"Sure we can. When it stays cold enough."
Tyler considers this. "Does it stay cold enough in Minnesota?"
"You betcha."
"Then let's go to Minnesota!"
Logan laughs, pulls me against him, his hand sliding under my hair to cup my neck. "This is perfect. How did you know?"
"You get this specific look when you talk about home. About your dad. About the cold."
“I’m from Minnuh-sow-tuh, dontcha know? He lays on the thick accent of his youth.
He kisses me then, deeper than Christmas morning allows. He knows Tyler is watching but Logan doesn't fully let go, hand staying on my neck, thumb touching the necklace.
"Later," he whispers against my ear, quiet enough Tyler can't hear. The promise in that single word makes my parts tingle.
"Here, T-Rex," I manage, voice only slightly unsteady. "This one's from me."
Tyler destroys the wrapping. The wooden train set spills out—tracks that build infinite ways.
"Yay!!! Can we build it NOW?"
We spend the next half hour on the rug, constructing elaborate tracks. Logan keeps finding excuses to touch me—hand on my lower back when reaching for pieces, fingers in my hair while I read instructions, his thigh pressed against mine. Each contact builds the tension, promise of “later.” Exquisite torture.
Tyler crashes trains together with sound effects while Logan assembles breakfast. When I stand to help, he corners me in the kitchen, Tyler safely occupied in the living room.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me," he says against my neck.
"Tyler's right there?—"
"I know." But his hands are on my hips, thumbs stroking bare skin where the hoodie's ridden up. He quickly shoots his hand under it and rubs my braless chest. He says, "Tonight."
"Tonight," I agree, then slip away before we do something we can't take back with a three-year-old ten feet away.
By noon, Tyler's running on pure Christmas adrenaline and sugar. He builds increasingly elaborate train disasters while Logan and I steal charged glances over his head. During his brief couch nap after lunch—maybe fifteen minutes—Logan pulls me into the hallway.
The kiss is desperate, hands under clothes, his mouth hot on my throat.
"God, I want—" he starts.
"I know. Me too."
Tyler stirs, and we jump apart, frustrated laughter bubbling up. The anticipation is killing me in the best way.
By afternoon, Tyler's showing signs of crashing. He's draped across Logan's lap, playing with his new dinosaurs while I read The Snowy Day for the fourth time. Logan's fingers play with my hair, seemingly innocent but each touch sends sparks.
"Can we do this EVERY Christmas?" Tyler asks suddenly. "With bonus mommy?"
Logan and I lock eyes over his head.
"Yeah, buddy," Logan says, voice thick. "Every year."
Tyler beams, burrows into my stomach, eyes closing.
The tree glows. I hold this moment, crystalline and perfect, Jessica's doubts feeling very far away.
By eight-thirty, Tyler's finally unconscious. He passed out mid-sentence about T-Rex teeth, still clutching his new dinosaur. Logan carried him to the guest room while I did dishes, trying to calm my pent up lust.
