Christmasly Obedient: Small Town Holiday Romantic Comedy Romance

by Julia Kent

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “I did. I just – I have more time now.”

  Nose twitching, his eyes stayed narrow. One very big, obvious sniff was followed by an even deeper glare. “I can smell Mike on you.”

  “What?” she squeaked.

  “I can smell him.”

  “But I took a shower!” Smacking her hands over her mouth, she was too late.

  Caught.

  Withering glances were Jeremy's second job. His first was being sarcasm champion of the world. “You need me for what? To take out the garbage?”

  “Not exactly. I want you. In bed.”

  Suspicion filled his face, the beard making him positively wild.

  Wilderness wild.

  Untamed, unbound, and ruthless.

  “I'm not buying this. Something smells, and not just your – ”

  “HEY!”

  “Look. I just spent the last four hours fighting with a log splitter and losing.”

  “You're hurt?”

  “No. I lost because that's four hours of my life splitting wood that I'll never get back.”

  “Mike says it's peaceful to cut wood. Warms you twice. Once when you chop it, once when you burn it.”

  “If I want to raise my body temperature, I can think of far better things to do than chop wood.” The look he gave her was not entirely frosty.

  She sensed her chance. “Speaking of which,” she murmured, stroking a soft spot of exposed skin at the base of his throat.

  Instead of body language that made him interested, she got a tense wall of stone.

  And a frown to go with it, like a broken toy in a Happy Meal she didn't want.

  “What're you doing?”

  “Trying to have sex with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we're partners, and I find you arousing.”

  “That part's a given. But you have an ulterior motive.”

  “No, I don't.”

  “You're a terrible liar, Lydia.”

  “I am not! I'm a very good liar!”

  “Good liars never admit they are.”

  “Then I'm a terrible liar!”

  “You turned me down when I tapped on your thigh with a flesh baseball bat this morning. I had a crazy sex dream about you, Gritty the Mascot from Philly, and a giant jar of raw honey.”

  “That's what you dream when you have a sex dream? You conjure up having sex with a hockey team mascot?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I'm not sure whether to be more offended that you have Furry dreams or that it wasn't the Bruins mascot.”

  “Don't bag on me because of my dreams! They're not my fault. And I woke up with massive morning wood.”

  “Not my fault you're aroused by costumed, uh... what is Gritty?”

  “I am not deconstructing my sex dream! And let's get back to you. I get rejected, and now you smell like sex. You showered after you admit to screwing Mike instead of me, and now you're suddenly horny?”

  “Yes,” she said, drawing out the word, a spike of fear zooming up from her womb to her throat.

  “Then why do you look like you're about as excited to make love as you are to clean out hummingbird feeders.”

  “I love cleaning out hummingbird feeders!”

  “LYDIA.”

  “Fine. The condom broke,” she babbled, hating the words but unable to stop them. “And Mike made me come so that's why it broke, maybe? That's never happened to me before! I mean, I’ve come before. Haha, you should know. The condom, though. Never had one break like that. I didn't think you could break one of those, really, like it was an urban legend. And we weren't being super athletic or anything, although the sex was good. Great, really. But not enough to do that! We don't know, and it's day fourteen of my cycle, and we didn't know what to do and then Mike told me I had to come and find you and fuck you so you have a chance of maybe being the baby's father so it's all fair and – ”

  Jeremy's gloved, cold hand covered her mouth.

  In full.

  His mouth in an O of shock that clearly showed even under his furry beard, he just blinked.

  And blinked.

  And blinked again, cloth-covered palm against her lips. She tasted salt, oak, and maybe, ew – spiderweb.

  Where had his hand been?

  “The condom broke,” he said slowly, blinking fast like a hummingbird's wings.

  “Mmph.”

  “And you're fertile?”

  “Mmph.”

  “And Mike told you to find me to have sex so we fill you with both of our sperm so we get an equal chance at making a baby inside you?”

  When he put it that way...

  She just nodded, once.

  “That. Is. In. Sane.”

