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“ChristmasEve, Faith. It’s not Christmas yet.” She’s trying to sound like she’s playfully teasing, but I hear the edge in her voice.
Margaret turns back to me with a winning smile, pushing up her chest in hopes that I’ll get lost in her vast cleavage. I don’t fall for it, not when the only woman in the room who has my attention is Faith.
“Does it really matter, Mom?” Faith shoots back.
I hate watching the expression of hurt appear on her face and nearly throw Margaret off of me. But instead, I gently lift her hands from my arms and move her to the side. Margaret stands dumbly, unsure how to react to me rejecting her advances, as I step forward.
“Pardon me for wanting to be accurate,” Margaret huffs.
She turns on her black stiletto heels—I wonder what type of woman willingly wears them in her own home—to open up a cabinet on the other side of the room. “Let me grab a serving tray, and we’ll have these cookies.”
While Margaret busies herself, I move closer to Faith. From here, I can smell her, the sugar cookies, and vanilla, all things sweet, wafting from her body. My mouth waters, and all I want to do is take a bite out of her. Her scent is intoxicating, enough to bring me to my knees.
She’s wearing a sweet sweater and tight black leggings. I can see the gentle curve of her ass, and almost stop breathing when she stands on her tiptoes and leans over the counter, giving me a perfect view of her sculpted legs. All I want is to hoist her over my shoulder and take her back to my house, where I can finally make her mine.
Stop! I can’t…
“You’ve made some wonderful cookies,” I whisper under my breath as I grab a sweater-shaped cookie. Faith straightens and looks at me in shock, like she can’t believe I’m complimenting her on the cookies I know she made.
Her blue eyes go as wide as saucers, and being this close to her, I notice that there’s a smattering of freckles across her nose. My stomach tenses, and I feel like an animal. I lock eyes with her as I bite into the cookie, letting the sweetness dance across my tongue.
Damn.It tastes amazing. Faith is an incredible baker, and just when I thought she couldn’t be any more perfect.
“Oh, I uh. No, it’s okay. My mom did—” she stammers.
I understand why she lies for her mom, but it pains me.
“I know the truth, Faith. Don’t worry.” I wink. It’s the only advance I’ll allow myself to make at her. I’ll behave the rest of the night, not because I want to, but because I have to.
Margaret pops between us with a garish plastic serving dish patterned with holly leaves. She pretends to be shocked when she sees that I’ve taken a bite already. It’s overdone, as if she’s an actress on stage, playing to the back row. In close quarters, it’s annoying and insincere.
“Vincent! Tut, tut,” she says, playfully slapping me on the hand. “You just couldn’t wait to help yourself to my baking, could you? Well, I surely don’t blame you. But let’s go start up the fireplace, hmm?”
Margaret struts off toward the living room, and I motion for Faith to go ahead of me.
“After you,” I say with a small wave.
She smiles at me from beneath a strand of hair on her face, and before I can stop myself, I wipe that stripe of flour off of her cheek. She lets out a soft gasp when my thumb makes contact with her face but maintains eye contact while her face turns red-hot.
She smiles again but quickly turns away, following her mother. I keep pace close behind, keeping my eyes on the back of her head. Wouldn’t want Margaret to catch me staring at her daughter’s ass. I must keep some semblance of decorum.
Margaret sits on the couch with one leg crossed over the other. Her green dress has ridden up enough that I can see the lace garter of her pantyhose. Faith must notice too because she gives a hefty eyeroll as she flops into the easy chair facing the couch. Margaret is patting the cushion beside her, but I decline and sit on the opposite arm of the couch, leaving one seat between us.
A friendly evening between neighbors. That’s all this is.
3
FAITH
I can’t believehe’s here. In our living room, on our couch. His large frame makes the space feel smaller. His body is so muscular, it should have the couch crumbling beneath his weight. I wonder what it would be like to feel that weight against me.
My cheeks heat at the thought, and I force myself to think about something else… anything else.
I could pinch myself. His top lip curls slightly in disgust when he looks at my mother. I can’t believe he sees right through her. No one ever believes me, or maybe no one cared enough to.
Vincent is different in every way. I’ve never met anyone like him, and I don’t think I ever will. He seems so in control of his every move like his body and mind are well trained, but every time he looks at my mom, I can see his disgust. The more I watch him, I realize that he mustreallydislike her to show so much disdain on his face.
The question is, why did he come over then? Surely, not because of me.
