by M. Q. Barber
Eight little ones, from two years on up to twelve. Getting that bunch to sleep before midnight would take luck and skill both. A few years down the road, they’d have new cousins to keep the Santa magic alive for. Three or four babies he and Nora’d be making in beds like the solid double in front of him with its curving headboard and heap of pillows.
“You feeling all right, son?” Daddy elbowed his ribs with a solid poke. “Drive getting too long for your old bones?”
“Wasn’t expecting that”—he waved at the extra quilt folded across the foot, sure to be hiding sheets pulled neater and tighter than any barracks inspection ever turned up—“is all.”
Daddy grunted. “You’ve been dating this girl of yours for months. That picture you sent your mama of her in the batting helmet, all bright eyes and dusty face, has been staring at me from the fridge since August. Not once in the eighteen years since you moved outta this room have you ever suggested bringing a girl for Christmas. Your mama and I aren’t so old we imagine you’re sleeping apart.”
Nora’s picture on the fridge. Part of the family, her accomplishments and her beauty out for anyone to see, and for sure a topic of discussion when Mama’s friends came over for coffee. “Can’t get anything by you.”
“Just so.” His father wagged a stern finger under his nose. “You using protection?”
“I’m thirty-six, Daddy. I think I got it handled.” Or Nora did, more like. Her handling kept him ready at a moment’s notice.
“You gonna—”
A creak and hustle sounded from the hall, and his dad fell silent. The rich brown of Nora’s hair rose like a fawn from the tall grass as she climbed the stairs light and quick.
“—hide up here with me?” Daddy carried on as if he hadn’t paused or redirected his attention. “The kitchen’s been covered in cookie sheets for days, and I’ve had my knuckles rapped enough times, thank you. I ask you, can a man ignore the rich, spicy call of fresh-baked cookies when the aroma crawls right up his nose? No, he cannot.”
Nora peeked around the doorframe. “Rob? Your mom told me to tell you to wash up, because supper’s on in three minutes.”
Grinning, Daddy rattled him by the shoulder. “She say he’d be sitting on the stool in the corner watching the rest of us eat until he showed the proper respect and clean hands her table deserved?”
Nora’s answering smile set his father to nodding. “You, too, Mr. Vanderhoff. Connie says she’s going to charge you with theft if she sees a speck of ginger on your hands.”
“Uh-huh. Rob best watch himself if you’re learning his mama’s tricks already.” His daddy beckoned her into the bedroom. “C’mon now, don’t be shy, this room’s yours for the week, so you show it who’s boss.”
Daddy operated in two modes—the quiet, solemn listener and the gregarious showman. Not hard to guess which he figured would put Nora at ease fastest. Seemed effective. She’d been nervous as hell a few minutes ago, but she strode forward without a shake.
“I’ll do my best, sir.” She scanned the room as if she meant to build a mathematical model, the bed of less interest to her than the doodads tucked around. Be a hoot to quiz her on which she thought his and which his brother’s.
“Diederik Vanderhoff, Lil’ Miss Nora, though most call me Rick. It’s nice to see the boy hasn’t been funning us with all his talk of the young lady in his life. Lord knows what he can do with a computer.” Daddy spread his arms wide. “How’s about a hug, make sure you’re real?”
Nora wrapped her arms around his barrel chest. Daddy patted her back with the gentle fondness he showed any creature in his care. His level stare over the top of her head, though, and the short nod, those were for Rob. You take care of this one, boy.
He heard the message sure as if Daddy had spoken the words. In truth, he spouted off a pseudo-grumble about manicures and excused himself to wash up.
“So this is your room, huh?” Nora ran her finger across his name on an old MVP trophy from his baseball days. No dust, not in Mama’s house. “And you were so worried about us having to sleep apart the whole week.”
“Usually my nephews’d be stacked five deep in here.” His worry had been more for Nora’s emotional balance—dealing with a huge pack of new faces, over the whipsaw joys and sorrows of holidays, and him not there to cradle and reassure at the end of each day. Texting between floors would’ve denied them both the comfort of closeness. He bumped her hip. “We’re in uncharted territory.”
