I couldn't even fit a small portion of everything on my plate at once, but I somehow managed to sock away seconds of mashed potatoes and stuffing before my stomach absolutely refused to stretch to fit anything else.
Around me, everyone else seemed to be suffering the same predicament, leaning back in their chairs, hands pressing to stomachs.
"Someone is going to need to roll me to the living room," Jett announced, drawing a chuckle from her parents.
"How are we supposed to fit pie in after this?" I asked, yanking at the tie that was starting to irritate me.
"Time," Jett informed me. "That's why we eat so early. Then we can relax for a few hours, then come back for seconds or dessert. Mom and Dad usually go take a walk if you want to join them."
"You don't?"
"That would involve walking, and as we have already established, I am only capable of rolling at the moment."
"Kathy, why don't you and Mitch take your walk? I will put all this away," I offered.
"Don't be a hero, Trip," Jett told me. "We usually just leave it for a bit, and come back to clean up later. I know the couch is beckoning you."
I won't lie, it was. Nothing sounded less fun than gathering up the food, finding containers, and playing Tetris with the refrigerator contents.
With that, we broke off in our separate directions. Mitch and Kathy gathered their coats, taking off out the back door.
Jett kicked out of her heels and made slow progress toward the living room, dropping down into her spot.
I, not wanting the temptation of her sprawled out on the couch in that dress, took myself into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, washing a couple of the pots I thought wouldn't fit in the dishwasher, trying to keep my body—and mind—occupied until Mitch and Kathy came back, ripping away any temptation I absolutely was harboring to go into that living room, grab that woman, and take her back to my room.
"Alright, who is ready for pie?" Kathy declared about an hour and a half later, after we had all pitched in and gotten the leftovers put away. It was enough to feed an army, but I found myself excited at the prospect of Thanksgiving leftovers, another luxury I had never experienced before.
"Ready to be proven wrong, Trip?" Jett asked, making me turn to find her standing there in her bare feet, still in that dress, a pie in each hand, waving them around at me.
I didn't care if the pies tasted like friggen dirt.
I was going to tell her they were the best things I have ever tasted.
As it turned out, I wouldn't have to lie.
I was never so happy to be wrong.
Because Jett's smile lit up the damn room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jett
After dinner was always a tryptophan-induced blur.
The entire day rushed me at once, sapping me of whatever seemingly bottomless well of energy there had been that had gotten me up at the crack of dawn, and happily working for several long hours slaving away at a grand meal.
I felt wrung out, dead tired, and, well, there was no nice way of putting this, fat. And not in that metaphorical, my-self-worth-has-too-much-to-do-with-the-scale kind of way. In a very literal kind of way.
Even I would admit that my dress looked hot as hell when I had put it on, but there was no doubt that I was currently looking about four months pregnant.
I mean... my underwear band was tight.
All I had on my mind as I made the slow climb up two flights of stairs was wiping off my makeup, sliding off my dress, then dropping into bed.
But then I had to go and catch sight of Trip as he made his way up the stairs toward his room, his tie already pulled loose, his hands steadily yanking his shirt out of his pants, exposing a delicious sliver of belly before he ducked into his room and out of sight.
Delicious.
"Oh, God," I grumbled, pressing my forehead against my bedroom door.
I wanted to deny it, of course.
I wanted to hide from something that was becoming more and more true as the hours pressed on.
I was attracted to Trip.
Maybe that wouldn't be a revelation to most people. He was a good-looking man with a good job and the kind of smile that felt like the sun was beaming down on you, making you want to lean into it, get more of that warmth.
But to me, yeah, it was a big deal.
Because, well, maybe my mother was right after all. Maybe the line between love and hate was not as defined as I wanted to believe. Maybe the line was only there because I had drawn it there myself, used it as an excuse to push down or deny the truth.
I was a little bit into Trip Martin.
Once the issues were all laid out on the table, examined, dissected, making us both see what they truly were on closer inspection, which was nothing like what we had originally thought from a distance, well, it became impossible to call this anything other than what it was.
A long-buried, heavily denied attraction.
Sure, I wasn't determined to hate the man anymore. I was beginning to grasp that my issues with him really stemmed from a deeper issue within myself, something that had nothing to do with him, and that I had only used him as a scapegoat because it was easier than to attempt to seek out my own healing.
Beyond that, maybe we rubbed each other the wrong way because we were looking for excuses not to like each other. Because we both knew that nothing could happen between us.
God, my father would have a conniption if he thought Trip and I had something going on.
His only daughter.
And the-son-he-never-had.
No.
Nothing could ever happen.
Of course not.
But there was no denying that there was want there.
I wanted.
I needed, at first, to believe my eye-banging him in the hot tub was simply the alcohol and the intimacy of half-nudity and warm water, that I was just hard up, that he was red-blooded male and I was a red-blooded woman whose sex drive had not been sated in far too long.
There was no denying, though, that it was more than that, that it was maybe even a little deeper than that.
