More Than Christmas by Lane Swift

Author:Lane Swift
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, gay, gay romance, mm romance, holiday romance, modern romance, male bisexual, bisexual mm, holiday reads
Publisher: Lane Swift

Chapter 9

OVERNIGHT IT snowed. Four inches, according to the weather reports. Dale couldn’t rake up the leaves because they were buried under a blanket of white.

I emerged from the blanket fort on my bed, puffy-eyed, somewhere between monumentally pissed off and monumentally devastated. Also, my arse was sore, and I could feel the sting every time I moved.

Wrapped in a blanket, I put on the kettle. The steam billowed from the spout and it clicked off. I made myself a cup of tea, like I had hundreds of times before. There was no good reason for it to remind me of Dale, aside from the fact I saw him everywhere in this bloody house and out the bloody window, in the garden.

I had to get out. Clear my head.

I sent a text and a few minutes later Becca replied: Sure. Come over. Bring some old clothes. We’re decorating the baby’s room.

That cheered me. I packed sweats, a T-shirt, clean underwear and my toothbrush. Outside, meanwhile, an engine sounded on my driveway. Peeking between the slats of the blind, I saw Dale pushing a snowblower.

I didn’t want to talk to him. But I supposed after the way he’d humped me and dumped me last night, he didn’t want to talk to me either. In the shower, I took particular care cleaning my arse, my dick, my neck—everywhere Dale had touched. Then double-checked the coast was clear before sneaking my car out of the garage and braving the slip and slide of the snow-covered road.

At Becca’s, Mike was busily ploughing their driveway. He motioned for me to park in the spare space in their triple garage, and from there I went into the house. Changed into my scruffy clothes and met Becca in the baby’s room.

She was rolling sticky plastic around the edge of the room up to the skirting boards, protecting the thick cream carpet. I didn’t mention what had gone on with Dale. ‘Let me do that,’ I said, as she huffed and puffed, her cheeks flushing a deep pink.

She kneeled and rested a hand on her watermelon-sized baby bump. ‘I’m not an—’ Her face contorted into a tight grimace and she hissed. ‘Invalid.’

‘What was that? Are you okay?’

She put one foot on the ground and slowly levered herself by pressing her hands on her raised knee. ‘That was a Braxton Hicks contraction. A practice. A warm up.’

‘Fuck. It looked painful.’

Breathing deeply in and out through her mouth, she massaged her belly. ‘Not so much painful as intense.’ Handed me the roll of plastic. ‘If you put that down, I’ll make us a cuppa. Mike should be finished with the drive soon, and he’ll be gasping.’

Manual work was the perfect distraction. The three of us together quickly painted the first coat in the baby’s room, a gentle, sunny shade of pale yellow. Later, we played cards and watched a movie, painted the second coat, and went to bed at a sensible hour.

Early the next morning, Becca joined me in the spare room with two cups of tea, climbing uninvited into the empty side of the double bed.

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