Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
“Not that suspicious,” Scott lightly laughs, arm lovingly winding around his wife. “I know I don’t look like it, but I grew a lot like him when I was his age.”
Penny lets the corner of her lips kick upward. “Except instead of tall and wide you grew…”
“Tall and weird.”
“Which is much better,” she playfully flirts on a nudging of her elbow. “At least for me.”
See.
It’s fucking strange.
Yet kind of adorable.
Like Dr. Phlox Pyrithian bat in Star Trek: Enterprise.
“Get whatever gear he needs to get him through the season,” Wes informs at the same time he plants a firm palm on my thigh. “And if that balance transfer wasn’t enough, do not hesitate to let me know.”
“We’ll make it enough,” Scott declares upon Clark’s arrival at our desk. “Even if it means choosing a cheaper brand.”
“Our nephew should have the best whenever possible, so purchase that, and only that. Covering the cost is our gift to him.”
“He really does want that 3P blocker for Christmas,” Penny poorly whispers under her breath.
“Then get it,” I state, echoing Wes’s sentiment. “If you have the chance to make someone’s Christmas wish come true…” my attention falls to the stubborn man I married, “you should definitely take it.”
Chapter 4
Wes
I hate the holidays.
Every year they require more socializing for work.
More in person appearances.
More smile for the cameras, show the world what a picture-perfect family we are.
Except we’re not.
This year I’m even less cheerful than normal.
I’ve got one daughter pissed off that we didn’t take a limo to the event because it would’ve been more spacious, one daughter pissed off at me for not letting her listen to Trans-Siberian Orchestra through the speakers, and one son royally pissed off at me – pun intended – because I won’t even discuss the notion of spending Christmas in a different country so he can be see his best friend for the holidays.
Or girlfriend.
Both?
I’m not sure.
He doesn’t exactly talk to me about those things.
He talks to Bryn.
And J.T.
And Clark.
And just about anyone that isn’t me.
You know I was under the impression our relationship would get easier as he got older.
How could I be so wrong?
“In,” Evie hisses from the opposite side of the ornament craft table where she’s lurking behind my children beside the event photographer. “Lean in, Wes.” Her sparkly red holiday nails curl into claws of frustration. “Lean in like you love your wife.”
“Like you love to grab my ass,” Bryn mutters under her breath prior to pressing herself tighter against me.
The chortle that escapes is filled with amusement while my sly ass grabbing is all hunger.
We didn’t exactly get to finish what we started earlier.
I had plans for her to sit on my lap and show me why we’re both on the naughty list, not have her attempt to guilt trip me into giving our son, literally the only thing he’s asked for, for Christmas.
I thought proposing other options during our drive here would go a bit better than it did.
I suggested maybe we get him a new board.
He insisted his mal was fine.
I threw out the idea that we could get him one of those indoor balance boards for training.
He insisted he gets plenty of training in actual water.
I even offered for us to take an extended vacation – just the two of us – to go see his favorite surfer compete in Brazil or Tahiti or any other country of his choosing to which he bit back by saying traveling with a Shubie wasn’t a gift but a chore and that he’d be passing on the offer.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been that pissed and proud in the same breath.
He will make a helluva board member when his time comes.
“This is a family event,” Evie chastises on heavy sigh seconds before her wife – that’s also still her assistant – arrives with a cup of fresh hot chocolate in her hands. “It’s bad enough I can practically see where Santa puts his North Pole in that dress, but could you at least keep the language at A Charlie Brown Christmas, please?” One more flash nearly blinding us precedes her two-finger military motion to the photographer. “Let’s keep it moving, Jack Lost. We have sixty-two minutes until our focus needs to be centered on Mr. Reese’s overly sentimental speech about charity or clarity or candles…”
“Community,” Jenni snickers on a tiny finger wave goodbye to all of us.
You’d think over the years that Evie would’ve calmed down or Jenni would’ve become wound tighter yet neither occurred.
They’ve each remained – respectively – in their known roles, and it’s oddly comforting.
Like knowing who the hero is and who’s the sidekick.
Or who’s the hero and who’s the villain.
“She’s the reason black licorice flavored coal candy was invented,” Bryn sassily states up at me, blue eyes even brighter thanks to her favorite mascara. “And the reason I stockpile it when it goes on sale at the end of every Christmas season.”