“Well, it’s definitely merry now!” She tightens the sash on her robe when she sees my grandparents standing behind me then throws herself into my arms. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her sweet scent. I’d give just about anything to be alone with her right now. It’d be too simple to pull that belt open and slip my hands inside.
“You two lovebirds wanna clear the entryway?” Mimi huffs.
I cough, clearing the lust that’s quickly filling my head. If I’m not careful, my heated thoughts will be on display for all to see. With Whitney still dangling from my neck, I shift to the side so my grandparents can sneak by. She giggles when I conceal my face in her neck and bite down gently in the slope of her collar bone.
“Stop it.” She squirms. “You’re gonna get me all red and flustered.”
“What’s all this racket?” The guest of honor finally comes trudging down the hall, still wiping sleep from her eyes. “Y’all are loud enough to wake the dead!”
“Now why would you go and say a thing like that knowing you probably got two or three corpses chilling in the freezer downstairs?” I ask, setting her momma to her feet.
“Wyatt?” The little grump tears across the living room like a bat fresh outta hell to get to me. “What’re you doing here?” she asks, throwing her arms around my waist. “It’s still dark out.”
“We came to watch you open presents.”
She scours the room until she finds the we—my grandparents—chatting with Hank and Marie at the table, donuts in hand. “Mimi and Pop! You’re here too?”
“Of course, we are, child,” Mimi answers, as if they’ve always been a part of her life and it’s the silliest of notions that she’d be any place else.
My sister and I were their only grandchildren, and I’ve been grown for quite a while. They’ll benefit from this relationship as much, if not more, than Prissy.
“Do I have to eat before openin’ presents?” The now very much awake, wide-eyed child asks her momma.
“It’s Christmas,” Whitney answers, staring at the girl like she’s grown two heads. “There are no rules on Christmas.”
“I love you, Momma.” Prissy curls up into her mother’s lap, wrapping one arm around her back and the other over her shoulder.
“Love you too, baby,” Whitney responds, gently rocking her with her lips pressed to her forehead. “Merry Christmas.”
It feels as if we’re all intruding on their tender moment. Even my ruthless old grandmother’s dabbing at the corners of her eyes.
Whitney may have had her young, but their bond is one of the strongest I’ve seen. The love these girls share is palpable. It’s simply impossible to be around them and not feel it. Or, as my grandmother is quickly learning, not to want to be even the smallest part of it.
Once she’s all snuggled out, Prissy grabs her momma’s hand and drags her off the sofa to the tree.
“This one’s from me,” Whit says, handing her a beautifully wrapped box. The paper is shiny, with candy cane stripes in red, white, and green. It’s topped off with a fancy ribbon. One of the ones with a million loops that I’d never be able to pull off.
Prissy has all that hard work she put into the packaging shredded in seconds. “Just what I wanted!” She lifts the yellow box with the phrase “Good Guys” imprinted on the side into the air above her head and starts jumping up and down.
The freckle-faced, orange-haired doll glares at me through the plastic window. “You can’t be serious.” My eyes land on Whitney, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of gifts.
She would come running straight at me with the damn thing. “Will you open this for me?”
Whitney shrugs, stifling a giggle. “It’s what she asked for.”
“A Chucky doll?” Now I’m shaking my head at that future daughter of mine. “What is wrong with you? This little monster gave me nightmares well into my teens.”
She sneers. “It’s just a baby doll.”
I whip out my phone, doing a quick internet search for “baby doll.” “This is a baby doll,” I argue, holding it out for her to see.
Her response is one hell of an unimpressed eyeroll.
“Think you could build him a bed?” Priss asks, batting her lashes, with one hand layered over the other on my right knee.
I snort, ripping the box open for her and fighting with all the little twisty bread tie thingies. “Tell ya what…I’ll build him a jail cell, how ’bout that?”
“You’re so drama,” she says, snatching her new friend out of my hand as soon as it’s freed from the packaging.
“Open mine next,” Hank insists, digging around under the tree, then tossing a box to his granddaughter.