“You sure?” She pressed her face to his shoulder and breathed deep. “I think you’ve charted the territory pretty well. Climbed the peaks, explored the valleys.”
He nipped her ear and found his reward in her gasp. “If I had, I’d definitely have to wash up for supper, and not just my hands.”
“Fifty-nine seconds, Robin,” Mama shouted up the stairs.
Nora giggled and pulled away. “I better not make you late, or you’ll have to sit in the corner.”
“You, too, honey girl.” He reached after her but only managed to swipe a few floaty hairs and air.
“Oh no, not me.” She twisted and darted backward through the door. “Your mom likes me.”
He chased her down the stairs and washed up at the kitchen sink, play fighting over having to share the space with her and a sack of potatoes waiting to get cut up for tomorrow’s potato salad.
Mama pitched a drying towel on his head. “You can scrub, peel, and cube those for me after dinner, Robin, while I catch up with Nora.”
* * * *
Seven hours of driving, a full supper, and a few rounds of rummy while Mama peppered them with every question on God’s green earth ought to have left him drowsy as hell. But by the time he and Nora took their turns in the bathroom and she pulled her PJs from her bag, a newfound friskiness started his cock wagging. Down to his undershorts, he made an obvious statement of interest. Or would, soon as she turned around and caught him.
She wriggled clear of her sweater. Static lifted her hair. Unzipped, her jeans hung off her hips. Three slim, sexy lines divided her back. Her pale blue bra didn’t come near to matching the depths of her blue eyes.
He snugged his cock against her ass and hugged her close. “You need those pajamas just yet?”
“This is your parents’ house.” Whisper aside, she rolled her hips in welcome. The honeyed scent of midsummer rose from her skin. “They’re right down the hall.”
“They had four of us kids.” Her bra came loose with ease, and he spanned her back, smoothing the dangling straps toward her arms. “I’m inclined to think they know what goes on in a bed and don’t oppose it.”
“Under their roof, though?” Her shimmy lowered her jeans and raised his cock.
He dipped his fingers into her panties. A little drift, a little tease. “The truck’s outside, and the bench seat’s ample.” Her wider stance invited investigation. He slid south and cupped her. Perfect fit for his palm, her lips soft and spreading. “How cold you figure it is outside just now? We can fog the windows if you like.”
She turned in his arms, presenting him with a handful of squeezable ass. He sneaked his other hand into her panties to fix the imbalance. Couldn’t leave her half unsqueezed.
His bold-eyed woman invaded his shorts and gripped his cock. “Too cold to keep this up.”
He hissed through his teeth. “You know someplace warmer?”
Sweet agony, her touch. For all the slow seduction of their teasing games, though, she’d never leave him hanging. Her appetite had grown with her confidence. Christ, they’d had fun building her up. Her promise to initiate, his rock-solid promise not to turn her down once. Whatever she asked for, whenever she asked, had gotten his enthusiastic yes for three straight weeks in September.
She captured his mouth in a deep kiss. “Condom?”
“My bag.” He stripped his shorts as she shed hers. “Side pocket.”
They’d talked some about Nora going on the pill, but he’d let the issue lie soon as she’d walked a h
alting path through explaining.
A time or two of forgetting to take hers, and she’d received a barrage of lectures on responsibility—with the end result being her husband had dispensed her birth control pill and supervised her while she swallowed one every damn morning for six years. She’d offered to get a new prescription and start them up again.
“I got a better idea.” He’d piled a stack of cock coats in her palms. “We’ll stick to these. You put them on me anytime you like, and I won’t have a thing to complain about.”
Fingers curled tight, she’d clutched the square packets. “You’re sure? I don’t want—” She’d pinched her lips, and a flicker-twitch had darted across her face. “I don’t want to be demanding. Controlling, as if I’m the only one whose feelings matter. I want us to make the important decisions together.”
“Whole world of difference, honey girl,” he’d told her. “You putting your hands on me is encouraging. And you in control’s sexy as hell.”
Still true. He lay back on the bed, and her intense focus as she worked the thin shield down his shaft riled up all the little swimmers in his balls. Her squeeze and tug, Christ. Fingers tonight, but she’d used her mouth a time or two, and he’d almost gone off early when she unrolled the latex with her lips and tongue.
