by Max Monroe
Wes’s eyebrows drew together, and he scoffed. “Well, that sure sounds like a story.”
“It is. I’ll tell you all about it when I come back down.”
They nodded in acknowledgment, and I headed for the stairs. I listened hard at the top for any sounds from either one of my daughters, but everything was still quiet, so I moved on down the hall and into the bedroom at the end.
Georgia had shifted to her stomach, one long leg cocked high and out of the covers. I set the cup of coffee on the nightstand and sat down in the bed next to her.
I stroked her skin from shin to thigh until her eyes peeked open. As soon as we made visual contact, I leaned down and touched my lips to hers.
She squeaked, jumped back, and covered her mouth. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet,” she mumbled behind her hand.
I shook my head, but she went on.
“My mouth tastes like rotten sewage.”
“Wow.” I chuckled. “Lovely visual, baby.”
“So, trust me, you want me to brush my teeth.”
She was forgetting the fact that she was my wife. Nothing could prevent me from kissing her. Even morning breath.
I pretended to think about it briefly before pulling her hand away and kissing her again. She fought it for about a second before forgetting herself and kissing me back in a way only my wife could. It was earth-shifting—life-altering. Every single time.
“I love you,” she whispered just as I thought it myself, her lips against mine.
I nodded and put my lips to her ear. She shivered. “Baby, you have no idea.”
She hummed and snuggled close, and I fought against the urge to climb into bed with her and show her how much.
“Wes, Winnie, and Lex are here,” I said into the curve of her neck.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Oh my God, they are? What time is it?”
The duvet jerked back and forth as she moved frantically, unable to decide which side of the bed would be faster to climb out of.
“Relax, baby, it’s fine.”
She glared. “Time, Kline.”
“It’s nine.”
“Nine?” she shrieked. “I was supposed to be up two hours ago! I have to make the pancake batter and move that fucking elf. Julia will have a shit hemorrhage if that fucking thing doesn’t move!”
That fucking elf, otherwise known as Antonio, our Elf on the Shelf. The idea of that thing made me grin and cringe at the same time. It was one of those new-age holiday traditions that was oddly adorable for kids, but when you had to deal with the actual logistics of remembering to secretly move the damn thing to a new location, every fucking morning, it quickly became a pain in the ass.
“Georgie,” I soothed, grabbing her chin and turning it toward me softly. “Relax. I brought you coffee.” I nodded to the mug, and she glanced at it longingly as the picture of having coffee in bed played out in her mind. “Take your time, get dressed, get some coffee in you, and then come downstairs. I’ll make sure Antonio the elf is moved and get the girls when they wake up, okay? I can’t say that I’ll start the pancake batter, but, baby, the way you make pancakes, I guarantee the crowd will wait.”
Her voice was wistful as her eyes searched mine. “Why do you love me?”
I shook my head. “Too many reasons to list now, love. It’s already nine,” I teased.
She rolled her eyes but sighed sweetly. “I’m so, so lucky. You’re so loving and generous and put up with my excitement.”
Excitement. What a cute name for hysteria.
I nodded. “And I’ve got a big dick. Don’t forget that one.”
“Kline!”
“Baby, it’s in my name.”
“Big-dick Brooks is not your actual name!”
“People address me as such.”
She scoffed. “Cassie doesn’t count.”
“It counts.” I scooped her up and pulled her to my lap, fingers digging into her perfect ass. It was nearly bare thanks to her lacy, cheeky underwear, and I almost groaned. “And later, I’m gonna show you how good I am at using it too.”
When I got back downstairs, I went about moving the elf and setting up a snowball fight with marshmallows for the kids with Lex’s help. I hadn’t intended to spoil the whole elf illusion for her, but she’d laughed when I hinted to Winnie to maybe occupy her somewhere else. Apparently, thinking the Elf on the Shelf was a real thing was for people at least three years younger than her—and of a much lesser intelligence.
