This is the same woman who once gave me a two-hour lecture on proper dinner etiquette before my first formal. Now, she’s strutting across the room like she’s possessed by Shania Twain, throwing in a shoulder shimmy that would make the devil himself ask for a time-out.
"Let’s go, girls!" she belts out, shimmying right toward my father, who is definitely loosening his tie with far too much enthusiasm. If this is leading to some kind of striptease duet, I’m going to need a support group. I’ve seen combat horrors that haunt me, but this?
This should not be the cure to lingering PTSD.
Holly leans in close, her breath warm against my ear, her voice low and full of amusement that’s doing things to me it shouldn’t.
Not with her brother watching.
"Remember when you said you’d rather face enemy combatants than deal with family drama?"
"Yeah?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend because she’s right there. Close enough that I catch her scent, warm and sweet, and so uniquely Holly. Something I directly associate with late nights, her curled against me, and confessions.
It’s a direct attack on my ability to concentrate.
"I think the enemy just called for backup."
Sure enough, our mothers are in full duet mode now, attempting choreography that makes them look like they’re leading a Zumba class on a sinking ship.
Mrs. McAdams’ once-pristine hair is coming undone, strands sticking out like she’s one wrong move away from starring in a holiday horror flick.
She goes for a spin—bold choice considering the eggnog levels in her bloodstream—and wobbles dangerously close to the Christmas wishing tree. My instincts kick in, but Holly’s hand clamps onto my arm, stopping me in my tracks.
"Should we..." She gestures vaguely at the unfolding disaster, her fingers sliding down my arm to curl around my bicep. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact—every warm inch of her skin against mine—and Nick’s laser-beam stare burning into my side.
"Interfere with a direct order from Command? Not a chance," I reply, forcing myself to take a sip of whiskey and, in the process, casually break her grip under her brother’s watchful glare.
For the best, especially since her sweater has slipped off her shoulder again, revealing just enough skin to make me reconsider my entire moral code.
"Besides," I add, nodding toward the chaos because it’s a hell of a lot safer than looking at her with Nick’s words running through my head on a loop, "your mom just saved that spin with remarkable agility for someone who’s had that much rum."
Give it to me in slots.
And there is your answer, my dude. I’m going to give it to your sister in all of her slots.
Repeatedly.
For… oh, let’s say last least the next fifty or sixty years.
Hell, it’s going to be my new business venture.
Retire from the Army and put my skills to work making Holly the single most satisfied CEO in the history of CEOs.
My business plan is solid, on brand, and there’s no way I can lose.
Man on the ground, doing the dirty work.
Horny. Dirty. Work.
Stick with what you know. Utilize your skills.
After corporate hours I’ll fill her slots until she’s a sobbing, gasping, squirting mess.
During corporate hours, your CEO fillsyour slots in record-setting abundance.
Free childcare?
Slot check.
