“Open it and find out,” Kenny said, deadpan.
Boone made quick work of the matte green paper, looked at the picture on the box, and let out a low, appreciative whistle. “This is a fucking GHD.”
“It is,” Kenny confirmed, grinning now. “It’s workout equipment; it’s a fucking station.”
Boone looked at the picture again. “Well, fuck if it isn’t.”
Willow tilted her head to try to make sense of the image on the box. “What is it, Sir?”
Boone smiled and met her gaze. “Glute ham developer. Core work. Lower back.” He stood, eyes twinkling. “But it’s also got the right support bars and angles to strap someone in, bent over, locked down.”
Willow’s breath caught when she saw the possibilities, how she could be bent over it and connected, carabiners to her permanent cuffs, her body held in place by angles engineered for strength and control. She squeezed her thighs together at the thought of Boone, full of testosterone from working out, ordering her over it.
Boone’s eyes went hot. “Could work as a strapping station for little fuckholes who aren’t meeting expectations, too.”
“Handy that you keep a strap hanging on the wall,” Kenny said mildly.
Fuck. Willow let out a breath, thighs clenching tighter, and muttered, “I’m seeing a disturbing pattern here.” She paused before adding, “Sirs.”
Silas gave her an unrepentant smile. “Lucky for you and that little cunt of yours, you get off on being disturbed.”
Kenny looked back to Boone. “The bolts are already in the floor. Shouldn’t take much to get it installed.”
Boone nodded. “Thank you. Seriously. This is great on so many levels.”
Kenny clapped him on the shoulder and went back for a box wrapped in parchment-colored paper, tied with thick jute cord instead of ribbon. He handed it to Willow and then crouched in front of her where she sat cross-legged on the ottoman.
She untied the cord and peeled back the paper, lifting the lid to reveal a set of architectural sketches. Inked plans, some traced in pencil with annotations in Kenny’s strong handwriting.
Her heart skipped.
“It’s an archery range, Sir,” she breathed.
“Two lanes,” Kenny said. “Proper distances. I want your input on materials for the backstop, and whether you want elevated stands for longer distances, but the layout’s ready.”
She looked at the details, targets at range and close-up, room for moving shots. Heated benches.
She ran her hand across the drawing. “This is… it’s perfect, Sir.”
“I thought so,” Kenny said. “I have most of the materials in the storage building. Once you decide on the details I’m leaving up to you, we can get started on it.”
She blinked fast, the emotion catching her by surprise. “Thank you, Sir.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I love you!”
He hugged her back, pulled away to look in her eyes. “I love you too, little hawk. Merry Christmas.”
Once Willow’s sketches had been passed around and admired, with Boone making immediate suggestions about an elevated perch and a rotating target system, Silas dryly offering to paint silhouettes of Misty and her crew, Kenny nodded toward Silas.
“Your turn.”
Silas rose smoothly, went to the tree, and selected a narrow box wrapped in wine-red foil with a braided black cord tied in a simple knot. He handed it to Kenny with a short nod and didn’t say a word as he stepped back.
Kenny raised a brow but opened the box, unfolding the tissue to reveal a bottle nestled in rich brown velvet. He pulled it out and whistled low. “Bourbon Trail Reserve?”
“Limited release,” Silas said. “The club sends two top-shelf bottles a month, sometimes barrel picks, sometimes something rare enough to sell out in a day.”
Kenny turned the bottle in his hand, then looked up. “This is a good gift.”
Silas smirked. “I give good gifts.”
