But I don’t miss the way he checks him out. In fact, all the guys are. How could they not? Tex looks delicious. Like a frosted Christmas cookie. Okay, he actually looks way better than a frosted Christmas cookie. He looks like… A walking wet dream. The same one I’m surely going to have later tonight. Tex just laughs it off good-naturedly. He’s used to drawing attention, good and bad. I guess we have that in common.
I tug at my beard, intending to ditch it now that I’m no longer expected to play the part of Saint Nick.
West holds up his phone. “Whoa, hold on. First, let me get a picture of the two of you before you start undressing.” Tex curls up against my chest, his slender fingers sliding over my pec, and lays his head against me. “Say eggnog.”
“Eggnog,” Tex chimes.
Not me, though. I’m speechless. With him this close to me, touching me–yeah, no, fuck eggnog. And West and his camera.How am I getting more play in this godawful suit than ever before in my entire life? It makes zero sense. Even after he’s done clicking his camera, Tex stays close.
“You feel warm and cuddly,” he purrs, stroking my chest. My nipple hardens under his touch. If he doesn’t back away, it’s not the only thing about to be hard.
“Ho ho ho, Bitches,” Pharo calls as he strides into the room. Jesus Christ, we could be twins. He’s dressed identically to me.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Jax asks, eyeing his red suit.
“The VA hospital in Asheville.”
“The VA is a dirty word around here,” McCormick jokes.
Pharo frowns. “Yeah, well, tell that to the kids whose parents are laid up in the beds there and they’re afraid Santa won’t find them at the hospital this year.”
I tug off my beard and toss it on a nearby chair. “The food goes over on that table,” I point out.
Pharo places a glass bowl on the table, and when he removes the tin foil covering, the smell of cinnamon and coconut fills the room. “What did you bring?”
“A traditional Egyptian dessert. Om Ali.”
“And we’re supposed to know what that is,” Jax asks with an attitude. Everything Pharo does gives Jax an attitude.
Pharo isn’t going to entertain him, as usual. “Why don’t you shut your mouth and open your fucking eyes. It’s puff pastry, coconut flakes, raisins, cream, cinnamon, and pistachios. You’re not by any chance allergic to pistachios, are you?” he asks. Jax shakes his head. “Too bad,” Pharo laments, “I guess it won’t kill you then.” Jax glares. “What?” Pharo snaps. He sounds completely fed up with Jax.
“Mall Santa to sick children, fuckingBetty Crocker,andyou find time to do all that in between numerous deploymentsaround the world? You’re just a regular fuckingRambo, but all the good deeds in the world won’t erase your sins.”
“What-the-fuck-ever Jax. What did you bring, paper fucking plates? Go sit your whiny ass down.”
Tex shoots me a side glance. “Geez, the temperature dropped fifty degrees in this room.”
I flick the white fluffy ball on the tip of his hat. “Par for the course with those two. Just ignore their bullshit. Can I get you something to eat?”
“I would love to try that dessert Pharo just brought.”
That shouldn’t make me green with jealousy, but it kinda does. He’s not saying he wants to taste Pharo, just his puff pastry. Nope, still sounds filthy in my head.
When I serve him a plate piled high with warm, creamy puff pastry, he makes a show of sliding the fork between his lips before licking them clean.
I feel it in my balls.
“Who made that?” he asks, pointing to a table at the opposite end of the room. “Is that the kind of stuff you make in group?”
I recognize Brandt's green-knit Christmas trees that I swear to God resemble butt plugs. A knit sack filled with what I guess are presents rests next to the largest tree. Tiny houses adorn the village and I can’t figure out how he knitted them, but they’re definitely made of yarn. “Brandt has been working on that for the past four months. He’s really proud of it.”
“Well then, I guess I shouldn’t point out that those Christmas trees look like sex toys,” he laughs.
“Probably best if you keep quiet,” I warn.
Stiles calls out, “This is fucking delicious,” around a mouthful of McCormick’sBeanie Weenies. He’s shoving them into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in a month. “Did you use the good hotdogs or that off-brand shit?”
McCormick looks insulted. “Come on, what do you take me for? It’s Christmas. I used the good shit. I had a coupon,” he boasts proudly.