See, when we stopped snapping at each other, I finally got to see what everyone else saw in Trip.
That he was a good man. That he was charming and light-hearted, that he went with the flow, that he was happy to lend a hand, that he was quick with a compliment and a laugh.
It was no wonder my father was so fond of him.
I mean... he'd made me toast.
He complimented my squash bowls.
And then, well, he'd liked me in my dress.
More than I liked him in a suit.
Which was saying something.
Because I really, really liked him in a suit.
But his eyes had glided over me with scorching heat; I was almost surprised the material didn't singe as he looked at me.
Every inch of my skin certainly felt hot in their wake.
Which was nothing compared to the inferno of need that grasped my system at the hunger I saw in his eyes.
Then, oh, then.
Then he touched me.
It was chaste.
I'd had men zip me up plenty of times.
It never felt like foreplay before.
But his fingers moved like a shiver over my skin. Then that shiver went ahead and moved through my insides too, pooling into need at the juncture of my thighs.
As if all of that wasn't enough, he had to go ahead and be a gentleman, offering me his arm, leading me down the stairs, helping serve and clean up after dinner.
That's the whole package, my mother would say with an approving nod.
And, well, it was, wasn't it?
Someone who worked hard and took care of himself, who was dedicated to his job, loyal to those he cared about, charming, kind, generous, gentlemanly, and, well, hot.
Add in the fact that he managed to stoke a passion in me like never before—even if that passion had previously been in a negative way—then, yeah,
it was everything.
He had everything to offer.
On top of all of that, my parents loved him.
Which was a pretty big deal.
I hadn't exactly been the best at picking partners in the past.
There was Richard Heinsburg, the Fifth. Who was rich enough that he thought he could get away with mild kleptomania. Until he stole my great grandmother's brooch.
Then there were my college flames. River, the slam poet who thought that handing out fliers for a vegan fast food place could be considered a career for the rest of his life. And Heath, the soulful singer-songwriter who wrote love songs for me. And then for the six other girls I found out he had been dating at the same time.
In my older adulthood, there was another underachiever, an over-achiever who liked his job more than me, and my most recent ex. Jaxson who didn't believe in labels or reproduction or—evidently—paying his taxes.
It sort of said something that your easiest breakup involved tax evasion, the police, and imprisonment.
To say my parents were less than thrilled about all these 'missteps of the heart,' as my mother would put it, was an understatement.
I had started to think I was doomed in the love department. That it was somehow possible to inherit my mother's inability to see who was—and who was not—good for me.
Sure, I stayed way the hell away from anyone who raised their voice at me, or in any way made me feel unsafe, but that didn't mean my choices were healthy, that I was able to make smart choices, that I had any skill at all in finding—yet alone being attracted to—the whole package.
On those thoughts, I fell into bed, passing out before I could make any sense of any of it.
I woke up feeling off-kilter, not sure if it was the same day or a week in the future, and certainly no clue if it was late at night or early in the morning.
Suddenly wide awake, I made my way to the bathroom, slipping into pajamas when I realized it was only a little after nine at night, then followed the lure of leftover mashed potatoes to the kitchen.
"Oh," I yelped, jumping back at the shirtless figure standing in the kitchen, half-obscured by the open refrigerator door, showing me just a sliver of back skin and his long gray sweatpants.
Oh, good God, not grey sweatpants.
Hadn't I been tormented enough?
"Hey, Princess," he greeted, closing the fridge door, shooting me a sheepish smile.
It took me a long second to find out why. Then my eyes landed on the giant plate on the island, loaded down with a slice of each of the pies from dessert.
My smile spread at that, a bit unexpectedly warm at the idea of him liking something I had made for him, finally understanding why my mother loved it so much.
"Like that pie, huh?" I asked with a smile as I moved past him to drag the giant glass container of mashed potatoes out, dropping two—okay, three—heaping spoonfuls into a bowl, adding corn and gravy, then throwing it into the microwave.
"Surprised you're up. You couldn't have gotten much sleep last night. Then you were on your feet all day with that hangover."
"I think my body and mind teamed up to let me have just one last tradition," I told him, grabbing my food and a glass of apple cider, making my way out into the living room without saying anything else, while secretly hoping his curiosity was piqued enough to follow.
I didn't have to wait long.
"What tradition is that?" he asked, dropping down close to my spot.
Sure, it had the best view of the TV, but I was maybe wondering if he also wanted to be closer to me. Or if that was just wishful thinking.
"The best holiday movie ever made," I told him, flicking through my digital library. There wasn't much in it. Just all the best of all the Christmas movies. And this one special, underrated, personally beloved Thanksgiving one.
"Home for the Holidays," he repeated, clearly lost on what it was about.
"It's about this really dysfunctional family that is trying to hide the fact that it is so dysfunctional getting together for Thanksgiving. As you can guess, drama ensues. Hilarious, amazing, heart-warming drama. That is all you are getting out of me. And I now need quiet for approximately one-hundred-and-three minutes."
