Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

I n Ace's kitchen, Sandy stood over Sam's shoulder, inhaling the delicious scent of basil, tomato, and pepper soup. A pan of brownies cooled on a counter. He touched the corner of his mouth, checking for drool.

"Can you get him to stop lurking?" Sam said to Chelsea as she moved to a cutting area and peeled a clove of garlic.

"Hey, give her space," Chelsea said from a stool in the corner.

Indicating surrender, he raised his hands in the air and moved next to Chelsea. "Not too much garlic. I want him to kiss me at the end of the night and maybe more."

"Is he telling me what to do in my kitchen?"

Chelsea glared at Sandy. "Sit down and shut up."

"Sitting." He wiggled into the chair. "So, Sam, you cook, you're—not to objectify you as a woman, but hot AF—how on earth are you single?"

A set of daggers fired from Chelsea's eyes at him.

"You're a nosy one." Sam stirred and turned the heat down on the soup.

"You have no idea . . . "

"Let's get the tapas started." Sam grabbed a wooden board from the middle kitchen station.

Chelsea hopped off their seat and walked into the cooler.

Sam flagged Sandy over to her station. "Patrick and Chelsea are friends. Did they threaten you if you hurt him?" She handed him some olives and a spoon. "Put them in this small dish." She reached up for a travel thermos and poured hot soup into it, screwing the lid on and placing the container in a box with a few other items.

"You know they say so little and yet speak so much." Sandy popped an olive in his mouth.

"Stop. You'll ruin your appetite and my hard work." Sam smacked his hand, admonishing him.

"Wow, you're mean." Sandy rubbed the back of his hand.

"I've been itching to do that since I met him," Chelsea said as they returned from the cooler and placed various cheeses on the counter.

That earned Chelsea a nudge and a flirty wink from Sam. These two. Maybe I could accidently lock them in the walk-in together? It was agonizing to watch. Do Patrick and I have this kind of chemistry? Yeah. Oh yeah, we do. "What time do we have the toy drive tomorrow?"

"Set up at 8 a.m. Patrick usually helps deliver. We need another body and car."

Sam handed Chelsea a bread knife and baguette. "About this thin." She showed them. "I can help in the afternoon."

Sweet silver bells, it's like I planned this or something. Ho! Ho! Ho! "Fantastic. Okay, now question: tell me the full story of Dolan stealing the money from the store." He was going for casual, but that was about as subtle as Santa falling down a chimney.

"Relentless." Chelsea shook their head.

"I'm tired of tiptoeing around it, so I need someone to give me the hot goss."

Sam handed him a cover for the olives.

"Not it." Chelsea said, passing the obligation to Sam.

"Thanks for that." Sam grabbed two containers from the fridge. "This is savory and this is sweet." She held both in the air to show Sandy and tucked them into the box.

"Spicy?" He always liked to know if there was a chance of burning his tongue out of his mouth prior to sitting down at a table.

Sam waved a hand in the air as if he'd be fine. "Patrick was away on a weekend trip, and Dolan was managing the store on his own. He just took the money and ran."

"That's ice cold. Why'd he do it? Drugs? Gambling debts? Addiction to Home Shopping Network?"

"No one really knows, and he hasn't been back since."

"He wasn't arrested? What happened?"

Sam grabbed some figs and sliced them. "Patrick wanted to call my dad, but the elder McCormick's wouldn't hear of it."

"Her dad's the sheriff," Chelsea supplied.

Understanding, he nodded along. "How much did he get away with from the store?"

"Oh, it wasn't just what they had at the store. He cleaned out all the money they had in the business account at the bank, over $50,000."

Shocked, Sandy stood there with a gaping mouth and sloped shoulders.

"And ever since then Patrick's bent over backward to keep it running—even put in his own money. If he didn't have Chelsea and you, I doubt he would have even left the store long enough to visit his dad in the hospital. We're talking about a guy who's living and only living to manage that place." She placed the figs in a container. "I think you're good for him. I can already see that he's beginning to trust at least a couple of people again."