Georgie came down half an hour later, and I had to hide my smile behind my coffee mug and the paper. She looked beautiful, as always, but it was more than apparent that she’d hurried.
Wes averted his eyes, smart enough to know a comment from her boss would not be welcome, as Winnie jumped up and pulled Georgie’s skirt from its spot—tucked into her underwear.
“Oh my God,” Georgia shouted, and Winnie shushed her. “Relax, it’s fine. No one saw.”
Wes and I had both seen, but the kitchen table had never looked more interesting to either of us.
“Good morning!” Thatch boomed as he stepped into the kitchen, a pair of red pants, a white dress shirt, and a red satin bow tie completing his ensemble.
“Good God,” Wes mumbled.
Thatch smiled a toothy grin and leaned down to whisper in Wes’s ear. “Don’t be so jealous, Whitney. I’m an anomaly. No one else can look this good. It’s isn’t just you.”
“Does everyone want pancakes?” Georgia asked, her blush of embarrassment just then starting to come under control. At least Thatch hadn’t been in the room for the tucked skirt incident. I had a feeling he would have been markedly more vocal than Wes and me.
“I already had some breakfast,” Thatch said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows. Wes dry heaved. “But I could eat some more.”
“Yeah, Daddy,” Cassie said as she entered the room while she was still pulling down her shirt. I looked back to the table to avoid seeing nipple.
“Let’s all cool it with the exsay talk, okay?” Georgia ordered. “The kids will be up soon.”
Translation for all of you who don’t speak Pig Latin.
Exsay = Sexy.
Not something I thought I’d ever become fluent in, but that’s life with kids.
Cassie and Thatch both looked around casually.
“Huh. Look at that, Thatcher. Our kids aren’t here.”
“Jesus Christ, how are they parents?” Wes asked the room as if they weren’t there.
They weren’t offended as one might think. Instead, Cassie shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”
“I think it’s because I uckfayed you without an ondomcay,” Thatch pointed out helpfully, and Georgie glared over her shoulder.
I chuckled, and the glare shifted to me.
“Sorry, baby, but that was funny,” I admitted.
Sudden and harsh, two beeps of an industrial-sized horn filled the air and made every single one of us jump.
“Holy fluff. What the fluff was that?” Thatch asked.
I shrugged. Wes and Winnie exchanged a panicked look. My eyebrows drew together.
“Do you know—” I started to ask Wes, but he shook his head desperately.
Pounding shook the front door and startled us again, and anxiety in her eyes, Georgia took off like a shot toward the front entry. It took the rest of us a half-second longer, but we all followed. Thatch and Cassie tried to go through the doorway to the hall at the same time and got into a minor argument about who was going to go first, trapping us all in the kitchen until I shoved them out of the way.
My wife was out there alone facing God knew what. Horrible visions of Dick driving that giant RV toward my wife and the side of the mountain danced in my head.
I ran down the hall and got to the jam-packed foyer just as a sleepy Julia put her hands to the spindles upstairs and let out a shriek when her eyes peered out the giant floor-to-ceiling window looking over the front of the house. “Oh my goshs. Mavericks!” She turned her hea
d back to the hall and yelled, “Evie! Gunner! Ace! The Mavericks is heres!”
Holy fucking shit.
One by one and with duffel bags in hand, they walked off a huge tour-style bus and toward our front door.
Quinn Bailey’s smile was magnetic as he did a rolling bow, worthy of the royals, in front of my shell-shocked wife. The rest of the team—or by my exact count, seven other players—chuckled.
Sean Phillips waved toward his sister Cassie and Thatch.
Cam Mitchell grinned at the kids who were now awake and hopping around on the porch, shouting their excitement.
And my wife, well, she was gone.
Literally gone. Georgia passed out cold. Boom. Just like that, she made like a dead fish and flopped toward the floor.
I wasn’t in range to catch her, but thankfully, she had nearly a whole football team who was.