Work done, she straddled him. Hell yes. He’d settle back and let her ride, his cock disappearing inside her, her breasts swaying to her rhythm—except she twisted instead of lifting up and taking him in. She gripped his thighs tight between her bent legs, though, and her anchoring her balance on him got him hot more often than not. Possession and trust. She didn’t hesitate to lean on him now.
Her twists and turns rubbed her belly against his cock. Her lips slid, slick and inviting, across his balls. She meant to tease him to death without even trying.
“Got it.” Her whisper swept over him in the same second she did, the quilts gathered in her fingers and over her shoulders like a cape. She flung the covers high, past their heads, and hot breaths and rustling limbs filled the darkness underneath. “Okay. Now you can love me, Rob.”
“Isn’t a minute goes by that I don’t.” He pitched his voice low and set his hands to roaming.
Thank God, the rest of his family lived closer and wouldn’t be showing up until morning. Bedcovers wouldn’t be enough to help Nora shut out the idea of folk hearing her tomorrow night when feet tromped on the stairs and the bathroom beside their room became grand central.
He loved her tender, their hips dancing to a song of hushed whispers and giggles and sighs. At her peak, she poured out a moan muffled against his throat. The new bed held up well under their finishing thrusts, with nary a squeak or a creak to betray what five’d give you twenty his parents already assumed they were doing in here.
She nudged the blankets down to their shoulders. The air thinned her rich honey musk. Hot enough under the covers they’d both gained a sweaty coating despite the slow pace.
He rid himself of the condom and sucked salt off her neck.
“Don’t you mark me with a hickey, Robin Vanderhoff.” Snuggling in closer, she resettled breast and hip and thigh in a glorious ripple all down his side. “I didn’t pack a turtleneck.”
“Gotta mark you somehow.” Like with the ring tucked safe in the jeans draped over his duffel. The urge pulled hardest in these moments, when she lay flushed and happy and his, her joy a treasure for his eyes and ears and fingers and nose and tongue. Every sense attuned to Nora please-God-someday-Vanderhoff Howard. “Wouldn’t want anyone stealing you away.”
“Somehow,” she murmured. “You’ll think of something.” In fumble-fingered bliss, she patted his chest. “My shirtless gentleman never fails.”
Her steady breathing and the warm weight of her draped half atop him as she slept inspired a dozen further attempts at composition. Each silent recitation ended with the same question—Will you marry me?—but none approached the grand, memorable event she deserved.
The clock on the nightstand ticked over. Thirty-five days, now. The asking weighed more than the ring.
* * * *
Christmas Eve dawned bright and cold, and the hours slipped by fast as a whirlwind. Marcus showed up with his brood in time to polish off the last of Mama’s fancy oven French toast.
Big brother blitzed through the kitchen crowd like the defensive lineman he’d been in school and punched his shoulder in greeting. He would’ve returned the favor, but Mama handed him fresh plates for the kids.
“Marcus Vanderhoff.” He leaned beside Nora at the sink. “The good-looking brother.” He waggled his left hand, flashing the titanium wedding band he’d worn for a dozen years. “Sadly, I’m already taken, but Robbiekins might make a passable husband someday.”
Nora flicked soapy water from her hands. “I dunno about that.”
The floor teetered underfoot, and not from the slam-welcome his four-year-old nephew’d delivered to his knees. The noise level dropped.
“Oh.” Marcus shifted his weight and shot him a grimace. “Sorry, I assumed.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Nora blushed red enough to pull Santa’s sleigh. “No, I was joking, I mean—” She shook her head. “I mean I couldn’t pass him up.”
The family roared, the littlest laughing with no idea why.
Sara’s crew hit mid-morning, and the pack of kids grew to six. Jilly arrived late as always. Soon as she and hers walked through the door, the whole family descended on the kitchen for lunch, scarfing everything in sight. Supper wouldn’t come until after the evening service, Marcus’s three being in the children’s pageant.