  This time, she stayed silent. Motionless, too.

  “INSANE, LYDIA,” he bellowed, but then he did something she wasn't expecting.

  He pulled her into a ginormous bear-hug, leaning down, mouth next to her ear.

  And he whispered, “Mike got a head start on me. His swimmers have first crack at your eggs.”

  “Swimmers? Eggs?” she croaked out.

  “I know how conception works. I've spent close to two decades doing my damnedest not to father children. And suddenly, I'm supposed to sleep with you so I get a fair shot?” His beard scratched against her earlobe, a long one poking inside her ear canal, making her wrench away.

  But his embrace held firm.

  “That's Mike's reasoning. If... if I become pregnant and only Mike slept with me, then you wouldn't have had the chance to conceive, so he thinks we – ”

  “Swirl the sperm together and see which one sticks? Your womb turns into a sexy Vitamix?” He huffed. “But we never talked about kids.” Thick brows furrowed, the sense of how fully present he was as he absorbed her story making her start to quake inside.

  This was real. She really, truly, could become pregnant.

  And what had seemed like a silly whim on Mike's part now felt so urgent.

  “We are now.” She sighed, feeling Mike's influence in how she did it. “I can't take Plan B. No hormones, remember? So, if Mike got a shot – even accidentally – we felt you should get a shot, too.”

  “This isn't Hamilton, Lydia. I'm not worried about throwing away my shot.”

  A giggle erupted from her at the reference.

  “If Mike didn't get you pregnant, but you and I have unprotected sex, it just increase the chances.”

  “Yes.”

  “What if – what if we do this, and you conceive, and it's from me? You'd have given me this shot and it would be...”

  “I know.”

  His hands moved up from her shoulders to her jawline, cradling her face in his gloved hands, eyes so earnest she nearly burst in two from the tenderness. Grumpy Jeremy was vanquished, replaced by this guy, the same one who'd been so kind to her in Iceland, the guy who just knew how to be present.

  To be there.

  To be a companion.

  A lover? Sure. Life partner? Absolutely.

  But also – her friend.

  “What do you want?” he asked, sure and true. “I'll do what you want. Not what makes the most sense, or what Mike dictates, or what's fair. None of that matters, Lydia. This is your body. This is your choice. This is your call to make. What do you want?”

  Nimble fingers went to his belt buckle, the tug of his shirt letting one of her cold fingers stroke against his navel, Jeremy curling his abs away from the icy touch. She grinned as blood flowed fast where his body wanted it most and Lydia's hands hastened that job, thank you very much.

  Huh. Guess what she wanted was him. She hadn't known it until he asked her that simple, aching question.

  What did she want?

  As their mouths crashed together, his tall body bent over hers, curling into her with a protective streak she always treasured, she felt it loud and clear.

  Fairness.

  She wanted fairness.

  The rules of their threesome never
made sense to the outside world. Long ago, she'd given up trying to explain, the triad inventing their own rules as they went along. Doubling her chances of being pregnant after an accident seemed absolutely ludicrous, but as she pulled him into the woodshed and found the old, torn vinyl recliner her dad shoved in there years ago to sit in while he whittled, she pushed Jeremy into it, pulled down her pants, and climbed right on, warm and wet and needing this.

  The shock of his cold, bare skin surprised her, sending a river of thrills through her core, up between her breasts, thighs zinging with the madness of what she was doing with him. Ever the eager partner, he made it safe to want something so wanton.

  So nonsensical.

  So absurd.

  If Mike was the steady, confident, sometimes overbearingly stubborn partner, Jeremy was affable and loose, up for anything, so adaptable it was infuriating.

  Until moments like this, when she needed that more than anything in the world.

  Hands wrapped around the back of the chair, she rode him with a rhythm that made him breathe harder and harder, the athleticism of the quickie turning into something more, something deeper, until his hips moved up, hands hungry for her ass, guiding them with a precision that made her stop breathing, just feel the full-body clamp that seized her, all sensation both there and not, her body holding on in the in-between.

