Page 69 of Yule Be Sorry

“Man,” Reed breathes, watching the Storm parade approach our front door. “Your family is something else.”

“Our family,” I correct, because my sisters have adopted Reed completely. “And they’re about to invade our cozy morning.”

Before I can finish the thought, the front door bursts open without anyone bothering to knock—the way I prefer them to enter our home. Ben appears first, carrying enough gingerbread supplies to construct a small village, followed by Eden and Nate hauling coolers that undoubtedly contain Eila’s latest beer experiments.

“We brought reinforcements!” Paolo’s voice carries from behind them as Reed’s friends file in, all of them also wearing matching pajamas. Vick has on red stripes, Kash chose green, and Paolo went with blue. They look like a very nerdy boy band. Or an international Where’s Waldo conference.

“Oh good,” Eva says, eyeing Reed’s friends with the calculating expression she gets when she’s planning online content. “The engineers are here. I was hoping for a real challenge this year.”

“Challenge accepted,” Vick says solemnly, which makes Eila snort with laughter.

“Should we be concerned that Eva looks terrifying?” Reed murmurs in my ear as our house fills with the familiar chaos of Storm family gatherings.

“Probably. A few years ago, she built a gingerbread replica of Three Rivers Stadium. Complete with working lights.”

“Dang.” He rubs his scruff against my cheek, reminding me how it felt against my thighs an hour earlier.

Before I lose my composure entirely, Esther appears at my elbow with a coffee mug shaped like a tiny Christmas tree—one of Reed’s prototypes that she commandeered months ago. “You two need a timeout or a cold shower,” she teases. “I can feel the burning hot Yule energy between you.”

“We’re hosting,” I protest. “We should be comfortable.”

“You’re distracting the men,” she says, nodding toward where Reed’s friends are trying very hard not to stare at Reed’s hand on my candy cane-striped ass. “Nate hasn’t blinked in five minutes.”

Before I can argue, a tremendous bray erupts from outside, followed by the distinctive sound of Chiron’s hooves against the kitchen window. Through the glass, his enormous gray head appears, ears pinned in what might be annoyance or excitement—it’s hard to tell with donkeys.

“Should we invite him in?” I ask Reed, only half-joking. “He’s clearly feeling left out.”

“Absolutely not. Your donkey has strong opinions about my friends, and I don’t need him expressing them in our living room.”

Chiron brays again, louder this time, and I watch Reed’s expression shift from amused to resigned. A year of living with my animals has taught him that resistance is usually futile.

“Oh, hush,” he says to his four-legged friend, pressing a kiss to my cheek that tastes like peppermint and promises. “I’m going outside to put him back.”

I laugh and cup his face. “I love you,” I tell him, because it still feels miraculous to say it without panic.

“I love you, too,” he says, then grins with the competitive gleam I recognize from his hydroponic research days. “I’ll be back in time to kick some Storm butt with my gingerbread igloo.”

Outside, Chiron brays his approval, and inside, our house fills with laughter and the promise of another perfectly chaotic storm.