Sandy plastered a smile on his face, but inside he was panicking. Am I ready for this? What if I fail him like his brother did? Oh shit, I think I've made a huge mistake. Yes, Patrick's a great guy, and except for my best friend Julia, I've never had a long-term or stable relationship in my life. None of my hookups extended into emotions and investment. And now along comes this wonderful guy I barely know, who I'm deceiving about my new job, and I'm going to screw this up. Discouraged, Sandy picked up a pan of brownies and stuffed one in his mouth. Beyond delicious! Maybe I should have another one. Or two.

After bringing his mom home, Patrick stood in front of his bedroom mirror. He turned to the left and then the right. These pants make me look like a logger. He took them off, tossing them onto the bed with every other pair of pants he owned.

His mom appeared in the doorway. "You look nice."

Patrick looked down at his white dress shirt (not flannel), green tie, and gray vest. He had on his boxers and reindeer socks. "I have no pants."

Mom stared at the pile on the bed.

"All of them look terrible."

"Pick your most comfortable," she said, taking a seat in the guest chair.

"That'd be jeans. I can't wear jeans on our first date."

She wrapped the blanket from the back of the chair around her shoulders. "Why not? I wore hot pink culottes on my first date with your father."

He groaned. "Thankfully, I don't own any culottes." Patrick opened his dresser drawer. He slipped on his favorite jeans, tucked in his shirt, and took a look in the mirror. He looked good. "Are you sure you'll be okay alone tonight?"

She nodded. "Honestly, I could use the rest. Are you nervous?"

He sucked in a deep breath. "That obvious?"

His mom moved in front of Patrick with a look of knowledge, love, and acceptance in her eye. She adjusted his tie. "Only to me. Do you know where you're going tonight?"

"No idea. He's surprising me." He glanced at his watch. "And he'll be picking me up in a few minutes."

His mom rested her hands on his shoulders and gave him a supportive squeeze. "You deserve the very best. You're smart, kind, strong, and you'll make a great dad someday."

Patrick closed his eyes, dropping his head backward. "Don't start in on that."

"No pressure."

"I'm sure you'll get grandkids soon enough with Dolan and his new fiancée." Patrick couldn't stop the biting comment from flying out of his mouth.

"Maybe, but I always thought you'd—I shouldn't say it, but I always thought you'd make an incredible father."

Patrick hugged her, grateful for the vote of confidence.

After he released her, she gave him a small smile. "If you could do me a favor and try with Dolan."

Why? Why am I always the one who has to bend? "Honestly, I don't know if I'm capable of doing that with him."

She squeezed his arm. "You can do anything that you put your mind to." With that parting shot, his mom left.

After all these years, his mom still knew how to guilt him into doing anything. The doorbell rang, and he hurried to the front door. He swung it open expecting to see Sandy, but instead Chelsea stood in front of him. A light dusting of snow covered their stocking cap and jacket. They came in and shut the door behind them.

"Is everything okay?"

They rolled their lips into their mouth making them look like a flustered Kermit the Frog.

Something was off. Patrick placed his hands on his hips, going into action mode. "What happened?"

They inhaled and averted their eyes to the ceiling. "He can't come pick you up, so I'm here."

Really? That's it. This doesn't make sense. "I think I'm missing pieces to the puzzle here . . . "

"Put your stuff on and let's go."

While Patrick put on his boots, Moonshine nudged against his shoestrings. "You stay here and watch over Mom." He tussled the hair on the dog's head and then shrugged into his jacket.

Carefully meandering the streets, Chelsea drove their truck over the fresh powder. Patrick loved everything about his neighborhood this time of year, from the giant floppy snowman that never quite had enough air in it to the house with the three reindeer on the roof where Rudolph was replaced with a teddy bear with makeshift horns and a red-light bulb for its nose. And his favorite of them all: the blinking house with synchronized music. Sure, all of it was ridiculous, but Patrick enjoyed these quirks of his small town. Personally, he favored the colorful Christmas lights outlining his own house with an old-fashioned Santa's workshop on his front yard. Simple, classic, and cute.