Merry fucking Christmas.
Santa Claus Santa’s Dick Is Coming to Town
What was supposed to be a quiet little Christmas Eve with my husband, daughters, and closest friends had turned into a cabin filled with what felt like half of the Mavericks football team and my dad prancing around the house in his favorite pair of thermal underwear. Keep your friends close and your dicks closer, I could hear him saying now while Quinn Bailey, Cassie’s brother Sean, Cam Mitchell, and a handful of other huge, tree trunk-thighed men laughed. Apparently, our cabin in the Catskills had become Dick’s stage, and he was tossing out dad jokes like he was trying to win a gig on Comedy Central.
Where had everything gone wrong? First, Dick and Savannah showing up apropos of nothing, and now, the football team. I mean, it wasn’t the entire Mavericks football team, but still, it was too much chaos, too many people, and I had my doubts that this many uninvited guests could have found their way here without help.
Sabotage.
Skeptical, I glanced around the room, taking in all of the possible suspects.
Cassie, Thatch, Wes, Winnie, my freakin’ husband, the list of prospective defectors had my head spinning.
My gut instinct and my heart told me my husband wasn’t in on the scam. He was a man who lived his life with two priorities: keeping his family happy and safe. Obviously, ruining my Christmas plans would not equal a happy wife. Nor would it equate to his safety.
Would my best girlfriends really try to fuck up Christmas?
Win might’ve been a bit of a hard-ass in the locker room, but she was a softy to her core. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that it was her, though. She was a mom, had been one longer than the rest of us, and sometimes mothers do things based on what they think is best. I’d have to keep my eye on her.
Cassie was notorious for pranks, but she knew how important this holiday was to me, not to mention, she’d seen me at my craziest moments. She might’ve been spontaneous and impulsive, but she did have some self-preservation. Right?
“Come on, Thatcher, smack it harder,” she yelled from the back porch. I glanced outside to see that they’d set up a piñata for the kids—but were partaking themselves.
Maybe she doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation.
The odds of Thatcher inviting my parents and the entire goddamn football team were slim to none, considering he knew his wife would murder him in his sleep if he pulled off this horrible of a prank on her nearest and dearest friend without her help—which of course, didn’t rule them out as a team.
Wes wasn’t normally the type of guy to meddle in someone else’s plans, but he was ruthless in business and controlled any and every aspect of his football team, so I supposed he had it in him.
Basically, I had too many leads without enough strategy, and everyone was still a possible suspect.
Aside from Kline. Because, honestly, if he was involved, I hoped I never found out. I needed him too much to divorce him, and a marriage without sex—because I’d have to punish him somehow—sounded like pure torture.
“Stop looking at everyone like you’re thirty seconds away from bringing out a polygraph test,” Cassie muttered under her breath as she gently nudged me with her elbow, obviously having come inside from the back porch. I glanced out the window to see Thatch assisting Julia as she swung a broomstick wildly.
Was it possible to order a polygraph test on Christmas Eve? Surely, Amazon still had free shipping with Prime…
“Seriously. Georgia. Take a breath.”
I looked away from the living room that held eight too many fucking football players and met Cassie’s eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re the exact opposite of fine.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re completely pissed off right now,” she whispered.
I shrugged. “I’m just disappointed.” I glanced at the giant, rustic clock hanging above the mantle. It was half past four. Now, prior to everything falling apart, we would be finishing up ice skating and drinking hot chocolate. But since the players couldn’t risk injury, and Lex and my father wouldn’t leave their side—and Wes wouldn’t leave Lex’s side, and Winnie wouldn’t leave his, and so on—the original perfectly planned-out Christmas agenda had flown out the window faster than my dad was tossing out jokes.
Cassie wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “It’s all going to be okay, honey.”
“That’s what you said when my parents parked a house on wheels in my front yard, and look what happened after that. Practically an entire professional football team showed up unannounced.”
