“You know,” I say, dragging out a container of cranberry-stuffed bread, “if you keep hovering over me, I’m going to assume you’re just trying to steal all the good stuff.”
Caleb appears at my elbow, smirking like he’s been caught in the act, but somehow he looks so innocent. “Maybe I am,” he says, voice teasing, in a tone too sweet to be entirely harmless.
Fuck, I love when he’s playful.
And happy.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Because last I checked, you’re still a brat.”
He tilts his head, grin widening. “A brat? Me?” He slaps his chest. “Never.”
I chuckle, shaking my head as I pull out a container of tamales. “You keep that up, pretty boy, and Santa’s not gonna be the only one keeping track of naughty and nice.”
He gasps dramatically. “Excuse me?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, wagging a finger. “If you keep bratting, I’m going to tie you up, and Santa,” I lean in close, letting my hand graze his side. “Won’t bring you any presents this year.”
He freezes for half a beat, wide-eyed, then lets out a low, playful growl. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would,” I say, sliding the lid off the tamales, “and I know exactly how to make you squirm while I do it.”
He shuffles back a step, mock horror all over his face. “I should’ve known the big, scary Christmas elf would get me first!”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He smirks, stepping closer, and I feel the familiar heat coil low in my stomach. “Cute got me you,” he says, nudging against me, “so maybe I like bratting just to see what happens.”
I press a hand to his chest, steadying him, letting the warmth of him brush against me. “Careful,” I warn softly, lips near his ear. “The way you’re acting, you might not make it to Christmas dinner. Then all the birria will be for me.”
He swallows hard, chest rising and falling a little faster than usual. “You’re mean,” he whispers.
“Am I?” I say, smirking against his temple. My hands drift lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans just enough to make him stiffen. “Or am I just… honest?”
He exhales sharply, cheeks flushing, eyes darting toward the cabin windows like he’s suddenly aware someone might be watching. “Maybe… maybe a little of both,” he admits.
I press a kiss to the side of his jaw, low and teasing, feeling the shiver that always follows. “Good. Because I like my brats alittle honest, a little flustered, and,” I pinch his hip lightly. “A lot aware that Santa might skip them.”
He groans, leaning into me despite the playful threats. “You’re terrible.”
“And you love it,” I reply, tugging him closer by the waist, letting him press against me while I carry a plate of tamales over to the little kitchen table. “Now eat before you get distracted again. We need to relax before heading to bed. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
He grabs a tamale, peeling the husk and biting into it like he doesn’t have a care in the world, cheeks still pink from the heat between us. I smile, watching him, knowing full well the bratty streak won’t last long, but the little sparks, teasing and playful, are exactly the fuel we need to keep the weekend rolling.
The tamalesand the first round of snacks disappear faster than I expect, the two of us picking at the pile of crumbs and chocolate from the cranberry bread like kids sneaking dessert before dinner. Caleb leans back, belly full, a satisfied smirk on his face, while I stack the plates in the sink, trying to keep a straight face as he hums a little tune under his breath.
“You know,” I say, drying a plate, “if you keep that up, I’m sticking something in that mouth of yours for humming all these damn Christmas songs, off-key at that.”
He gasps dramatically, waving a hand in protest. “Excuse me? You’ve been humming along too!”
I raise an eyebrow over the counter. “Yeah, but I can actually carry a tune.”
“That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life. Mom and Dad had to constantly bang on your bedroom doorgrowing up when you went through your emo music phase.” He nudges me. “Our ears were bleeding.”
Sue me, Silverstein was life back then.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head, trying not to grin too much. He’s impossible, and I love it. “Fine. But if you keep this up, pretty boy, no Christmas presents.”
He freezes, then narrows his eyes in mock offense. “You wouldn’t deny me,” he says, crossing his arms, chest puffed out like a tiny warrior.
