“What’s happening right now?” I croak.
“Are you ready? I’m going to try something.”
“I like this already.” My gaze is glued to her beaded nipples.
“You like this, right?” she prompts, cupping those perfect tits.
My dick twitches. “Yes.”
“How hard are you, percent-wise?”
“Right now?” I reach down and cup my semihardening cock. “Forty percent?” I estimate.
“All right, are you ready for this? The Boxing Day Beatdown. TD Garden. Private ice time.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Garrett Graham.” Another pause. “John Logan.”
I swallow.
She doesn’t miss the response, faintly smirking at me.
“Hunter Davenport.”
My dick twitches again.
“Jake Connelly.”
“Oh my God, stop,” I groan. “Are you saying you spend Boxing Day skating with all those guys?”
“Oh yeah. It’s a tradition. All the kids play too. We pick captains. It gets intense.” She gazes south. “What’s the percentage now?”
I squeeze my cock. Appraising it. “Eighty percent.”
She breaks out in gales of laughter. Then she shucks her tiny boxer shorts and bright-red panties and climbs on top of me, tits swaying.
“Wait. I left out the best part.” She beams down at me. “Gigi Graham.”
“One hundred percent,” I growl, and then I lift her ass up and guide her down onto my rock-hard dick.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
RYDER
You can call me Mr. Graham
THE GRAHAM HOUSE LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF A HALLMARK movie. It’s a sprawling brick colonial in an affluent neighborhood, set far back from the tree-lined street, with a four-car garage and pillared entrance. Inside, the front entryway is intimidating, but once I venture deeper into the house, I realize it’s actually cozy in here. The furniture isn’t modern and sterile, but warm and lived in, and the décor is mostly family photographs and framed achievements.
“Have you always lived here?” I ask after Gigi gives me the tour.
It’s Christmas Eve and we got here about an hour ago. We’re the only ones in the house right now; her folks stepped out to grab something from the store, and Wyatt hasn’t arrived yet. His flight from Nashville doesn’t get in till the afternoon, according to Gigi.
“No, after Wyatt and I were born we spent the first couple of years in a brownstone downtown. But my parents wanted more space.” She rolls her eyes. “The house they picked is probably overkill for a family of four. Six thousand square feet, eight bedrooms, four bathrooms. It’s a bit intense.”
She leads me into the cavernous living room, which she calls the great room. I stop at the wall of windows overlooking the yard, admiring the carpet of white and the threads of frost clinging to the skeletons of the trees. It started snowing last night and Gigi was thrilled, raving about how much she loves a white Christmas.
A wet nose nudges my hand. I peer down and grin at Dumpy the golden lab. The dogs have been following us around since we got here.
“They really like you,” Gigi remarks.
“Why are you so surprised?”
“With your prickly demeanor? Seems like you’d scare animals away, send them fleeing in terror.”
I bend down to rub behind Dumpy’s ears. “Nah, man. We understand each other.” I look at Bergeron. “Right?”
The husky tilts his head, listening intently.
“Are you sure you’re cool staying in the guest room?” Gigi says. “It’s the only way my dad would let you stay here.”
I want to ask if Case stayed in the guest room when he visited, but I don’t want to sound like I’m bitching about the sleeping arrangements. Truth is, I wouldn’t step foot in Gigi’s bedroom even if her parents rolled out a red carpet in front of it. I don’t have a death wish.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Yes, Case always stayed in the guest room. But if you’re good, I’ll let you sneak into my room after everyone is asleep.”
“Hard pass.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I don’t want to get murdered by Garrett Graham.”
Then again, judging by the way he frowns at me when he and his wife get home, murder is looking like a likely option, regardless of where I sleep.
“Mr. Ryder,” he says coolly.
“Please don’t call him mister,” Gigi orders, rolling her eyes at her dad.
Mrs. Graham is a lot friendlier. “Welcome, Luke. I’m glad you’re spending Christmas with us.”
She flashes a smile that sparkles in her forest-green eyes. And since I don’t want to correct her for calling me Luke, I suppose I’m going to be Luke this week, whether I like it or not. Because there’s no way I’m doing anything to alienate the Grahams.
“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Graham.”
“Oh, call me Hannah, please,” she insists.
Her husband offers a deceptively pleasant smile. “And you can call me Mr. Graham.”
So that’s how it’s going to be.
“Do you need help preparing dinner?” I ask, because it’s officially time for the awkwardness portion of the day to commence.
It’s always like this the first time you spend a holiday with people. I went through the same thing with Owen’s family, Lindley’s family, Beck’s. You’re just kind of standing there, not really part of it, but pretending to be. It’s fucking brutal.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fit in somewhere.
Hannah tries damn hard to include me, though. When I offer my services, she puts me to work chopping vegetables and peeling potatoes for dinner, while Gigi and her father watch football in the great room.
“You know you could go watch with them, right?”
I blanch. “Oh, God, please don’t send me out there.” I’m only half joking.
She laughs. “Oh hush, he’s really not that scary.”
“I need you to think about how scary you believe him to be and then multiply that by five million.” I reach for another potato to peel. “Is he protective of Gigi’s brother too, or just Gigi?”
“Oh, trust me, Wyatt’s not exempt. There’s a reason he never brings girls home. He did it once when he was nineteen. Poor girl spent the weekend being interrogated by my husband, and then flew back to Nashville and never spoke to Wyatt again. The morning she left, Wyatt walked into Garrett’s study, said, Never again, and walked right out. Swear to God, that boy isn’t introducing us to anyone else unless they’ve already eloped.”
I chuckle. “All right, so I’m not the only one intimidated.”
“He’ll warm up to you, don’t worry.”
I allow myself to feel hopeful, but then Gigi’s brother arrives, and suddenly I’ve got two dudes staring me down.
Wyatt and Gigi are twins, and while I see the resemblance, there are more differences than similarities. His hair has more of a wave to it and is a lighter shade of brown. He’s got green eyes like his mother, while Gigi’s are gray. Gigi’s short. Wyatt isn’t—I’m six-five, and he and I are nearly eye to eye. He gives off a total musician vibe with his ripped jeans and black T-shirt, a leather band on one wrist, and a few other bracelets on the other. I can’t judge the bracelets, since I’ve been wearing the same string around my wrist since I was sixteen. For some reason, that damn thing never came off. Owen and I assumed the bracelets would fray and fall off in a few months, yet here we are, five years later. I guess that says something about our bond.