Slowly, so slowly, he widens the top of the neck and lowers it over my head as I lift my arms and push them through the sleeves. Eyes locked, he releases the towel, pulling the sweatshirt down my body, the soft fabric grazing my nipples, the bottom hem skimming to rest at the top of my thighs.
“But I want you to know I’ve thought about you a lot over the years, Whitney Collins. A lot.” My lips part as he leans in, his whisper covering me in warmth. “You are pretty fucking unforgettable.” Dipping, he presses a lingering kiss to my tear-stained cheek, his lashes my focal point until he flicks his gaze back to me, stunning me stupid.
“I’ll be a friend, Whitney, if you’ll have me.” Unable to fucking think, to breathe, he breaks our stare off, turning and grabbing a ready water bottle and a few ibuprofens, which he must have brought in with him.
“Take these and drink the whole thing. It will help flush the toxins out.”
“Yessir.” I give him a halfhearted mock salute popping the pills and taking a large drink of the water. Ice-colored blue eyes scour me thoroughly before he grabs his magic bottle and heads toward the door. He stops, standing just next to me.
“Try to get as much sleep as you can, okay?”
“I don’t think that will be an issue for me tonight.”
“Can’t say the same,” he swallows, his eyes darting away. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” I rasp out, utterly stunned by the last twenty minutes—the TLC he just showered me with, and his words despite my horrible behavior. I stare at the door as he closes it behind him. Echoes of my time with him remain in the room as I wrap my arms around myself, surrounded by nostalgia and the feel of the sweatshirt on my naked skin. Longingly, I gaze at the closed door, a fast fantasy forming of him bursting through it to claim me. Butterflies unstoppable, I do my best to clear my head and follow orders, downing the water before diving into bed. I surprise myself by easily sinking into a deep sleep.
Wretched Gretchen, aka my aunt, does us all the honor of arriving promptly at 8 a.m. the following morning. Due to my massage-induced coma, I missed Eli and Peyton’s daybreak date—though I’m positive by the way they’re huddled on the couch together when I come downstairs, it was kept. Warmth from the fire surrounds me as I gaze at the two of them watching The Lion King on Thatch’s iPad.
“What you looking at, sis?” Brenden smirks, coffee in hand where he stands at the threshold of the kitchen.
“Oh, that pause? I knew I smelled something…foul,” I snark, staring pointedly at him.
“That’s the stench of success. Drink it in,” he fans his hand as if sharing his essence in my direction before heading to the table just as the doorbell rings.
Dread cloaks my every pore because I know, without a doubt, on the other side stands Satan’s mistress. Just as I open the door, she barks her first command.
“Well, hurry up, girl. I’m not getting any warmer.”
“Good morning, Aunt Gretchen,” I say, opening the door wide because Gretchen has a little girth that only adds to her menacing gait.
Wretched Gretchen is the very definition of the hairy-mole-infused aunt that makes you want to Austin Powers her by screaming “mo-lie, mo-lie, mo-lie” as she comes toward you for unwanted affection. She’s every bit fitting of the villain relative included in every holiday horror story. The terrifying aunt that brings over the mortifying bunny suit and makes you try it on, reveling in your humiliation for her own amusement.
Over the years, I’ve gotten a lot less sheepish around her and attuned to her snarks and quirks, which oddly, is more terrifying than the brush of a hairy mole kiss. Reason being? If I’m not careful, she could be the very picture of my distant future.
Gretchen never married, never had children, and lives alone in her mansion in the mountains in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Thankfully—for all of us—this is a short drive away, which makes her visit brief. Gretchen steps into the house dressed in sweats and an oversized coat more fit for an Alaskan winter hike. She’s got the build of my father, and though she’s high maintenance, there’s nothing glaringly feminine about her. Even her poorly dyed, ink-black hair is cropped close to her head.
“How have you been?”
She gives me the side-eye and harrumphs. “You would know if you picked up the phone once in a while.” Her eyes narrow. “I see we aren’t using the antiwrinkle cream I gave you last Christmas.” While stifling my first long exhale, she delivers her second order. “Go get my presents, would you? I’ve popped the trunk.”