Zippety-do-fucking-da.
She got sparklers for nipples or something?
Another gulp and when I lower my travel mug of amazingness, I lock eyes with GI Jackass.
I jut my chin, nodding in bro speak, raising my cup right at him. Judging from his glare, he spots the subtle middle finger. Good. Choke on it.
Am I different enough for you yet, soldier man?
Everett nudges my arm with his elbow, yanking me out of my Chance-and-Sierra death spiral.
"You okay? Because you’ve got a look.”
"Yeah, pretty boy, what look is that?"
"The one that says you’re about to drop-kick someone into a snowbank.”
My gaze flicks to Chance again before I can stop myself. He’s angling slightly away from Blake, which has him leaning into Sierra, and welp, check—fucking—mate.
Bottoms up.
"I’m fine.” Too fine. Totally fine. Definitely not replaying a kiss like it’s on a goddamn loop or wondering how Sierraconvenientlyended up right next to Chance.
"Everett, don’t you have something better to do?" I follow the question with another deep gulp of Devil’s Cocoa. Sweeping down my throat, it leaves a sting in its wake on its way to deliver a yummy heat simmering in my belly.
"Not at the moment.” His grin sharpens. "Besides, watching this unfold is way more interesting."
"Whatthis?" Like, I don’t know, but still.
He shrugs, all innocence as he leans in, his voice dropping to whisper. “Oh, nothing. Just… whatever it is you and Chance are doing. Or not doing. Your call.”
Mid turn, I lose control of the car—wait—sleigh.
Nope, I’m not driving the sleigh—the dude in the hat is—or will be.
Maybe.
What vehicle am I in anyway—oooh, my body. I catch myself with a hand to Everett’s chest, my eyes zeroing in on his mouth.
The mouth that would have kissed me looks soft. Playful. Like he’d linger just for funsies. He would never be so rude as to?—
A shadow falls over us as Chance looms above, jaw tight, looking like he's ready to go full GI Joe on someone.
His target? From the way he’s taken aim with that glare, I’d say he’s got his sights on Everett.
Otherwise known as Shred Shack powder pup number threeeeeeeeee.
Ha! Sounds like the intro for a bachelor on a game show. Cool.
Hic.
“Well, if it isn’t the Penetrator extraordinaire himself. Nice pants.”
Not that I’m looking at his pants.
Because that would mean I would have to be looking at his Johnny-my-rocket.
Chance’s eyebrows shoot up, his glare morphing to shock. Looming over me, hands on his hips, he looks less like GI Jackass and more like—Daddy!
