Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
I let my head tilt instantly in confusion. “What were you expecting? A toolbelt carry?”
Perplexity doesn’t hesitate to join her expression. “What the fuck is a toolbelt carry? Is that different than the bride carry?!”
“The toolbelt carry is where I lift you up by your ass in front of me.” My eyebrows pull together in curiosity. “Is that also called the bride carry?”
“The bride carry is where you like…swoop me up in your arms…like you’re gonna carry me over the threshold – aka the doorway if you missed that word on your vocab quiz – like we just got married hence the name.”
And another sign from the car overlords that I really need to start looking at rings for them.
I wonder if she’s a diamond person.
Maybe something totally different?
Her birthstone?
Oh!
The stone for the month we met in?!
That would be romantic, right?
“Your way seems better for a short distance,” is slowly spoken, “but my way seems better for the long ass Circuit of Spa-Francorchamps shit we gotta complete.”
She doesn’t bother hiding a smirk. “That’s a NASCAR thing, isn’t it?”
“F1,” I casually correct while motioning her to get moving. “Now, come on. Hop to it, Rabbit.”
Between my word choice and the levity in my tone, she’s left completely defenseless. With an awkward grip on her shoes and small bag, she carefully climbs onto my back – hopefully not flashing the bustling crowd a pussy shot – winds her frame around mine and braces herself as I rise to my feet.
Navigating us out of the festival is not only easier than expected, it’s faster.
Guess people feel like we take up more room stacked like this.
We don’t.
But I won’t complain about an empty track, ya know?
“Okay, Rudolph being my sleigh tonight,” Bunny sweetly teases, face falling into the space directly beside mine, “what is one thing you loved about Christmas as a kid?”
“Presents.”
Her snickers instantly swell my heart.
Have me clutching her smooth, bare legs tighter.
Blushing.
“Doing.” Tangling herself tighter to me occurs in tandem with her softening her tone. “What is one thing you loved doing at Christmas when you were a kid?”
“Gonna guess opening presents is not the answer you’re looking for.”
“Correct.”
A few snickers slip into the cold night along our next couple of steps, yet I eventually answer, “Decorating gingerbread sleigh shaped cookies.”
“Sleighs because they were ‘Santa’s car’?”
I toss her a crooked grin over my shoulder. “Exactly.”
“You have always been a gearhead.”
“From the minute I could curl my hands around a tiny steering wheel.”
And I get a feeling our son will be the same.
Or.
I should I say hope.
I hope he is.
I mean if he’s not…I could teach him to be.
Then again…maybe him not being into cars wouldn’t be a bad thing?
He could teach me something?
We could learn together?
Fuck, I hope it’s not something too out there like pickleball.
Building a court in our backyard could be fun but taking him to pickleball practice just feels…uncomfortable.
Like confusing a Porsche and a Corvette awkward.
“So…you like gingerbread,” she points out upon us entering the row of my parked car.
“Not in house form.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it somehow always tastes stale. Even fresh out the box.”
“Should we bake some gingerbread cookies for Christmas Eve?” Our eyes briefly meet again. “Should that become like an ‘our family’ tradition?”
Warmth spreads throughout my entire system unconsciously slowing my steps. “I love the idea of us having our own traditions.”
“Me too.” A hint of sadness unexpectedly seeps into her stare. “We didn’t have a shit ton growing up, but…I…want…our little one to have that. Something to look forward to – besides presents – during the holiday season.”
I can’t stop smiling even if I wanted to.
Thankfully, I don’t.
“What was yours?”
Our arrival at the car has her gently sliding to the ground as she answers, “Christmas gels.”
“Is that…a nail polish you wear?”
“I swear to Saint Nick you will be on the not fun naughty list if you make me feel fucking old again tonight.”
The reference to the disco dancing in skis gets me laughing once more while she merely glares.
Age rarely ever comes up in a serious nature, and I’m grateful for it.
I wonder if it will with our son.
I wonder if I’ll be a “young” ‘rent or if they’ll be “old” ‘rents.
Huh.
I wonder if it’ll be a big deal that he has three ‘rents versus the typical two or divorced four.
After getting Bunny safely tucked inside, I shut the door and make my way around to the driver’s seat where I’m reminded to take out my phone due to the way it’s digging into my frame.
Rather than immediately start the engine, I give it a quick swipe to reveal several surprise texts from Nolan.
Nolan: Out of gas.
Nolan: Cans are gone.
Nolan: Bring me two.
Nolan: At the population sign.
There’s no stopping the grunt of bewilderment that escapes. “How the fuck did he run out of gas?”
Bunny rolls her attention away from where she’s already doodling “Disco Inferno” on her inner thigh over to me. “What?”