Her face lights up when she opens it to find a brand-new black hoodie that reads, “I put the fun in funeral.” Immediately she slips it over her head. “Thanks Paw! I love it.”
My grandmother gives me wide-eyed look. If “Are you fucking kidding me,” had a face, hers would be it.
I shrug. I wasn’t kidding when I told the woman Prissy was a different brand of princess. Maybe she thought I was exaggerating. She’ll soon learn those odd quirks are what make her so damn precious.
Just like I did—hell, I don’t even think I liked kids all that much before this one. Not that I’d had much experience, but I definitely never wanted to be around them all the time. Well, most of the time—certain activities call for a little privacy.
“Can I go next?” I ask, anxious to see her reaction to the gift I spent the past month agonizing over.
“You got me a present too?” Prissy skips back to the far side of the room where I’m still seated on the stool I drug in from the kitchen.
“Duh,” I answer, using one of her most favorite words. “Merry Christmas, Miss Priss.” I hand her a giftbag, since my wrapping skills are lackluster at best.
“Don’t you know unwrapping the gift is the best part?” Mimi chastises while Prissy flings wadded-up tissue filler to the floor.
“I do now.”
When she pulls the worn leather case from the bag, my pulse races and my palms begin to sweat.
“You got me eyeballs!” she screams, rushing to show her Paw-Paw the collection of five porcelain prosthetic eyes.
“Not just any eyes,” I say, warming inside over her excitement. “They all date back to the early twentieth century. There’s a sticker with a code on the bottom of each. If you go back to the seller’s website, you can read the story of the original owners.”
“Well, I don’t even know if I wanna give her my gift now.” My poor grandmother is looking a rather unhealthy shade of green.
“I’m sure she’ll love it,” Whitney assures her.
“Thank you, Wyatt! This is the coolest thing I ever got!”
“You’re welcome, sweet girl.”
By the time she finishes opening her Santa gifts, the entire floor is covered in trash and that little girl has more creepy shit to occupy her time than you could even imagine. It’s like Hot Topic threw up all over their living room.
“All right, ma’am,” Marie says, retrieving a huge black yard bag from the utility closet and shaking it open. “Time to get all this garbage up before you run off to play with your new stuff.”
“Wait,” Whit says, “she didn’t open the one from Mimi and Pop yet.”
“It’s just a little something,” the old woman mutters, clearly setting herself up for a disappointed reaction.
Prissy couldn’t be more gracious when she climbs up in between my grandparents to unwrap her final gift.
“Yes!” she shouts, leaning over to kiss Mimi’s cheek, then moving to Pop to do the same. “I got my very own makeup, Momma!”
She is selling this hard. Bless her soul. I learned at Thanksgiving just how much she doesn’t like wearing the stuff. Thankfully, my grandparents are none the wiser.
“That’s awesome, Priss.” Whitney mouths her thanks from across the r
oom.
“Momma doesn’t let me play with hers. Now I can practice for when I’m a mortician!”
Hmm. Maybe she’s not faking after all.
“Maw-Maw…Mimi…think I could practice on y’all after breakfast?”
And. I. Am. Dead. She actually just asked the two oldest women in the room if she could use them as guinea pigs to hone her mortuary makeup skills.
This kid is fucking brilliant.
“Sure,” Mimi says, still glowing over how well her gift was received and not connecting the dots on why the gift is exciting.
“Now you listen here, Priscilla Louise, you think cuz we’re old and wrinkly you can just use us for your own entertainment?” Marie, knowing exactly why Prissy chose the two of them, is rightly offended.
The little girl nods. Her confusion over her grandmother’s reaction is a reminder of her innocence. It’s easy to forget how young she is. “Well, most of the bodies we work on are old and wrinkly, Maw-Maw.”
“Kid has a point,” Hank says between wheezing guffaws. The old man is about to keel over he’s laughing so hard.
“Mimi wants to go first,” I offer, on my grandmother’s behalf.
