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I hold my hands up, stepping between my soon-to-be-warring siblings if I don’t intervene. “Okay, children, that’s enough.” I laugh, throw my arm over Bailey’s shoulder, and pull her into the lounge. “I’ll get the alcohol, and you will sit here and breathe, okay? Stick on one of your Hellmark movies, have a cup of tea, and we’ll get everything sorted for tonight.”
“It’s Hallmark,” she mumbles, narrowing her eyes.
“Sure, that’s what I said.” I wink, then nudge her onto the couch and toss the remote on her lap. “Chill, Bails. We’ve got this.”
She playfully mimics me, flipping me the bird, but thankfully takes my advice and starts flicking through the channels before I can even say my goodbyes.
I find Kai in the dining room, wave my keys in his direction, and he nods.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, eyeing the sketchpad he has spread out on the oak table.
“Hiding.” He tosses his pencil on the skull-and-crossbones drawing and pushing his chair back. “Bailey scares me.”
“Bailey scares everyone. It’s part of her charm.”
He snorts, then rolls his neck. “I don’t think there’s anything charming about the noises that come from that girl’s mouth when she’s not getting her way,” he says. “But it does make you wonder whatothernoises might come from that pretty little—”
My palm collides with the back of his head, and he stumbles. “Don’t even think about it, dickhead.”
“Fine. If we can’t talk about your sister and what she can do with her mouth…” I clench my fist and aim it at his gut, but he dodges, barking out a laugh. “Then we should talk about that gorgeous best friend of hers.”
“If you wanted to die today, you just had to say so.”
“You’d miss me too much if you killed me,” he says, following me from the dining room and out to the car.
“Debatable,” I deadpan.
“How’s all that going, anyway?” he asks as I pull away from the cottage.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I quip, fiddling with the radio until I find something that isn’t Christmas music. I love Christmas as much as the next person, but every now and then, everyone needs a reprieve from Michael Bublé.
“Dude, I’ve known you for over twenty years; let’s not pretend I didn’t figure out your game plan within minutes of stepping inside the cottage.”
“And what is said game plan?”
“Irritate the shit out of Ryan until she gives in and admits she’s as madly in love with you as you are with her.”
“And here I was, thinking I was being subtle,” I jest.
“There’s nothing fucking subtle about leaving me hanging in the pub so you can answer to her every need.”
“She’s better company than you.”
“I’m sure she is. After all, I’m not the one you want to stick your dick in,” he says, wagging his brows when I flash my eyes his way. “Though, I’d be open to it after a few tequilas if I ever took your fancy…”
“Great. I’ll make sure we stock up, then.”
“If you could, and don’t forget the lube. Dry dogging isn’t the one.”
“You speak from experience, do you?”
“You know me,” he says, tapping his fingers against the window. “I’ll try anything once.”
“Dry dogging, though. Really? There’s no way that didn’t fucking sting.”
“Mate, my eyes watered, it was that painful. She forgotthe lube,apparently.”
“Fuck me.”
