“That explains the sweater.”
I grimaced, glancing down at my chest. “Yeah, that would be my brother’s husband’s handiwork. Ian took up knitting last year, so everyone got a custom sweater for Christmas.”
Just thinking about this year’s family photo—which knowing my luck, would be next year’s holiday card—made me huff a disgruntled laugh.
Here we were, a week into the new year, and Dad was probably still searching for the words to describe how much he loved the massive bass fish stitched across the front of his. Mom’s face had lit up when she’d put on her striped knit covered in blinking LED snowflakes that played “Jingle Bell Rock” when she moved. Even my nephews hadn’t been spared—Sammy’s sweater featured a dinosaur in a Santa hat, and Dieter’s had a reindeer so wildly disproportionate, it violated several laws of nature.
None of them compared to mine, though.
A green monstrosity withSleigh All Daywas stitched across the front in glitter yarn, complete with dangling whitepom-poms that jingled when I moved. It wasn’t so much a sweater as it was a cry for help wrapped in tinsel.
“It was supposed to be cute,” I said, tugging at the hem. “And it was, right up until I spilled my drink on the plane and had to wear it in public.”
Her laugh was instant, bright, and surprised, like she hadn’t expected it to escape.
“That’s . . . tragic,” she said.
“That’s one word for it. Humbling is another.”
“I don’t know.” She tilted her head to one side, giving the sweater a quick once-over. “I think you pull it off okay. It’s very . . . festive lumberjack core.”
“Festive lumberjack core,” I repeated, shaking my head. “I should add that to my dating profile.”
A faint smile tugged at her mouth.
Little did she know, I didn’t do dating apps—not anymore, at least. And trust me, I’d tried them all. The one that promised deep, meaningful connections, another that paired you based on your coffee order, and even one geared toward people who supposedly enjoyed the outdoors—which apparently was just code for fucking in the woods.
Too many splinters, not enough lube.
I watched her disappear beneath the open hood again, the movement causing the short hem of her dress to ride up a fraction. The color of the fabric was a startling, vibrant contrast to the dreary highway shoulder, like a flame in the rain. And it was doing spectacular things for her body.
My eyes traced the curve of her hips. Her legs, thick and powerful, were the kind that looked like they could run a marathon or spend a glorious amount of time wrapped around a man’s waist.
Or head.
The raw image of her thighs squeezing me tight while I lapped at her pussy washed over me.Damn, what a way to go.Buried between Bella’s thighs, drowning in pussy juices.
“The belt is completely shredded,” she said, straightening and wiping her hands on a rag. “And that is where my maintenance class expertise hits a cold, rainy wall. Unless you have a spare, Lumber-Santa?”
My lips quirked. “Must be in my other sleigh.”
“I guess I’ll take that ride then.” She sighed, blowing a puff of white air into the rain. “I’ll come back for this hunk of junk tomorrow, but it’s been one hell of a night, so right now I just want to change my clothes and get out of here.”
She swung the back door open with the kind of pragmatism that made me like her more and also made me want to reach over and make sure she didn’t do something reckless.
“You can look away if you want,” she added with a half-grin, already fishing through the back seat.
For a second, I thought she was joking. There was no way she was about to get naked on the side of the highway.
“You’re not serious,” I said.
“I’m not sitting in a wet dress and tights for another thirty minutes,” she fired back, holding up some sweatpants and a hoodie.
“Bella, it’s forty degrees out. We’re on the side of the road.”
“Exactly,” she confirmed, unbothered. “And nobody’s around.”
Technically, she was right. I hadn’t seen another car for miles, but that didn’t mean I liked the idea any better.