“Why I gotta go first?” she complains, having just been schooled on the reason her darling new granddaughter wants to play makeup with her.
“It was your gift.” I shrug. “Plus, you have the most wrinkles.”
“Keep that shit up boy,” she warns, pointing a crooked finger at me. “Don’t think I won’t take off my shoe and bust your tail in front all these people.”
The woman talks big, but while she’s hootin’ and hollerin’, she’s sinking down into the couch, making herself comfortable for her mortuary makeover.
“Almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my coat pocket. “I have a little something for you too.”
When I hand Whitney the little blue box, I’m pretty damn sure every adult in the room stops breathing.
“What’s this?” Whitney’s fingers tremble over the ribbon.
“Not that! Breathe,” I say. “Just open it.”
She takes a long drawn-out breath before lifting the lid and removing the white gold charm bracelet. “I can’t decide if I should kiss you or punch you,” she says after examining each trinket: a hammer to represent yours truly, a makeup brush for her, a little combat boot for Prissy, and my personal favorite and the one that has her so conflicted…
“Why’d you give that girl a bracelet with a dumpster on it?” Pop asks, fixing his glasses on his nose to examine it further.
“You son of a bitch,” Hank howls, slapping his knee.
“Dayum, Whit.” The fire in Wyatt’s gaze as he looks me over in my shimmery silver mini dress and matching stilettos has my blood running hot and warmth pooling between my legs. Or maybe that wetness stems from how delicious he looks in his three-piece suit. Hubba hubba. “We could skip the party and stick to the original plan…head back to my place?” His teeth scrape over his lower lip ever so slowly while he backs me up against the door, his fingers slipping just inside the low V that ends at the small of my back. “Make our own fireworks…”
“As tempting as that is,” I croon, flattening my palms over his pecs and leaning in close to run the tip of my nose over the bend of his neck, hovering in place when I reach his ear. “My very resourceful boyfriend managed to snag a room and tickets to the most coveted party in the city.”
“Is that so? He sounds like a pretty cool guy.”
“The coolest. How did you manage that so last minute, by the way?”
He splays his fingers over my bare back, nipping at my jaw. “That new job I just landed?” His lips skate along mine, sending sparks of desire firing off every nerve ending in my body. “Building the pool house?”
“Yeah,” I rasp, already lust drunk.
“It’s for the owner’s son.”
“Nice.” I slip a hand between us, palming the steel rod digging into my hip. “You are so fucking hot; I can’t stand it,” I growl giving his cock a firm squeeze while pressing my thighs tightly together.
His answering laugh oozes sexual frustration. “And yet…you still want to go to this party?”
“Foreplay,” I whisper, grazing my tongue over the shell of his ear. “We’re always so rushed. For the first time ever, we have all night.” I slip my hands inside his jacket and around to his back, grabbing two fists full of his firm ass. “I’m going to enjoy every second of torturing you, because I know what awaits at the night’s end will be well worth it.” Clenching my fingers, I glide my tongue along the seam of his lips. “I can’t wait to watch you lose control.”
I feel his dick twitch against my abdomen before he scrubs a hand over his face with a groan. “Let’s go and get this over with.” His voice is uncharacteristically gritty, as if his vocal cords have been brushed with sandpaper. Wyatt laces his fingers between mine and brings my hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Before I settle for a quick fuck in the prep room.”
I pinch my puckered lips, twisting them to one side. “Now, I might be convinced to be a little late in that case.”
The Winchester Regency is the place to be. Anyone who knows anything about New Year’s Eve in New Orleans knows this, while few actually get the chance to experience it. The place is known to book up a year or more in advance. So, I must admit, I feel like hot shit checking into a balcony suite on tonight of all nights.
“Wanna give the bed a test run?” Wyatt asks when we pop into our room to rid ourselves of our bags. His brows do a sexy little bounce as he fists his hands out in front of him and begins thrusting his hips.
The man is relentless. And goofy. And so damn gorgeous it drives me to distraction.
“And ruin my makeup and hair?” I scoff. “Not a chance!”
