Mmm, that’s hot.
“—right before everyone sings ‘Happy Birthday’ and have the girls jump out at the end—”
I would kill to have Amy pop out of a cake and wish me happy birthday…
“—and give Dad a kiss on his cheek.”
Record scratch!
“That’s a terrible idea,” I state flatly. I can just imagine the scene: Dad trying to sleep with all of them—at the same time. Or they with him. And drama. Lots and lots of drama because there will be other women at the party who want to bang him for reasons that have nothing to do with his personality.
“Oh, I agree it’s totally inappropriate. But he’ll love it, which means we’ll have another year of peace,” Sebastian says.
Grant nods. So does Griffin.
“Come on, Emmett,” Sebastian says. “If he hates our gifts, he’ll have a Christmas party and find some way to force us to attend.”
I shudder. Dad’s Christmas parties are a punishment. We’ve had to attend three of them so far. That’s where we discovered a whole new meaning to Santa’s little helper
at the tender age of ten, and that’s the least of what we learned.
“But giving him strippers in a cake is so…vulgar,” Huxley says.
“Got a better idea? I’m open because I don’t want to do strippers either, to be honest. Grandpa’s going to be pissed if he sees it in the gossip rags.” Sebastian’s maternal grandparents are super traditional. I’m pretty sure that his mother getting pregnant—out of wedlock—by a marriage-hating serial womanizer is the reason she was disowned.
“He doesn’t deserve all those girls,” Griffin says morosely. “I wish he’d break something before the party, so none of us would have to go.”
I’m not particularly religious, but I’d light a candle or two to make that come true. Unfortunately, Dad’s healthy as a horse and he’s never broken a bone in his life. The man’s like Wolverine.
Huxley looks around the table. “I have a different idea. Might make things more palatable, and he won’t complain too much, either.”
I down the rest of my champagne, wishing I had something stronger. “Let’s hear it.”
Chapter Eight
Amy
After I’m done with my shower and am pouring myself a cup of coffee, Sasha comes out of her room, yawning. She’s in nothing but a nightshirt, which shows off her long legs and arms. She walks like a ballerina, the result of taking ballet lessons from kindergarten to college.
She runs her fingers through messy hair, then blinks at me. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Lake Tahoe?”
“Rick and I broke up.” I feel kind of flat about it. More important things from last night are occupying my mind at the moment.
Her jaw drops. “No way!”
“Way. And it happened over text, too.” I give her my mug of coffee and pour myself another.
“Thanks.” She wraps her slim fingers around the mug and takes the stool next to me. “So what happened?” she asks, obviously wanting to know everything she can about the breakup so she can lend me the moral support I deserve.
I tell her. She listens, her eyes gradually going feral as the story spins out and the caffeine starts to hit her system.
“Oh my God! What an asshole!”
“Exactly,” I say, and sip my coffee.
“Who does he think he is? Elon Musk?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Elon Musk is your type?” I wonder if Gage looks like the ultra-rich billionaire.