The timer beeps again, and I hurry to the kitchen.
“What’s that?” Mandi asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re making my ungrateful brother Andi’s sugar cookies?”
“No…”
“Liar!”
“Just a few,” I admit, pulling the cookie sheet from the oven. “They’re basically dinner.”
“You cannot have cookies for dinner. They’re a dessert food.”
My gaze snags on Tripp’s and locks. All I can think is that dessert—the most forbidden dessert of all—is standing right in front of me. And now that we’re going to be snowed in overnight, I don’t know how my resolve will hold up.
Do I even want to resist such delicious temptation?
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I argue. “I think I’m allowed to have cookies for dinner.”
“It’s probably the best you’re going to get with Tripp. I bet his pantry is empty. Don’t worry. I’ll feed you better tomorrow. He promised me he’ll get the two of you to my house in time to open presents.”
The reminder that both Tripp and I will be at Mandi’s tomorrow should be the cold glass of water dumped over my head I need. But when the call ends and I hand his phone back to him, I get the distinct impression—from his molten lava expression—that it’s too late to put out the fire we started.
Maybe this year, Iwantto be on Santa’s naughty list.
Chapter 6
Tripp
“Why do you hate Christmas?”Harley asks from across the kitchen island as she breaks apart a freshly baked sugar cookie and takes a bite.
The little moan of pleasure she makes causes the blood to rush south, not that my cock needs any help getting all the way hard again. After that fucking kiss in the kitchen earlier, I’ve been stuck at half-mast. Not even the negative temperature outside was enough to calm the fucker all the way down.
I want Harley.
I want her in the worst fucking way.
And now that we’re stranded together inmycabin overnight, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to resist her. Not when I know she wants this as badly as I do. It’s only the thought that we’ll both have to face my sister tomorrow that keeps me rooted in my barstool.
“Does it matter?”
“I want to know.” She holds out the other half of her cookie to me in offering. “Cookie for your thoughts?”
Because talking about my deadbeat dad has promise of chilling the mood, I accept the cookie.
“Hey!” she scolds as I take a bite.
“Story fuel,” I say.
“Oh.” She leans both elbows on the counter, catching her face in her palms. She pulled off her hoodie right after her phone call with Mandi, which means I have a nice view of that red bra from where her tank top dips. I can practically feel the lace in my palm.
“My dad left on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Mandi never said anything.”
“She was hardly a year old. She doesn’t remember him. But me? I was old enough that I can’t erase that unwanted memory. Much as I’d fucking like to.”