Then I went ahead and did the thing. You know the thing. When you convince someone to watch one of your favorite movies. And then spend half the runtime staring at them, watching them experience all your beloved characters and scenes.
I did that.
Like it was some kind of test.
One that he passed with flying colors.
He laughed at the right spots, questioned the right things, looked suitably concerned in the sadder bits.
"Alright," I said as the credits rolled. "Let me have it."
"That was a good one," he told me, nodding, scraping his fork against the plate to get the last remnants of apple pie filling.
"I am afraid I am going to need more than that, Trip," I told him, watching as his lips curved up, eyes on me. Right when he put that fork in his mouth. And slowly pulled it back out, making sure he got every last bit off it.
My poor, poor system was not happy about the fact that I didn't just toss my bowl onto the table and jump him right then and there—taste the apple cinnamon still clinging to his lips and tongue.
"I am no film critic, but I think it is criminal I have never heard of this before. I mean, Robert Downey Jr. was amazing. And everyone played off one another perfectly. It had heart and humor and an epic Thanksgiving dinner blow up. I see why you watch it every year."
"Everyone always makes Christmas movies. They forget that all the great stuff that can happen at Christmas can also happen at Thanksgiving. I'm glad you liked it," I added, handing him my bowl when he reached for it, watching the way his body—with so little clothing covering it—moved as he folded forward to place our dirty dishes on the coffee table.
On the TV, the screen was back to the selection screen, silent.
The house was just as quiet.
But inside me, all I knew was chaos and noise.
The whooshing sound of my pulse in my ears, the thudding of my heart in my chest, the suddenly rapid intake and exhalation of breath, the swirling thoughts, too many of them to tell one from the other, to make sense of what they were trying to tell me.
All of them, though, were likely attempting to inform me that what I was about to do was idiotic, was a terrible, terrible idea.
But, well, I couldn't make out those thoughts.
So it really wasn't my fault.
I was just following the overpowering needs of my body.
That was why the second his back was against the cushions again, I was shifting up onto my knees, sliding over, moving to straddle his lap.
My gaze went to his, watching the confusion turn to heat, giving me the answer to all the questions I'd been wondering earlier about this situation being one-sided or not.
I wanted to linger, to commit the heavy-lidded look to memory.
But a part of me was acutely aware that the longer I paused, the more of a chance there would be for words to find their way to our lips.
And then who knows what might happen?
My hand planted on his shoulder—the skin hot, the muscles firm—and my lips sealed over his.
I'd felt tingles. Of course. I was a grown-ass woman. I'd known men in carnal ways before.
But this wasn't tingles.
This wasn't even fireworks.
This was something akin to bombs detonating through my system.
That was the only way I could think to describe it.
A whimper tore from somewhere buried deep, a sound drowned out by the rumbling, growling noise coming from Trip, something that vibrated through his body and into mine, sending a shiver through my system.
Trip's hands lifted from his sides, sinking into my ass, pulling me further up on his waist, high enough that I could feel his need pressing against my own.
Needy, shameless, my hips ground down against him, search
ing for some relief from the clawing need in my lower belly.
No longer needing to guide me, his hands slid up my spine, one hand sifting into the hair at the nape of my neck, curling, twisting, sending a delicious pain/pleasure tingling across my scalp.
His teeth nipped my lower lip, his tongue seeking entrance, then claiming mine, dragging a moan out of me as my hips did another grind.
It was the damn clock that did it.
The grandfather clock situated in the dining room.
The one that told us each time the hour changed.
The one that, to me, had become a sort of background noise over the years.
But Trip responded to it like it was cannon fire.
His hand released my hair.
His lips ripped from mine.
"Jett, no," he said, voice raspy with need, the need I still felt pressing against me, as my lips found the column of his neck. "Jett," he demanded again, voice gaining some firmness. "Stop," he added.
His hands sank into my hips, lifting, pushing me carelessly off to the side.
"We're not doing this," he told me, eyes forward, refusing to look me in the face as I tried to think through the haze of desire in my system.
"Trip..."
His name came out like a plead.
"Sorry, Princess. This is not happening. Don't try that again."
With that, he jumped up, rushed off, left me sitting there, his words like a slap across the face, leaving me reeling from the shock and the small surge of hurt.
I hadn't been the only one doing some kissing. His lips had been just as demanding as mine had. His hips had bucked up against mine, further stoking my need, promising release.
I hadn't forced myself on him.
He'd been a willing—eager—participant.
Anger, a feeling I was much more comfortable with when it came to Trip, welled up, bubbled over, washing away the bulk of the need that had been overtaking me.
Don't try that again.
"Don't try that again?" I hissed, raking a hand through my hair.
Who the hell did he think he was?
And, what, he thought he was so irresistible that I would try to jump him after a rejection like that?
What an ass.
There Better Be Pie Page 9
