Anyway, no matter what was inside the present, Nash knew that Grandma Betty had already outmaneuvered and outplayed him at his own game of manipulating people for their own good. He couldn’t be happier about it.

Also extremely happy at the moment? Dixon, who was doing a victory lap around the living room.

Smug as ever, his cousin shot the room a self-satisfied grin and held out his hand for Grandma’s present. “I’ll take that, thank you very much.”

…

Dixon

There was nothing in the world like a come-from-behind win—not even the best high in the world came close.

The only thing that rivaled sweet, sweet victory was any single thing that had to do with Fiona. Even the stuff that drove him nuts about her, like the fact that she was pretty much always right. For a man with an ego the size of the Northwest Territories (yeah, he was man enough to admit it), that hurt—almost as much as the fact that she kicked his ass every time they played Onze. He’d figure out a way to beat her. Eventually. They did have a whole lifetime together for him to find a way.

In the meantime, he had today’s triumph to hold over his cousins’ heads. Yeah, life was about as close to perfect at this moment as possible.

Morgan—who had taken possession of the present before any of the older cousins could snag it this morning—gave it to him. As everyone watched, Dixon made a big production of shaking the box next to his ear (it didn’t make any noise) and holding it in his palm as if weighing it (mysteriously light). Then he lifted the rectangle wrapped in evergreen paper up to the light coming from the lamp by the oversize chair, where Fiona had folded herself up like a human pretzel. He squinted at the bottom of the package as if he could see through it.

Was he dragging this out?

Hell yes. He never said he wasn’t an asshole.

“Dixon Beckett,” Fiona said with a dramatic sigh. “I’m gonna tell everyone about your addiction to trashy reality TV if you don’t put everyone out of their misery and open that present.”

“You just told everyone,” he said, clutching the gift to his chest in mock outrage like some Regency Era romance heroine she’d accused him of being when they first met.

“Not the names of the shows, like Ma—”

“Okay,” he interrupted before she could spill the name of his favorite show—his cousins would never let him hear the end of it. “I’m opening it.”

Everyone in the room started clapping and grumbling things like “finally” and “pain in the ass.”