Page 143 of Like a Power Play
Then on again.
Off.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
“Isn’t the spirit of Christmas not to be a fuckin’ dick?” he snaps, ripping the pillow from his face. He sits up, his navy-blue comforter slipping off his chest as he glares at me with eyes identical to mine. Avery’s pretty much the male version of me. We have the same inverted triangular build, the same amber eyes, and the same smile. Only, his is framed by a thick stubble.
“Actually, the spirit of Christmas is for people who don’t talk to you all year long to apologize with monetary exchange.”
He frowns. “Well seeing as you practically forced me to talk to you every two weeks can I be exempt?”
I shake my head. “Leaving voicemails is not ‘force’.”
“It is when you leave twelve of them in a week.”
A short laugh escapes me. “I didn’t leavetwel—” When my eyes lock on his, my sentence stops, because I remember that Avery doesn’t exaggerate. At least, very rarely. “I’ll dial it back.”
He nods. “Thanks.”
A blaring noise erupts from his nightstand, and his frown deepens as he smacks the seven a.m. alarm to silence it. His eyes lock on mine. “I’m not sleeping here when you’re in town anymore.”
He pulls himself out of bed, raking a hand through his brown, messy hair.
I frown. “You have to. It’s tradition.”
He trudges up to me, an arrogant smile tugging at his lips. Is this what I look like to other people? This cocky?
“You know what else is tradition?” he asks. I tilt my head.
“The gingerbread house competition?”
He shakes his head, placing his hand on my shoulder and gently shoving me back through the door frame.
“This.”
He slams the door in my face.
Yeah, I should have seen that one coming.
Honestly, I’m not sure how I’m not in the same boat. I should be exhausted after last night. Nothing in the world could keep my hand from moving to the slick heat between my thighs and relieving myself of the pressure that’s been building from the last time I saw Darcy. It’s only been a few days, and I swear, I’m going through withdrawal.
This might be worse than I originally thought.
It’s almost two o’clock by the time we all huddle around the kitchen table. The recycling bin is stuffed full of waddedwrapping paper, the sink full of dirty dishes, and on the couch, Avery’s past-expired, three-legged chihuahua Pumpkin is nestled on top of Mr. Bubbles. Her ginger fur is streaked with gray, her dry little tongue hanging out the side of her toothless mouth. I swear the Grim Reaper is scared of her.
So is Mr. Bubbles, which is why he whines every time she shifts.
“Do you have your house picked out yet?” Avery asks, reaching for one of the rolling pins on the floured surface. Every year, the four of us spend hours creating and decorating individual gingerbread houses. Then, we post them on social media and have our friends and family vote on their favorite.
The winner gets to pick the theme for the next year, and, of course, bragging rights.
I have yet to win those bragging rights. And judging by this year’s theme, I won’t be getting them anytime soon.