With a grunt, he hangs his head, his handsome face shrouded in a look of defeat. “I don’t like this game.”
“I promise you’ll love the way it ends.”
“Well, that’s a foregone conclusion.” He walks up behind me where I’m touching up my makeup, pressing his chest to my back and resting his chin on my shoulder. His warm exhale into my neck has my limbs shaking and my pulse quickening. “I love every second I’m lucky enough to spend in your company.”
The lipstick tube fumbles to the counter with a clang. I’m not quite sure whether the action is voluntary or a result of my weak-kneed response to this man. Reaching back, I twist my hand to scruff his hair and rest my lips on his forehead, letting them linger for a beat. “Me too.”
His hand skates up my torso, over my breasts, and along my neck until his palm is stroking my jaw and his fingers are buried in my nape. He gives a gentle tug, rotating my face until his lips reach mine. “You can fix it again before we go downstairs to eat,” he rasps before covering my mouth with his.
After one hell of a hot and heavy makeout session, we arrive at our reservation only a few minutes late. I’m calling it a win. I’ve never felt as fancy or grown as I do right now. To be sitting here, dressed to the nines in the VIP section of such a swanky place, is surreal. But then again, my entire life has felt like a dream since the moment Wyatt Landry made his reappearance in it.
The tables are covered in white cloths with lit candles and red roses at the center. There are more utensils laid out than I know what to do with. The fact that my date doesn’t seem to have a clue what they’re for, either, eases the fit of nerves they bring on.
Dinner is a delectable feast of beef with au jus, truffle whipped potatoes, and the most delicious buttery steamed asparagus I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. For dessert we share a bananas foster cheesecake and bread pudding—each sampling the other’s, because is there any other way to do it when you’re young and in love?
Once we’ve filled our bellies, we take off on a stroll around the grounds to see what kind of trouble we can get into.
For our first adventure of the night, we pop into one of the ballrooms to see a burlesque show. Neither of us has ever been to
one before, and it’s supposed to be one of the highlights of the venue.
We grab drinks from one of many mobile bartenders posted up around the hotel on the way to our seats. All the while, I do some heavy people watching. The guests are such a diverse bunch, dressed in everything from black tie to feathers and boas.
And can I just say… So. Many. Titties.
In the crowd. On the stage. Tits every which way you turn.
My jaw hangs, and the nails of my once-lax hand press into my date’s knee when one of the performers lights her freaking tatas on fire! Okay, so if you want to get technical, it’s actually the tassels that are ablaze. But they’re attached to her nipples, so that’s practically the same thing.
“Look at her go!” Wyatt’s eyes about pop out of his head when she starts helicoptering those flaming gazoongas. Round and round and round they go.
The crowd is going nuts. My heart leaps into my throat. She’s one ill-timed flop away from catching that poufy platinum blonde bouffant of hers on fire.
“Can yours do that?” he asks, trailing a finger over my cleavage.
“Seriously? I barely have a C cup. Those are like very stretched out Gs.”
He snorts, choking on his beer. “I can do that…”
I give him a flirty little side eye before fluffing his ego like any good girlfriend would. I do take my new role seriously, after all. “If you were to try that you’d have knocked out everyone sitting in the front row.”
“That right there,” he says, shaking a finger at me before squishing my cheeks together and kissing my subsequent fish lips, “is why I’m gonna marry your ass someday.”
His suggestion has my smile brimming from ear to ear. His near-constant hints at forever no longer send me itching to flee. In fact, I’m beginning to feel downright hopeful. The emotion is so foreign to me. I’m teetering on the edge of fear and forever, praying the latter wins out in the end.
After the show, we decide to skip the casino entirely and find ourselves a spot to dance the night away. There are multiple stages and entertainers to choose from, and people literally everywhere we turn. Wyatt and I end up squeezing our way through until we’re right in front of the stage of some really badass 80s cover band. The performers are dressed in vibrant spandex unitards with huge perms and crazy costume makeup.
Mourning Wood Page 15