie offered to take Peyton down the blow-up aisle to keep him occupied.

Thatch had left them both with a stern warning before leaving me with a kiss and a few more words of assurance. Feeling like a pariah and deciding on a little retail therapy, I’ve been perusing the luminaries in search of the right light for our half bath. Another perk of being a carpenter’s wife is that he’s added them to every room in the house. Making each room a little more inviting—cozier. My heart warms at the truth that no matter how many I’ve ordered or brought home, he’s never bitched about installing them.

Just as I pile a few in my cart on clearance, I hear a woman’s overly exaggerated laugh and pause when it’s followed by the low rumble of my husband’s voice.

Perked, with a ready glare, I quickly push my cart down and perch it between aisles. Peeking the next aisle over as covertly as I can, I see the hyena standing too close to my husband. So close that my blood immediately starts to boil. Well aware of just how appealing Thatch is, it’s evident I’m not the only one who thinks so as she practically drapes herself in the space between them. Her eyes sweep him repeatedly as she pretends to be interested in what he’s saying.

Did this hoochie approach my man?

To Thatch’s credit, he seems to be keeping the conversation casual while subtly inching back from her as she practically presses herself against his cart.

The possessive fire I felt moments ago from reliving my memory kicks in full force, licking along my spike as I watch another woman ogle my husband. Furthermore, watching him for any sign that he’s encouraging and indulging her evident flirtation. I’m not a girl who gets jealous often, but with the vibe we have going, the sexual tension, along with the hurt currently stinging my chest, I’m about ready to fuck shit up. The more I watch her—especially when a manicured hand lands on his forearm—I decide I might as well take it out on Hyena-Harlot on aisle get-your-hand-the-fuck-off-my-man.

Ready to pounce, but deciding to have some fun with this—even as Thatch backs further away—I go in guns blazing.

“Oh, Thatchalamewlllll,” I snark, seeing him tense immediately as I fully take the corner with my buggy and begin aggressively closing the space toward them both. “There you are, honey! Oh, I see you made a little friend. Never have met a stranger, have you, Snatch?” I go low.

Thatch glances back at me, a ready glare in his eyes, which I decide is better than guilt or a ‘busted’ expression. It’s at the sight of it that I decide to forgive him a little faster. But it’s the memory of her hand on his forearm that fuels me.

“Oh, h-hi,” the woman, who does have such an expression, starts to stutter while taking me in. “Your husband is just the best, he was helping me pick out some flooring.”

“Is that so? Well, he’s just the man for it,” I pipe overenthusiastically. “He’s really good at installing,” I continue, stopping my cart so abruptly they both jump.

“Serena,” Thatch utters low in warning as I shoot him a nasty side-eye before turning to deal with all-hands Hannah.

“Well, did you replace what you were looking for?” I prompt. “Because I love my flooring. In fact, I think I’ll have my husband install some more really soon.”

Thatch’s smile breaks through while laughs-a-lot Laura’s fades because I’m so obvious now, I’ve made it uncomfortable. I have no issue with appreciation from afar, but Thatch never takes off his ring. And for all who do appreciate it, a wedding ring is a well-known shining symbol to honor the code and keep a respectful distance. And most definitely, keep their hands off. So, since she chose to ignore said ring—and my comfort—gloves off for making it fucking easier to get away with it.

“Well, I’ll just be going,” she proffers weakly, offering Thatch an even weaker “thanks for your help” before turning on her wheels and stalking away.

“Hey, handsy, you forgot to grab your flooring!” I call after her as she speeds up, going double-time before disappearing around the corner.

“Babe, you made your point,” Thatch snaps, shaking his head.

“And why did I have to? She was too close,” I hiss, “she was too fucking close, Thatch.”

“She was a good two feet away, I have a two-foot rule,” he assures.

“Oh, do you? Get hit on often, husband?”

His grin breaks through. “Damn baby, you’re on fire today.”

“I’m not shit and don’t get all giddy. When she put her hand on you, you should have told her to fuck off.”

His grin amplifies, his eyes roaming down me. “Message received.”

“Whatever,” I roll my eyes, “ha, hee, ha,” I noisily imitate her giggle to further embarrass him as he crosses his arms, utterly unaffected.

He quirks a brow. “You done?”

“Yeah, I’m done,” I snap before grabbing my purse. “Unless you want to replace another donkey to entertain. I’ll be in the truck.”

“Maybe you should put yourself in a corner, Brat,” he says, eyeing the luminaries in the buggy.

“Maybe you should grab a name tag, Mr. Helpful.” I stalk off, “you could clean up in installation appointments.”

“Babe, get back here.”

“That would be a hell no,” I snap, glancing back long enough to see my chosen lights in his hands. Score!

“I have wood,” he calls.

“Well, good luck in getting that taken care of!”

Jesus, how long are these aisles?

“No, lunatic,” he chuckles harder, “I have wood coming. I can’t leave.”

“Whatever, I’ll meet you in the truck. Try not to pick up any more husband-hugger-hussies on your way out. I’ll have our children with me.”

“That’s not an incentive,” he taunts as I flip the bird before finally clearing the aisle, his rumbling laughter following me.

Without stopping, I crook a finger at Gracie, whose eyes bulge when she sees my expression before she ushers Peyton to follow. Gripping both their hands, I walk them out of the store and secure them both into Thatch’s truck.

“Mommy’s mad again?” Peyton asks Gracie.

“Quiet, Peyton,” Gracie has the good sense to say, meeting my eyes in the visor mirror after I pull it down.

“Yes, Sir,” Peyton answers as I tilt my head back on the rest and sigh.

Fuming for the whole ten minutes we wait for Thatch; when he finally opens his cab door, I catch his sparkling eyes and accompanying grin. Proof he’s enjoying this all too much.

“Daddy, what did you do?” Gracie finally asks a few infuriating minutes into the ride—no doubt because of Thatch’s taunting perma-smile.

“Your daddy made a friend in the store,” he coos, “and Mommy got mad.”

“Only because you like to boast about your installing skills!” I counter.

“Naw, baby,” he squeezes my knee, “that was all you.”

“Well, go back and set up an appointment for all I give a shit.”

His jaw ticks. “I haven’t made an appointment with another in over two decades.”

“Could have fooled me,” I snap.

“Gracie,” Thatch says calmly, “do you know that I never had a girlfriend before I met your mom?

I whip my head toward him.

“Refused to. Never dated a girl for longer than two months. Never wanted to. But the first time I saw your mother, I became a one-woman man.”

When Gracie doesn’t gag, I turn back to see her listening intently, her eyes darting between me and her father, a small smile curving her lips. Her reaction stuns me briefly.

No gag?

No fake puke?

No ‘erm my gawd.’

Scrutinizing Gracie a little, his attempt to appease me misfires when his son pipes up from his car seat. “Daddy makes new friends all the time, Mommy,” Peyton informs.

Thatch eyes his son in the rearview, uttering a low “demon” though his smirk deepens with every mile.