He jerks and shudders on top of me, and we both collapse like spent toys, Wesley landing on the pillows next to me.
We lie tangled together for some time, panting. He traces lazy patterns on my hip.
“Hey, you, Joy Preston?” His fingers delve into my hair and tilt my face.
“Yeah?”
“Just where the hell have you been all my life?”
My heart skips a beat. For a moment, it’s as if I peeked into my future. I could see us together in years to come.
“Shower?” he murmurs eventually.
“We should.” I don’t move.
He laughs, warm against my hair. “Come on. My mom’s probably got breakfast waiting. And if we’re late, my brothers will eat all the bacon.”
“Bacon?” I lift my head. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
His grin is pure mischief. “Knew that’d get you moving.”
The living roomis chaos in the best way.
Wesley’s youngest brother is vibrating with excitement, practically levitating near the tree. The older one pretends to be too cool for this but keeps sneaking glances at the wrapped boxes. Their mom sits on the couch with coffee, eyes soft and happy. Their dad’s in the armchair, looking impossibly pleased with himself.
“Finally!” Erik shouts when we appear. “Can we start now?”
“Patience, buddy,” Wesley says, dropping onto the couch and pulling me down next to him. His arm drapes across my shoulders, casual and possessive.
His mom beams at us. “Merry Christmas, you two.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. She’s welcoming me into her family, and I’m lying to all of them.
“Merry Christmas,” I echo, suddenly aware that I’m wearing Wesley’s hoodie and probably look thoroughly…well.
His dad’s mouth twitches, fighting a knowing smile. “Sleep okay?”
“Great,” Wesley says, completely shameless. “Best sleep I’ve had in months.”
My cheeks are on fire. Wesley grins, pulling me in.
“Presents!” Erik demands.
“Go ahead,” his mom laughs.
Paper flies. Hockey stick—cheering. Video game—screaming. Socks—polite thanks. Then he opens my subway-token keychain and lights up. “This is so cool. From New York?”
“Straight from the MTA.”
He clips it on immediately.
Lars unwraps his Yankees pin, grins, and pins it to his shirt.
“Your turn, Joy,” Wesley’s dad says, handing me a box. Inside is a hand-knitted scarf—soft blues and grays. “For Alaska winters,” his mom says.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
The kindness is a knife. What will she think when Wesley finds out who my uncle is? That this was all an act?
