I’m supposed to get her to the lodge in one piece. Getting her there unfucked was an unspoken condition to those orders, but right now, watching her slowly turn to face me with fire in her narrowed baby blues, I'm starting to think I'm the one who's fucked.
"Hell." Airport security doesn't take kindly to civilians breaching restricted areas, even pint-sized ones in fuck-me pencil skirts.
"Up. Now," I mutter through clenched teeth as I half haul her up to her feet before she gets herself arrested for disorderly conduct.
She yanks free the second she's vertical, but not before I catch her wobbling in those ridiculous heels. "My entire presentation is in that damn bag. Bound proposals. Risk analysis spreadsheets—this, THIS is why I never should have let Derek convince me to pack them in my checked bag to 'help me relax' on the plane. Forced relaxation, my ass."
"Who the hell is Derek?" The question flies out of my mouth unchecked, sharp and demanding. Not that I care. I'm just trying to assess the situation. Gather intel. Know thy enemy and all that.
"Does it matter? The point is, I need my goddamn suitcase." Her eyes flash, her chin jutting forward stubbornly. Classic Holly, digging in her heels.
"Look, you can verbally flay customer service from the safety of my truck." I nod toward the windows where fat wet snowflakes cling to the glass. "But we need to move. Now."
"I am not leaving without?—"
"Your personal brand of chaos? Already packed, Squirt." I eye the sky-high stilettos that probably cost more than my truck payment. "Though common sense clearly didn't make the cut."
Her eyes narrow to slits. "Says the guy whose entire Call of Duty cosplay signature look just stepped out of a two-for-one special at Tactical Bros 'R' Us. Tell me more about how cargo pants are appropriate for every occasion, GI Jackass. Don't worry, I'll wait while you check all sixteen pockets for your comeback."
"Definitely rabid.” Before she can process my words, I duck down and throw her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, her startled yelp music to my ears.
"Put me down!" She pounds her tiny fists against my back, her hits landing without any real force. "I swear to God, I will make you regret?—"
Stomping the twenty feet to the exit, I resign myself to the special circle of hell that will be three long hours stuck in a confined space with her and her feral energy, like trapping a wild raccoon
The minute I step out the doors, a wind gust as powerful and blustery as her temper kicks up, sending stinging snow swirling around us. A thick white wall of it swallows us whole, just long enough to obscure my vision.
The second my boot makes contact with the icy ground, we’re sliding. Without thinking, I adjust my grip, my palm sliding dangerously high up her thigh as I fight for balance.
"Hands!" she squeaks, squirming against my shoulder.
The snow sticking to the asphalt makes the trek to my truck look like a drunken three-legged race waiting to happen.
"Maybe next time pack some clothes suitable for, oh, I don't know… Maine in December." I hitch her higher on my shoulder, definitely not thinking about how soft and warm her skin is under my palm. Or how if I move it just a fraction more, myindex finger will find a new home in the crease between her taut little ass cheek and thigh. "Now stop squirming, unless you want us both to end up on our asses."
"I had weather-appropriate clothes, you dickhead." She grumbles, her voice muffled against my back, hot breath seeping through my shirt.
The heat of it, of her, bleeds into me, and I can't say I entirely hate it, my treacherous body reacting in all sorts of inappropriate ways.
I've never been more grateful for my Army training, for the discipline that allows me to ignore even the most tempting distractions, no matter how good they feel… or sound… or how incredible they smell, like vanilla sugar cookies and something uniquely Holly.
Razzing Nick via text aside, I'm not actually going there. Don't shit where you eat. Don't piss in your own foxhole. Never muddy your own trench. No matter how you slice it, this little ski vacation is our own proverbial foxhole, our shared trench, and with a built-in audience watching our every move like hawks.
One lingering look, one suspicious touch, is all it takes to set the family gossip mill ablaze. And while I'm all for living dangerously, I prefer my risks of the enemy combatant variety, not the familial warfare one.
Reaching my truck at last, I yank open the passenger door and unceremoniously dump her into the seat, her skirt riding up to reveal a flash of white lace. "Now try to control both your mouth and your skirt, Squirt, and buckle up."
She rolls her eyes skyward and smirks. "I need to call customer service."
"Skirt. Seat belt. Customer service. In that order, genius."
She complies with an air of affronted dignity, smoothing her disheveled hair and yanking the seat belt into place with a little more force than necessary. Her flushed cheeks and wild,windswept waves are the picture of feminine outrage—a deeply fuckable picture that I shouldn't be noticing.
"Fine. But I'm putting the call on speaker. So lay off the orders."
"As long as we get on the road sometime today, I don't give a flying fuck. Knock yourself out, Squirt." I slam her door with a little more oomph than required and circle around to the driver's side, giving myself a much-needed mental shake. This is Nick's little sister.
This is all Nick’s fault. If he hadn’t hooked up with Charlie last Christmas, I wouldn’t think of Holly as anything other than the same pain in the ass wild child who used to follow us around and pester us incessantly, trying to hang with the big boys.
