Page 9 of All Snowed Gin

This time, he doesn’t ask for permission. He just grabs me, carrying me into the house as a groom would his bride. I try to pay attention to the layout as he weaves through the house, but he moves too fast for me to focus on much. My skin prickles from the warmth inside the house, and all I can think of is how nice a bath would be.

Pierce deposits me in a large armchair, propping my feet up on a matching ottoman. Giving me another appraising once-over, he curtly nods, letting out a grunt.

“I’m going to bring in your bag. Then warm up some food,” he says, both statements so matter-of-fact that it’s obvious there is zero room for discussion on the matter. “And then you can tell me where you’re so desperate to get to that you felt the need to run away. In a fucking snowstorm.”

“That’s easy. Home.”

4

PIERCE

Home.

Of course. Of fucking course.

I’m sure that next, she’ll tell me that she has to be there in time for Christmas.

I shouldn’t be so cynical. I know this. That knowledge doesn’t stop it from flowing through my veins like a raft down the Nile.

Trying to tamp down the urge to roll my eyes, I focus on the task at hand—heating up leftover stew. There’s exactly enough for two bowls, which I had planned being dinner for tonight and tomorrow. Except now there’s two of us. Which means the groceries I had delivered this morning won’t go as far as I expected. We’ll have to eat small and ration, but it’s more than doable. Good thing I ordered extra this week.

The microwave beeps and I carefully remove the bowl, setting it on the small tray. For a split second I question whether or not I should offer up something else, in case Rose doesn’t like stew, but looking around, I don’t know what that would be. Everything else would require cooking—other than the cereal in the pantry—and she needs to get something warm in her quick. So I need to get back out there.

I suck in a breath, trying to find strength to turn around and walk the ten steps back into the den. Fuck, it’s tough. I can already tell by her happy upbeatness that she’s the type that loves Christmas, and the realization that she’s stuck with a Scrooge like me, instead of her family, is going to break her heart.

And I don’t want to fucking break her heart.

I’m also not about to put on a happy face and pretend like everything is holly jolly either. I want nothing to do with the damn holiday. No, less than nothing. If that’s even possible.

“I hope stew works,” I call out, forcing myself to leave the kitchen.

Rose doesn’t reply, and I’m a few steps into the den when I realize why. I freeze, slamming my eyes shut, but it’s too late. I’ve already gotten a more than perfect view of her almost naked form. In nothing but a skimpy pair sleep shorts that barely cover her ass, her damn near perfect breasts stealing the show, Rose lets out a yip, arms flying to cover herself.

“Oh shit, sorry,” I mutter, eyes still closed. My dick stirs in my pants, liking what it sees. Because fuck, were her tits stunning.

“No, no. My fault…” she says hurriedly. I can tell by her voice she’s just as embarrassed as I am, scurrying sounds filling the air. “I…I…it didn’t seem like a good idea to hang out in my wet clothes, so I hopped over to my bag and…well, yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Awkward silence hangs in the air, both of us seemingly afraid to move. Thankfully Rose makes the first move.

“I’m decent now.”

Phew. I slowly open one eye, then the other once I’m sure she’s dressed. The semi I’m now sporting thanks to the unexpected peep show makes it tougher to walk, but I manage, thankful for the tray to use as a distraction. It’s not quite the notebook in front of crotch trick from junior high, but close enough.

“Here,” I say, clearing my throat and holding the stew out to her awkwardly, like Oliver Twist in reverse.

Smiling politely, she holds up a finger to indicate one moment, then lowers herself into the chair. I force myself not to stare at her chest, the stiff peaks of her nipples poking at the cotton of her T-shirt. Last thing I need is for her to think I’m some kind of pervert.

“Mmmmmm,” she moans, taking a bite. “Oh, this is so good. Just what I needed.”

“Good.”

“Did you make it?”

“Err…yeah.”

I follow suit, parking myself on the old, worn-out couch. It’s lumpy and uncomfortable as fuck, forcing me to shift so that I’m not sitting unevenly on the threadbare cushions, while also avoiding the springs poking out. This thing had been long overdue for a replacement, but Gramps loved it too much to let it go. And then I became the one who couldn’t part with it. Would have been like parting with him all over again.