“For what?” I glance down at the candy cane striped pajamas she gifted me last night, smoothing a hand over my chest. “It’s Christmas. We never wear real clothes on Christmas.”
“Occasionally you gotta adapt with the times, son.” Pop comes strolling out of the guest room, looking sharp as a tack with his hair gelled to one side and a fresh thermal. The smell of Old Spice is so thick I can practically see it floating around him like a cloud.
My eyes volley between my two parental figures. I feel the divot forming between my brows. They’ve always been sticklers for routine and heavy on tradition. “What’re you guys up to?”
“You belong with your girls, Wyatt.” My grandmother reaches across the table to pat the top of my hand. “You’re not being apart from ’em, today of all days. Certainly not on our account.”
“It’s a nice gesture.” I give her fingers a little squeeze to show I appreciate it. “But I’m not leaving you two alone on Christmas.”
Her head jolts back, appalled by the suggestion. “Well, of course you’re not. I didn’t say we were just gonna hand you over like we’re some pair of worn-out shoes you’ve gone and tossed in the trash .”
Damn, but my grandmother can be some kinda drama queen when she wants to be.
“Marie typed me a note on my phone this mornin’ to see if we wanted to swing by. Said that girlfriend of yours was moping around the house like someone gone and died while waiting for Prissy to wake up.”
“You learned how to text?”
She huffs. “Well, no. I had to call her so we could talk. You know my eyes ain’t as good as they used to be. Anyway, she’s invited the three of us over for breakfast and to watch that sweet child open her gifts.”
“I’ll be ready in ten.” I hop up out of my seat and head for the sink to rinse the rest of my coffee down the drain. After putting my mug into the dishwasher, I return to the table and plant a kiss on my Mimi’s round cheek. “Told you you’d love ’em,” I say before starting in the direction of my room.
“Jury’s still out on the older one,” she hollers back at me.
“Hey, Mimi?” I return to the kitchen and peer my head inside. “You do realize they’re a packaged deal?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she answers with a backhanded wave.
“Wyatt?” Whitney’s sleepy eyes expand as her lips curl into the sweetest of smiles. “What’re you…?”
“Surprise!” Marie peeks her head over her daughter’s shoulder. “I was gonna stick this big bow on top his head and give him to ya for Christmas, but you got to the door before me.”
Sure, enough the woman’s standing there with about a foot-wide red velvet bow clutched to her chest.
“Merry Christmas, beautiful,” I say drinking her in from head to foot. The woman is a vision, even with ratty hair and not an ounce of makeup—especially for those reasons. Just the sight of her gets my heart beating faster and makes my throat thicken. It has me dreaming of a day in the future when we make this thing between us official and I’m able to wake up next to this hot mess every morning.
“Well, it’s definitely merry now!” She tightens the sash on her robe when she sees my grandparents standing behind me then throws herself into my arms. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her sweet scent. I’d give just about anything to be alone with her right now. It’d be too simple to pull that belt open and slip my hands inside.
“You two lovebirds wanna clear the entryway?” Mimi huffs.
I cough, clearing the lust that’s quickly filling my head. If I’m not careful, my heated thoughts will be on display for all to see. With Whitney still dangling from my neck, I shift to the side so my grandparents can sneak by. She giggles when I conceal my face in her neck and bite down gently in the slope of her collar bone.
“Stop it.” She squirms. “You’re gonna get me all red and flustered.”
“What’s all this racket?” The guest of honor finally comes trudging down the hall, still wiping sleep from her eyes. “Y’all are loud enough to wake the dead!”
“Now why would you go and say a thing like that knowing you probably got two or three corpses chilling in the freezer downstairs?” I ask, setting her momma to her feet.
“Wyatt?” The little grump tears across the living room like a bat fresh outta hell to get to me. “What’re you doing here?” she asks, throwing her arms around my waist. “It’s still dark out.”
“We came to watch you open presents.”
She scours the room until she finds the we—my grandparents—chatting with Hank and Marie at the table, donuts in hand. “Mimi and Pop! You’re here too?”
“Of course, we are, child,” Mimi answers, as if they’ve always been a part of her life and it’s the silliest of notions that she’d be any place else.
My sister and I were their only grandchildren, and I’ve been grown for quite a while. They’ll benefit from this relationship as much, if not more, than Prissy.
“Do I have to eat before openin’ presents?” The now very much awake, wide-eyed child asks her momma.
“It’s Christmas,” Whitney answers, staring at the girl like she’s grown two heads. “There are no rules on Christmas.”
“I love you, Momma.” Prissy curls up into her mother’s lap, wrapping one arm around her back and the other over her shoulder.
“Love you too, baby,” Whitney responds, gently rocking her with her lips pressed to her forehead. “Merry Christmas.”
It feels as if we’re all intruding on their tender moment. Even my ruthless old grandmother’s dabbing at the corners of her eyes.
Whitney may have had her young, but their bond is one of the strongest I’ve seen. The love these girls share is palpable. It’s simply impossible to be around them and not feel it. Or, as my grandmother is quickly learning, not to want to be even the smallest part of it.
Once she’s all snuggled out, Prissy grabs her momma’s hand and drags her off the sofa to the tree.
“This one’s from me,” Whit says, handing her a beautifully wrapped box. The paper is shiny, with candy cane stripes in red, white, and green. It’s topped off with a fancy ribbon. One of the ones with a million loops that I’d never be able to pull off.
Prissy has all that hard work she put into the packaging shredded in seconds. “Just what I wanted!” She lifts the yellow box with the phrase “Good Guys” imprinted on the side into the air above her head and starts jumping up and down.
The freckle-faced, orange-haired doll glares at me through the plastic window. “You can’t be serious.” My eyes land on Whitney, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of gifts.
She would come running straight at me with the damn thing. “Will you open this for me?”
Whitney shrugs, stifling a giggle. “It’s what she asked for.”
“A Chucky doll?” Now I’m shaking my head at that future daughter of mine. “What is wrong with you? This little monster gave me nightmares well into my teens.”