Not one moment belonged to him and Nora alone. Mama carted her off to the kitchen, the sewing room, the dining room with its photo albums. His sisters cornered her in the family room, overseeing the chaos eight youngsters caused, and the laughter coming from their nook had to be the scariest sound in the house. By two o’clock, the men had been dumped unceremoniously outside with the rowdiest of the bunch and ordered to spend at least two hours tiring them out.
Christmas finery went on afterward, and they trooped out and loaded up the vehicles to get good seats in the pews for the stunning transformation from nephews and niece to shepherd and sheep. Closest he came to alone time was sitting beside Nora in church. Hardly counted. He couldn’t very well interrupt the pastor’s sermon to ask how his girlfriend was holding up in the face of an extra sixteen Vanderhoffs in her daily routine.
He clasped her hand between his with the excuse of warming her chilled skin. Her ring would sit just there, add a new texture to memorize when he touched her. He had to abandon his hold all too soon in favor of his two-year-old niece begging “up” with her chubby hands waving. Not for his lap—for Nora’s. She snuggled the toddler close and played quiet games of naming and pointing and making faces. Tiny white shoes with gold buckles smacked his leg with every bouncy kick. Down the pew, Jilly whipped her phone out, snapping pictures and flashing him a thumbs-up.
Mama set out the fancy china for formal Christmas dinner in the dining room, the dishes ones she and Daddy’d gotten for their wedding forty-odd years back, after he’d come home from the service. Two tours in Vietnam, Army, maintenance corps, and on his first day back in Kansas he’d walked right into the grocers where Mama worked as a checkout girl and proposed. Down on one knee in front of God and everybody. Columnist even wrote it up for the local paper. For some anti-hippie screed about the importance of old-fashioned family values, sure, but every household in the county knew about Daddy’s dedication and the torch he’d carried day in and day out the three years he’d been gone.
Well past nine before they got the dining room squared away, the church clothes traded for comfortable lounging gear, and the younger generation bedded down with a movie marathon in the family room. Closing the panel doors cut off their view of the parlor and the fireplace. The sooty bootprints from the hearth to the tree would be one of the last tasks of the night. Mama hauled out the stocking stuffer box, and Nora helped her loa
d up the socks. More than fit across the mantel. A quilt stand got pressed into service for the runoff.
He planted himself in a seat and followed the proceedings from outside the flow. The mound of presents under the tree grew while the beer dwindled and the wine bottles emptied. Last-minute wrapping jobs went to Mama, and pristine presents came off the assembly line. Red-cheeked and laughing, his Nora, welcomed into the fold like a native. If he’d worked out the damn proposal plans faster, he could’ve been introducing her tonight at church as his wife-to-be. But every idea crowding his head came with a nagging suspicion attached. Not good enough. Not perfect. Not Nora.
She cocked her head toward him, and her wide smile dimmed beneath drawn brows. “What’s wrong?” she mouthed.
Shit, now he’d gone and worried her.
Daddy wedged a hand under his arm and heaved him to his feet. “C’mon. Outside. Getting so’s a man can’t breathe in here without knocking somewhat over.”
The cold air blasted his lungs. He stepped up to the porch rail. Stars winked through fuzzy halos of thin clouds.
Daddy smacked his hands down on the wood beside him and leaned out. “You gonna marry this girl, Robin?”
He slipped his hand in his pocket and brought out the ring pinched between his index and middle. “I aim to.”
Daddy’s low whistle cut a crisp note in the stillness. “Got that handled, too. Good man.”
“Not that good.” He folded his fingers tight, cupped the ring safe in his palm, and bounced his fist on the porch post. “I wanna ask her right. Unfurl a banner off the side of the barn. Fill the lobby at her work with balloons.” The first idea nixed—his luck, one of her coworkers would hit the panic button and he’d end up proposing from a jail cell while he explained about not being a bank robber. “Rent out the whole bowling alley for a fake company party and program the scoreboards to flash the question and nothing else.”
Daddy snorted. “Twenty years since the last time I gave you the talk on this porch. You swung outta that truck all scowls and grousing, and my heart thundered loud as the furnace kicking on. One chance, I told myself, to get the message through a mess of hormones and foolheadedness. Your mama wanted gentlemen for sons, and I wasn’t about to have any less in my house. S’pose you might’ve forgotten the finer points.”