Christmas Eve with the Yeardleys
The children are tucked up in bed upstairs, sleeping soundly after Noah told them Santa doesn’t deliver if he knows you’re awake. The house quiet, the Nottinghamshire countryside surrounding them white and treacherous, they don’t plan on going anywhere for days.
Noah and his wife Charlotte sit across from one another by the Inglenook fireplace, a low coffee table between them. Sat in a deep, fur rug on the floor, they comfortably sip mulled wine, a Scrabble board on the table between them.
Charlotte has a filthy grin decorating her face. She already knows she has won. He can’t possibly beat the score she’s going to get.
“Please, show me what you’ve got,” she asks.
Cocking one brow, he replies in a deep, baritone voice, “Later, darling. For now I’ll show you my letters.”
She giggles, her eyes wide, flirting with him.
Whoever wins gets…
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