“Well…if it makes you feel any better…unless your dad starts telling jokes naked, I highly doubt it could get any worse at this point.”
I groaned. “Are you trying to jinx me?”
She laughed quietly, and I glared.
“Okay. Okay. I take back the words I just said—”
“It’s too late for that. They’ve already been unleashed into the universe. Surely, they are already working their black magic to ruin what’s left of this Christmas.”
She ignored my words. “I want you to realize one thing,” she said and held me closer to her side, “you have a cabin filled with everyone you love the most, and you know what?”
“What?” I asked, petulance seeping from my voice.
“Every single one of these people loves you too. Crazy. Insane. Adoring kind of love. You’re the reason we’re all here together to celebrate Christmas.”
I was pretty sure I was not the reason for the football players, but I was becoming more and more suspicious of Cassie. She kept trying to make all this shit all right.
She’s supposed to be commiserating with me!
“It’s the truth, Georgia,” she reaffirmed her words. “Just remember that.”
“Ugh. You’re making too much sense right now,” I said and let out a long and exasperated breath as I wiggled out of her hold and headed for the kitchen. “Go drink some eggnog or something.”
“Man, oh man, I forgot how sassy pissed-off Wheorgie is.” Cassie grinned.
I flipped her the middle finger as I opened the fridge to figure out how in the hell I was going to feed all of these people. Sure, the pancake situation at breakfast was easy to solve, but dinner? Not so much. It was the complete opposite. I’d planned out a delicious, gourmet meal for six adults and five kids, but I hadn’t calculated enough food for that number to very nearly double.
It was almost five p.m., and panic was starting to really set in.
What were all of these people going to eat?
Cripes, where in the hell were they going to sleep tonight?
I just needed a minute. Hell, maybe I needed an hour.
A few quiet and relaxing moments, far away from punch lines and my dad’s thermal underwear, were exactly what the doctor would probably order for me right now.
The doctor being someone who was a psychiatrist who was trying to avoid committing me to a psych ward.
With a quick glance back into the living room, I noted that my mother had Evie in her lap and Kline had Julia on his shoulders. Yea
h, I could definitely steal a few moments away for myself before I spontaneously combusted from anxiety.
The instant I reached our bedroom, I shut the door and threw myself onto the bed with a groan.
For the next few minutes, I alternated between praying, screaming into a pillow, and crying.
I felt so damn emotional, if it weren’t for the fact that I was on birth control and I’d just finished my period a few days ago, I’d be wondering if I was pregnant.
Somehow, someway, I had to find a way to slap a smile on my face and work through the roadblocks that were now affecting my Christmas Eve agenda.
Things like: How could I feed an extra ten mouths? Where could I find enough pillows, blankets, and air mattresses to sleep half a football team? Or, what was the safest way to lock my father in a closest to proactively prevent a fire or explosion or something else equally as terrible?
I ran through the list of issues in search of solutions, and by the time I’d repeated the same thought process with the same, no-answer results, I decided that maybe I just needed some namaste in my life.
I was thirty seconds into Downward-Facing Dog when a conversation I never thought I’d hear reached my fucking ears.
“Ace! Ace! Come see Santa’s Dick!” My daughter’s voice echoed off the walls and straight into my bedroom.
“Santa’s Dick?” Ace questioned. “Where, Lia?”
“Downstairs! Come downstairs and see Santa’s Dick!”
Santa’s Dick?
What in the ever-loving fuck was happening?
Little footsteps ran past my bedroom and down the wooden staircase, and I went from downward dog to upward mom on the warpath in mere seconds.
“Kline!” I shouted as I jogged down the stairs. “Kline!”
Please, for the love of God, tell me my husband has control over whatever the hell is happening right now!
At the bottom of the stairs, I came skidding to a stop as a blur of red streaked by me and into the living room. Dick Cummings, my father and former stand-up comedian, dressed up as Santa Claus.
Santa. Dick.
Oh. My. God.