Page 105 of Go Back to December

I blink at Baz.

He grumbles an affirmation at his sisters and drags me toward the intoxicating scent of sage sausages. A banner hanging over the tents reads: Oriana Lake First Night Charity Carnival.

My feet stick in the snow. I look helplessly at Baz.

His hangry scowl softens a fraction. “What?”

I gesture to the entire celebration. “It’s a fundraiser?”

He mirrors my arm waving. “This is shocking?”

I clamp my hands at my sides. “A little.”

“Can we discuss your shock once we get food? The Hospice always runs out of the cornbread and sausages in the first hour.”

As he yanks my arm along, I huff. “I thought you hadn’t been here in years.”

“Less talking, more walking.”

He herds me to an enormous line. When we reach the front, Baz orders the maximum allowance of sausage cornbread rolls they’ll give him. He makes me order the same, but pays for both, which irks everyone, until I add an extra donation to the jar.

“You aren’t eating all of these,” I say.

“It’s a barter system. Luiza’s getting the char siew buns and Annabel’s on pecan pie.”

As he unwraps one roll, I prepare my taunts about his willpower, but then he offers the first bite to me.

“Why, Gentleman Johnson, how thoughtful. Are you sure?”

He nods like a kid with his first Valentine. I take a small bite, and he orders me to take a bigger one because it’s too good to last, and damn, he’s right. The meat is smoky; it melts into the sweet cornbread, and as Baz sinks his teeth into his own roll, we moan collectively.

His eyes flash hot again. Were it not for the descent of his family, we’d be halfway to the back of one of these tents and coatless.

We walk to the viewpoint near Annabel’s installation, swapping pretzels and sausages and buns and slices of pie. Baz tries to negotiate for more of the sausages while Luiza claims they’re worth more than double the pie allowance.

Annabel offers me a cup of hot cider with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I’m neutral in the sausage pie debate.”

“I meant for getting Baz here.”

“He did the work.”

“You helped. And we’re all grateful.”

A tender, lost look crosses her face, and I pat her back gently. “It’s a start. The rest will take time, and Baz isn’t going anywhere.”

“It’s okay with me if he did.”

The well-meaning sentiment is too close to the truth for my comfort. The Johnsons don’t know about the Lightman and Paris. Baz and I haven’t broached the topic of what happens if I get it. That would involve serious relationship-level dialogue, and we’re miles from that stage.

“After everything that happened with Allie, I think Baz is afraid to leave again,” Annabel says. “I don’t want him to be. And I don’t want him to restrict his options. Especially with all the crap going on at Blackhart & Steele.”

“They can’t afford to lose him.”

“He can’t afford to lose you.” Annabel smirks. “Neither can we. He’s been fucking unbearable the last two days. Do not subject us to that again, please.”

My laugh is loud and low, and Baz turns around at the sound, his smile as bright as the sight below us.