Emmanuella and Jorge share a quizzical look. She whispers to him. He laughs then says, “Knowing when to speak your mind—”
“And when to shut up,” Emmanuella interrupts by slapping him playfully in the stomach. We all laugh.
Quinn pivots his attention to Yvonne, who grabs Chris from a side conversation with one of the elves. “Oh, that’s a good one,” he says. He’s gazing deep into Yvonne’s starry eyes. She speaks for the pair: “The secret is to slow down and enjoy the small things.”
“I still remember a joke Yvonne told me on our first date, but I don’t remember the name of the couple we made our last vacation property sale to and that wasn’t even all that long ago.” Chris shrugs. “I think that says a lot about what’s important.”
“I love that. What about you two?”
Ashley seems surprised Quinn would want her advice. “Oh, I don’t know. Good communication? Is that too cliché?”
“Not at all, babe,” Samson says. He wraps an arm around Ashley’s waist. She wears a drapey, Grecian-style green dress. His hand disappears into the folds of the fabric. “I agree. Good communication. And good sex never hurts, either.” Ashley rolls her eyes, but even I can tell it’s a loving eye roll.
“Last but not least.” Quinn sidles up beside Colleen. She’s wearing a floral perfume that reminds me of one Nan Hargrave would wear or might’ve worn in my childhood. A slight pang of missing my family hits me.
“Trust and faith have served us well in our many years,”Colleen says, reaching out for Nicholas’s hand. “What would you say, hun?”
“I’d say understanding.” We all nod before we realize he’s not finished. He clears his throat into a cocktail napkin. “Even on our worst days, even during the lowest lows, if you can find it in yourself to see things from her—erm,his—perspective, you’ll be a-okay.”
“Damn, this got real sappy real fast,” Samson says, letting all the air out of the moment.
“He’s right,” Colleen says. She claps her hands together. “Who wants to dance some more?”
39FADE TO BLACKPATRICK
The ballroom empties slowly. Like with all good parties, nobody wants it to end.
How do I tell my husband that I don’t wantanyof this to end any time soon?
“Tell me more about this outfit,” I say. Because I’m unable to express anything else in this perfect moment.
“Of course,” Quinn says. He moves his face closer to my ear. His voice drops an octave. “But I’ll tell you when we get home, up in our bedroom. I’ll tell you about each individual piece as you take it off of me.”
My head buzzes. My heart rate spikes. I have never performed an exit with such gusto and expediency in my life.
“Should we really be leaving a party thrown in our honor without saying goodbye and thank you to everyone who helped put it together?” Quinn asks. I’m rushing to grab our coats from the back of a nearby chair.
“Yes,” I huff out. My mind is single-tracking for the sake of what’s to come. “Yes, wereallyshould.”
Before either of us knows it, we’re back at the chalet. Breathless from the trip. Growing more so by the second.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind us, I scarcely get a word out because Quinn’s insatiably kissing me. I can barely keep up with the high supply he’s demanding. But I’m loving every secondof trying as we stumble up the staircase. As we start to shed our layers.
“The gumdrops on my jacket are edible,” Quinn purrs. Without hesitation, I remove my mouth from his neck. Rip one of his buttons off with my teeth. The grainy, gummy candy is ecstasy on my tongue.
“Mm-hmm.” My lips pucker at the sweetness.
“The frosting detailing is edible, too.” He’s not even finished speaking. I’m already licking it off. Every ribbon of it. Every intricate design. It’s probably unsanitary. But I don’t care one bit. I’m ravenous right now.
“The skirt was left over from when we arrived,” Quinn says as he undoes the zipper. Lets it fall to the floor. Leaves himself in only the thin tights that show off his delicate calves and irresistible thighs. “Like the sleep dresses, I love the flow and the freedom I feel when I wear it.”
“I loveyou,” I growl before diving in for another gumdrop.
“The pearls are hand-me-downs, too. A previous Mrs. Claus probably wore these to dinners and galas galore. They make me feel old-world powerful and classy. Like I’m the president’s wife.” He lifts his chin to show them off.
“They remind me of those fake ones you used to wear when we started dating. They drew so much attention to your beautiful, long neck.” I brush my hand gently from his collarbone all the way up to his striking jawline. My fingers halt in the indent just below his ear. Quinn’s eyes have gone soft and dreamy with the memory. The heat between us rises. “I loved taking those pearls in my mouth while I was in—”
He presses his pointer finger to my lips. Derails my sentence. “Don’t tell me. Show me.” It’s a command that I’m more than happy to follow.
