Forever Wild (The Simple Wild #2.5) - K.A. Tucker Page 0,36

called what you did to me last night?” I wouldn’t be surprised if I have a map of fingerprint bruises marring my flesh.

His chuckle vibrates deep in my chest as he slips out of the bed, stark naked and unbothered by the chill in the air. He peels back the curtain to peek outside, revealing a thick frame of snow along the sill.

“Is there a lot?” I murmur, distracted by his sculpted muscles and his morning erection as I burrow deeper into the covers.

“I’d say almost two feet fell overnight.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Might be even worse than last year’s storm.” He squints as he peers up at the sky. “At least it’s slowed down a bit. It’ll make plowing the driveway easier.”

“Seriously? On Christmas? You’re a workhorse.” Though sometimes I think that tractor is more a toy to Jonah than anything labor-related.

“Well, yeah. Muriel and them will want to drive up for dinner.”

“Yeah. I guess.” I add, “And Roy.”

He snorts. “Babe, Roy’s not comin’ to Christmas dinner.”

“We’ll see.” He’s likely right, but I refuse to give up on the curmudgeon just yet.

I admire Jonah’s body as he tugs on his thermal clothes, followed by his outer clothes. “I’ll be down in a bit,” I promise.

He’s at the door when he stoops to retrieve my slinky outfit from its heap in the corner. He holds it up by his pinkie. “I’m getting a repeat performance tonight, right?”

I plaster mock sympathy across my face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, but Mrs. Claus only comes out on Christmas Eve.”

His responding smile is wicked. “We’ll see about that.”

I emerge twenty minutes later to Michael Bublé’s “White Christmas” playing over a portable speaker, competing with the hum of the generator outside. Björn is stuffing a log into an already blazing fire in the hearth while Astrid sits on the couch, studying the designs for the log house we’re breaking ground on in the spring. Balsam fir–scented candles burn in place of table lamps.

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Simon is wrist-deep in the raw turkey, the aroma of onions and sausage lingering in the air. My mother watches, her customary mimosa perched artfully in her grasp.

“Merry Christmas!” I raise my eyebrows at Simon. “You aren’t wasting time.”

“It’s a twenty-five-pound bird! It’s going to take a few hours.” Simon nods to our oven. “It’s a good thing you went with propane, or we might be eating cold leftovers.”

“Pretty sure we could survive all winter out here, if we had to.” Between the Toyostove and a winter’s worth of wood for the fireplace, we’ll always have heat. For our electrical needs, we have a heavy-duty generator, as well as a backup generator and enough fuel sitting in the workshop to keep them running for months. “But I need to put the breakfast casserole in there for an hour before you put the turkey in.”

“Already in and baking. The note said 350°?” Mom rounds the counter and ropes her arms around me, pulling me into a fierce hug. “Merry Christmas, honey. We’re so happy to be spending it with you guys. Here, I poured you one.” She holds up the second champagne flute for me, but then pulls her hand back. “That is assuming you can drink alcohol.” She levels me with an examining stare.

She’s still not convinced that this isn’t a shotgun wedding. “Oh my God, Mom! How many mulled wines did I have last night?” I snatch the glass from her hand and punctuate that with a large gulp.

The side door cracks open. “Ho ho ho!” comes Agnes’s reedy voice, along with boot stomps outside the threshold. She appears down the hall, rosy-cheeked from the cold and stooping under the weight of a cranberry-colored canvas satchel half her size slung over her shoulder. A green-and-gold-wrapped box pokes out from the open end.

Astrid sets the blueprints on the coffee table to rise and help her. “You didn’t ride across the lake with that, did you?”

“No, no. Jonah brought it over in the truck last night.” She sheds her parka and her hat to reveal a tacky red reindeer Christmas sweater. “Boy, there’s a lot of snow out there.”

“And more coming later, according to the forecast.” Astrid lugs the heavy bag over to the Christmas tree, where people have been covertly tucking packages over the last few days. Luggage restrictions didn’t seem to limit anyone. A sizeable and colorful stack of presents now covers most of the tree skirt.

Agnes rubs her hands together for warmth, stopping at the kitchen counter. “Can I help

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