I didn’t even know my dad knew how to sew, let alone had a sewing kit. According to Holly, my future stepmother signed him up for an introductory sewing class last summer. He wanted to be able to mend the tears he frequently gets in his shirts.
Apparently, Dad was the star pupil in his class. Never mind that the rest of the students were all six and seven.
“He’s really proud of the certificate they printed out for him,” Holly had said with a light laugh that, for some reason, brought jingle bells to mind. “Joyce has it hanging up on their fridge. Along with the mosaic magnets they made during a class they took last spring.”
That’s a new title for Ike Noble: Crafter. Guess I can add that to the list of things I didn’t know about my old man. Then again, sending each other an “Are you still alive?” text every couple of months doesn’t open itself up for many heartfelt conversations about what you and the other person are doing with your lives.
I sigh, and Holly rolls those dazzling green eyes of hers. “Oh don’t act like I’m forcing you to make snowflakes. You can stop any time you want.”
“And give you the satisfaction of declaring yourself to be the snowflake-making champion of Noble Outerwear.” I scoff good-naturedly. “Think again, buddy.”
“Buddy?” She arches an eyebrow and my heart thuds.
“You’re right, we’re not exactly friends are we?”
Though I’m teasing her, what I said is true. While we may have declared a truce and made ourselves friendlier to each other, that hardly makes us buddies. I’m not sure I could ever really be friends with her. Not when watching her purse those lips of hers makes me want to put them to another use.
I groan inwardly and try to shake the thoughts of those lips wrapped around me out of my head. But it’s too late. My cock is already almost painfully hard and throbbing.
Giving another sigh, heavier this time, I try to shift the subject—and my dirty thoughts—back to something safer.
“If we’re going to make paper snowflakes, I think it’s only fair that we trade off the big scissors and the little scissors for every other snowflake.” I shake my already cramping hand. “Otherwise, I may do permanent nerve damage to my fingers.”
“It sounds to me like you’re making excuses for why I’m going to come out the snowflake-making champion.” Her tempting lips twitch. “But in the interest of fairness, I’ll consider your request.”
“Consider my request?”
“Yes.” She raises her chin. “After all, no one said life is fair. Plus, finders keepers, and all that.”
I can’t resist grinning. “Is that more lessons learned from life as a triplet?”
“One of many.” The sparkle in her eyes dims a little.
I can feel my own spirits sink along with her humor. Damn, I can be such a thoughtless ass sometimes. She’s already admitted how hard this Christmas is with her sisters out of town and their mom gone. And here I am, poking at her pain. Unintentionally. But I should still be more thoughtful.
She makes a little sound that’s part sigh, part something I can’t quite put my finger on. “It’s more a lesson of being the middle child.”
“Does birth order make a lot of difference as a triplet?”
“It makes all the difference,my friend.” She gives me a teasing look that slices through the brief tension that settled over us. “Even now, it’s how we decide everything from who gets to ride shotgun to who gets to open the first and last present on Christmas morning.”
“And where does that leave you as the one in the middle?”
“Usually cracking jokes or doing something silly. Like tying my little sister to a chair with Christmas ribbons or sneaking into my big sister’s room while she’s asleep to hide the outfit she laid out the night before.”
“It sounds like you were a bit of a wild child.”
“Child? This happened last year.” She laughs a little. “Kidding.” She wrinkles her nose. “My teachers said I acted out because I wasn’t getting enough attention. But that wasn’t it. Mom was really good about giving us all one-on-one time. She never let any of us feel left out or like we weren’t getting enough time.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”
“She was the best.” She offers me a sad smile. She looks like she wants to ask me something, but doesn’t.
“What? You can ask me anything.”
“It’s pretty personal.”
“I think given our current situation, we’re past the point of worrying about something being too personal.”