  Which was fitting, because her womb was there, too, leading the way.

  The climax lasted, Jeremy's body sending all the signals she knew well after so much time together, his groan of appreciation nothing compared to the sense of completion that filled her.

  Even. They were even.

  Everything was balanced between the three of them once again.

  Whew.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat with meaning, shoulders loose in that way she loved, a general full-body relaxation in Jeremy's tall, wiry form that made her feel like she'd accomplished something important.

  Through the simple act of making love.

  “That was, um...”

  He kissed her temple and whispered in her ear. “I hope that was what you wanted.”

  “It was.” She kissed him back and murmured, “But more important – it was what I needed.”

  4

  Mike

  “Gimme another one,” Mike demanded, tapping the green felt with meaning.

  If Sandy dealt him a heart, he had a possible low flush here, and given the poker pot, that meant Mike was close to cracking a twenty-dollar profit in this game.

  Money well earned.

  Money he used to earn in the half-second while shaking off after taking a piss in his executive bathroom at Bournham Industries.

  Jeremy shot him major side-eye. “You personally trying to keep BlueBrew in business?” Blueberry beer was a Maine staple. Every few years, a new group of young dudebros founded yet another brand. This one had hints of cinnamon and bacon in it, which wasn't half bad, and didn't matter a bit when you were on your seventh? eighth? beer in five hours.

  But who was counting?

  “Shuddup.” They were in Lydia, Mike, and Jeremy's cabin, their woman sound asleep in their bedroom, the closest thing to in-laws Mike and Jeremy would ever have currently trouncing them in poker.

  Who knew a rural Maine couple like Sandy and Pete could be card sharks?

  Being the true friend he was, Jeremy did, indeed, hand him another beer.

  And shut up.

  The card Sandy slid over to him was full of promise. Hope. Possibility. Not yet known, its identity could change the course of this entire poker game, the balance of winning vs. losing possessed by whatever its mystery held.

  Eyes cutting over to Jeremy, he realized that was how this whole pregnancy question with Lydia worked, too.

  Every part of their lives would change depending on a single answer to a question they had never intended to ask.

  “I can't believe Lydia went to bed so early,” Sandy said, shaking her head as Mike curled the corner of the card up and barely kept his poker face.

  Damn.

  Three of clubs.

  Good things come in three, but not when they're cards like that.

  “She's tired,” Jeremy said casually, ignoring Mike's sharp glance.

  “She's been so tired lately. Have you noticed?” Sandy asked her husband, Pete, who yawned in response, inspiring laughter around the table.

  “Maybe it runs in the family?” Pete opined the second he was done, which made Mike laugh.

  No one else appreciated the humor.

  “I am fine,” Sandy said in an over-enunciating voice that made it clear if Lydia's tiredness was genetic, it didn't come from her.

  “It's winter,” Pete said with a wave, as if that explained everything.

  “She isn't a bear who needs to hibernate,” Sandy scoffed as she spread her hand out on the table and declared, “full house.”

  Mike groaned.

  Jeremy harrumphed.

  Pete yawned.

  And then Mike wondered if she knew how close they might be to having a fuller house.

  “Ah hah! Come to mama,” Sandy declared, scooping the chips in. “This will buy me a nice skein of cashmere for that scarf I've been meaning to make.”

  “I'm out,” Jeremy said, throwing his cards in the pile of discards. He yawned, smacking Pete on the shoulder. “And he gave me his yawn!”

  “I did not. Besides,” Pete said, yawning again. “There. I took it back.”

  “You two are like a Little Bear book,” Sandy said with a laugh.

  “What's that?” Mike asked.

  “Little Bear? The children's books?”

  “Is that a Maine thing?” he ventured.

  Even Jeremy seemed to know what she was talking about, the three of them a bit blurry but their emotional state clear.

  He was the odd man out.

  “Your parents never read the Little Bear books to you?” Sandy asked, incredulous.

