Page 80 of Snowed In with Benefits

“It’s certainly the most creative thing we’ve done for Christmas,” he admits with a laugh.

I cuddle him back, knowing that it’s the only thing they’ve done for Christmas. Knowing that they did it for me warms my heart. It’s getting late, and Hunter notices when my stomach growls.

“You should have eaten more cookie dough,” he says, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in me. He winks at me when I open my mouth to disagree. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go figure out dinner.”

We figure out sandwiches. Honestly, I think everybody’s creativity has been stretched to the absolute limit today, and sandwiches are easy and completely customizable. We pile fixings on the table and pass ingredients around, each of us building something that says more about us than it should. Emmett’s is plain and no-nonsense. Beau’s is a triple-decker monstrosity. Hunter’s has avocado and garlic aioli. Mine lands somewhere in the middle.

We eat our fill in comfortable silence, then everybody helps to put things away. Hunter meets Emmett’s eyes and they have one of their little psychic conversations. I wonder if I’ll ever know them enough to interpret those looks correctly.

“I think it’s a whiskey and cookies by the tree kind of a night,” Hunter says softly.

Emmett nods somberly. Beau doesn’t disagree, which for him is agreement. There’s a bit of a shift in the atmosphere. I have to believe that it has something to do with me imposing Christmas on them, but I don’t feel like it’s a negative shift. There’s something here, underneath it all, but it doesn’t seem to be souring the mood.

We take a plate of cookies and a bottle of whiskey into the living room and sit around the tree. It’s standing proudly in the middle of the room, bearing its collection of eccentric ornaments, standing erect with what looks like railroad ties buried in the beautiful hardwood floor, but I’m going to ignore that for now. I take it all in and breathe a long sigh.

“Something wrong?” Hunter asks.

I shake my head. “No, not really. The mantel… it’s perfect for stockings.”

They exchange looks and I imagine what they must be thinking.

“Not for me,” I say quickly. “I just really loved stockings when I was a kid, and I always wanted a special mantel for my kids’ stockings. When I have kids, I mean. If I have kids. I’d want to do the whole Santa thing. A real fireplace, stockings on the mantel, cookies by the tree, the whole thing. It’s magical. I love the idea of them going to bed with the stockings empty, and waking up to find them full.”

“You want kids?” Beau asks softly.

I nod, still looking up at our makeshift tree. “You know, with what we had to work with, I think we did a pretty good job,” I tell them.

“Agreed,” Hunter says, and he opens the bottle of whiskey. He takes a swig and passes it to me. It’s a ritual I’ve grown comfortable with during my time here. Drink, pass. Drink, pass. Around the circle until someone bows out. It’s soothing. Not just the alcohol, but the rhythm of it.

“Benny used to do that for the neighborhood kids,” Hunter says. “Play Santa, I mean. He was the only one on the crew with a big enough belly to pass for the magic man.”

Beau chuckles. “His ho, ho, hos needed some work.”

“Eh, he did his best,” Hunter says with a grin. “Charlie had the best ho, ho, hos, but he was a beanpole.”

“Ninety pounds soaking wet,” Emmett agrees. “A wonder he could even carry his kit.”

“Small but mighty,” Hunter agrees, saluting with the bottle before taking another swig. He passes to me.

I take a drink. “Are the kits heavy?”

I pass the bottle to Emmett. He looks at the light reflecting in the liquid for a moment before answering. “Yeah,” he says. “They were heavy.” His tone is layered and I give him a curious look. He takes a long drink and passes the bottle to Beau.

“Heavy, how?” I ask gently.

“All kinds of heavy,” Beau says. “Heavy to lift. Heavy to walk in. Heavy… just heavy.”

They’re all getting that look in their eye again. That faraway look I’ve seen before, that layered look that doesn’t quite hide the depths of sadness behind it. I let the silence settle while the bottle goes around again, not wanting to interfere in their collective reverie. Eventually, though, Emmett catches my eye.

“There was a fire,” he says, his voice rough and low. “A stupid, avoidable fire.”

“Some idiot left their fucking gas on all winter,” Beau growls. He downs a mouthful of whiskey and passes the bottle to Hunter.

“Didn’t clean their flue,” Hunter adds. He takes a long drink and passes to me.

“It was Davey,” Emmett says, his voice breaking on the name. “The family dog was in its kennel inside when the fire started to spread. They screamed. He acted. That was how he was.”

“Brave kid. Good kid. Heart of fucking gold.” Beau’s voice is low.