Page 46

Grayson

The moment we pull into the driveway, I know Caleb was wrong.

It’s weird.

Not in a horror-movie way. Just in that way where everything feels too wholesome, too bright, too not designed for a poly-tangle of sexual chaos .

The house is picture-perfect suburban: red brick with white trim, a wreath on the front door, fairy lights along the gutters.

It smells like cinnamon and nostalgia before we even make it inside—his mom is already humming carols in the kitchen, a tray of something sugar-dusted and warm cooling on the counter.

Caleb’s beaming like he belongs here.

Of course he does.

This is his natural habitat. And he’s at peak golden retriever in human form.

He hugs his mom like he hasn’t seen her in years (it’s been a month) and then gets into a five-minute discussion with his dad about the latest college hockey rankings while we unload our bags.

We’re introduced as “just teammates who didn’t want to be alone for Christmas.” And technically that’s true. If you ignore the fact that all three of us have made Rilee come so hard she forgot her own name.

Sierra—Caleb’s younger sister—is already circling like a shark in a sweater dress. She zeroes in on me with a smile that’s way too confident for a girl who’s still in high school.

“So,” she says, cornering me near the entryway, “You single?”

I lift a brow. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it, though?”

“Yes,” I say, letting my tone go flat. “Very.”

She doesn’t take the hint. But that’s fine. I’ve got years of experience dodging interested party guests and cousins of exes. I politely retreat toward the kitchen where Caleb’s mom is offering hot cider and unsolicited life advice.

Meanwhile, Rilee’s doing her best not to combust. She keeps sneaking glances at Hunter like she wants to climb him. Which is fair—he’s brooding in the corner like he hates the twinkle lights and maybe Christmas as a concept.

But it’s when the sleeping arrangements come up that things really go downhill.

“I’ve got the guest room made up for Rilee,” Caleb’s mom says brightly. “And you boys can share the pull-out downstairs! There are extra pillows and blankets in the linen closet.”

Hunter’s expression is pure murder. “No one’s sharing a bed with me,” he grumbles. “I’m not spooning anyone.”

“You steal covers like a demon,” I mutter.

“You run hot , man. It’s like cuddling with a furnace.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

Caleb’s mom is still smiling like she doesn’t hear a thing.

Rilee tries not to laugh. Her cheeks are pink, eyes bright, like she’s this close to either giggling or combusting.

Later, when no one’s looking, I catch her sneak over to Hunter—hand brushing his arm, soft little touch down his bicep that makes his whole body twitch.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers, low enough that only I can hear because I’m watching her like I always do.

Then she leans up and kisses his jaw.

It’s fast.

But it affects him.

His shoulders relax half an inch. He still looks miserable, but now it’s a manageable miserable.

And me?

I just smile to myself.

Because we’re gonna survive this holiday.

Even if it kills us.

Dinner is… chaos in a casserole dish.

Caleb’s mom went all out. Turkey and ham. Sweet potatoes with little marshmallows on top. Homemade rolls. Sparkling cider in stemware like we’re all pretending to be civilized.

Like I don’t want to lay Rilee out on the table and just eat her instead.

She sits between me and Hunter, with Caleb directly across the table.

We’re trying to be normal.

We’re failing.

Badly.

It starts when her knee bumps mine under the table. Not on purpose, probably. But then I leave mine there. Just enough pressure to let her know I felt it.

A few minutes later, Caleb reaches for the butter and his fingers brush her wrist. He jerks back like he touched a flame.

Rilee doesn’t move. She just glares at the casserole.

Hunter sees all of it, of course. His jaw’s so tight he looks like he’s grinding his molars into chalk dust.

Caleb’s dad tries to cut through the awkward. “So! Are you all in the same major?”

Rilee forces a smile. “Yep. Majoring in poor decisions.”

Mrs. Ward hums, oblivious, as she passes the green beans.

Meanwhile, Sierra’s back at it—smiling across the table at me like we’re in a rom-com. Her ankle brushes mine. Twice.

I don’t flinch.

Because I only want the girl currently stabbing her peas and trying not to combust from whatever I’m about to do .

I slide my hand under the table. Let my fingers skim her bare knee. Higher. Just under the edge of her skirt.

She jolts. Just a breath.

I inch up, stopping just before I reach her panties—so close I can feel heat radiating off her skin.

Hunter’s fork clatters against his plate.

“Grayson,” he says tightly. “Can I see you in the kitchen right the fuck now?”

A pause.

Then, “Sorry for cursing, Mrs. Ward.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Of course, dear.”

I push back from the table and follow him through the swinging door into the kitchen, already smirking.

He turns on me like a storm front.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Be more specific.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“She touched me first.”

“Dude, I’m trying to not get a boner at the family table while your hand’s halfway up her skirt—”

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, even though we both know that’s a lie.

Hunter runs a hand down his face. “Just… can you keep it in your pants for one damn meal?”

I lean against the counter, cross my arms. “Can you?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Exactly.

Before either of us can say more, the door creaks open.

Rilee’s head pokes in.

“What are you two doing?” she hisses.

Hunter mutters, “Trying not to go to jail.”

She stares at us. “We’re at a family dinner. Can you two act like it?”

“I was ,” I offer.

She gives me a look.

Then turns on her heel and disappears back into the dining room.

Hunter exhales hard. “We’re so screwed.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “But at least we’ll be full.”

“Come on.”