  “My mom and dad were born in the 1930s, but even they read those to me,” Jeremy said. “A Kiss For Little Bear.”

  “Yes!” Sandy replied with delight. “When you two are parents, you'll have to make sure to read them to our grandkids.”

  Mike blinked.

  Jeremy didn't.

  And silence reigned.

  “Sandy,” Pete finally whispered. “We agreed you weren't going to say such things.”

  “No,” she said softly. “You and Lydia asked me not to. And I haven't. Until now.”

  Why now? Mike wondered, suddenly woozy and paranoid all at once, the mix a bad combination, like vodka and peppermint schnapps. Could she read minds? Smell fertility on her daughter? Sense the potential?

  “I still have mine,” Jeremy said softly. “A few old books. I found them when I was cleaning out my parents' house.”

  “Then you'll be able to read them to your children. What a lovely legacy I'm sure your mother would have enjoyed.” Sandy's kind smile unnerved Jeremy, Mike knew.

  The guy was never quite sure how to act in the face of emotional connection.

  Pete stood, offering his wife a hand. “I think it's time to leave,” he said as Mike took a swig of his beer and decided that this was definitely his last.

  Any more and his eyeballs would float out into the ocean and get stuck in the Azores by noon the next day.

  “Why?” Sandy asked.

  “Because Lydia's asleep, and you're pressuring these guys for grandchildren.”

  “I am not pressuring them! The topic just happened to come up, and I – ”

  Pete bent down and quieted her with a kiss.

  Mike’s and Jeremy's gazes went anywhere but on those two.

  Bending farther, Pete whispered something in her ear that made her giggle.

  Which made Mike take another swig of beer.

  “Sheesh,” Jeremy muttered under his breath as he stood abruptly, long legs making the walk to the fridge a three-step process. He opened it, pulled out a small cheesecake with a quarter
of it left, and cut himself a slice.

  Sandy had brought it for the poker game. Mike knew they had a matching one back home, so didn't feel bad Jeremy ate it in front of her, but jealousy reared its ugly head when he began taking bites, careful to smear the caramel-pecan glaze all over the fork before spearing a piece.

  Mike stood, took two steps toward the cheesecake, then grabbed the edge of the table and laughed, a loose sound that made him realize he was drunk.

  Not tipsy.

  Drunk.

  “Hoo boy. Too much BlueBrew?” Pete asked, making Mike smile.

  “Yep.”

  “Well, you could do worse.”

  “Tell him that in the morning,” Jeremy cracked.

  “Save some of that for me,” Mike called out, making Jeremy halt mid-bite, the fork comically suspended in mid-air, a big drop of caramel at the corner of his guilty-looking mouth.

  With a wave of her hand, Sandy settled it. “I made three. Adam isn't a fan of pecans. You can have his if you want it.”

  “If? What kind of question is that?” Jeremy said around a mouthful of sweetness.

  Laughing, Sandy and Pete made their way to the door, effortlessly wrapping themselves in coats, scarves, hats with earflaps, and thick gloves. A smile stretched Mike's face nice and wide.

  Christmas jazz played softly in the background, the local station a mainstay this time of year for all-things-Christmas. Snow fell in fat, lazy flakes outside, the first week of December crisp and soothing. Living in the woods was a constant reminder that cities were the aberration.

  This? This was real life.

  Finishing off his beer, he waved as the couple left, arm in arm, Sandy's pockets nicely stuffed with her winnings. It wasn’t as if he and Jeremy couldn't afford to lose. Good grief.

  They were both billionaires.

  If losing a few rounds of poker meant Sandy could buy some cashmere yarn for a scarf, so be it.

  “You ’runk,” Jeremy murfled around his final bite of cheesecake. Opening the fridge, he dug for the plate again.

  “HEY! Save some for us.”

  “You heard Sandy. She has a whole new one for us.”

  “That doesn't mean you should eat it all.”

  “That's exactly what it means, Mike.”

  “You are a cheesecake hoarder.” The words were out of his mouth before he started to laugh uproariously.