Chelsea parked in front of the store. Patrick couldn't contain his questions any longer. "What are we doing here? Are we meeting here and then going to dinner?"

They gave him a blank look. "Go in."

The store was completely dark, which was unusual considering that a few lights always stayed on, and during the holidays a few of the Christmas lights remained on after closing. As Patrick moved, a set of luminary bags lit up on the stairs. A rush of excitement ran through him. He liked the unexpected, and this was certainly falling into that category. Even though he really wanted to race up the stairs, he took his time walking. His stomach flipped. He couldn't remember the last time someone had taken the time to romance him. When he reached the top step, he spotted a table set for two. The Christmas paper plates and tablecloth were whimsical and a bit absurt, just like Sandy.

Patrick glanced around, seeking out his dinner companion. A weird noise, sounding like a hiccup, broke the silence. A few seconds went by, and then the hiccup happened again. He turned around, wondering where the squeak was coming from. The next hiccup came out in a series, and then it dawned on Patrick that the small sound came from under the table. Who or what had taken shelter there? Patrick flipped up the tablecloth and bent down to look.

In the dim lighting, he had to squint to see, but was that Sandy? He blinked several times. It was! Why was his quirky date for the night huddled in the cramped space like a lost child with his knees drawn up to his chest? What the hell was going on? He dropped to his haunches to assess the situation and tried for a gentle smile. "Hello, there. What's happened?"

Sandy made a humming sound as if that tiny radio impression helped him navigate through his haze. His eyes opened absurdly wide. "What?"

Confused, he wiped a hand across his face. "Take my hand."

Sandy slapped his hand into Patrick's. He got a solid grip and guided him out from under the table then helped him to his feet.

The weight of the other man flopped into Patrick's arms like a sack of potatoes. "You're a very stroup-stra-strapping man." Sandy leaned his head on Patrick's chest.

Chelsea and Sam came up the stairs carrying the Spanish tapas board and soup.

"Let's get some food in him." Sam placed the board in the middle of the table.

"What happened to him?" Patrick backed Sandy's wobbly body into a chair. Hopefully, he wouldn't fall face first into his food.

Chelsea shrugged as they placed the bowls down, and then Sam ladled out the soup.

"Everything was going well, and then the next thing we knew he'd consumed a pan of my special brownies. Then we found him doing shots and dancing at the bar."

He's not just drunk, but drunk and stoned off his ass. Patrick let out a growl of annoyance.

"This jingles my bells so hard. I want to take this bread to bed." Sandy stuffed the entire slice of baguette into his mouth, followed by picking up the entire triangle of brie, and taking a huge bite out of it. As if that wasn't enough, he held his bowl of soup and tried to drink it like a cappuccino.

Carefully, Sam grabbed the bowl and placed it on the table. "Stop, you don't want to burn yourself."

Sporting a goofy grin, Sandy made a finger gun and shot it at her.

After his incredibly difficult day, an inebriated date was the last thing Patrick wanted to deal with. But Sam was right. Sandy needed to sober up, and food would help move that process along. Patrick removed his jacket and took a seat. "This really looks amazing. Thank you both. It means a lot to me."

"Not a problem. I have a main course prepared, so we'll let you get started on this, and then we'll check in with you." Sam turned to head back downstairs.

Chelsea patted his shoulder in commiseration before trailing after Sam.

Across the table from Patrick, Sandy tried to spoon soup in his mouth, but the liquid kept spilling off.

If they were going to get anywhere tonight, Patrick needed to help him. He smeared a piece of bread with olive tapenade and then added meat and cheese. He tapped Sandy's arm. When his befuddled date looked up, his features turned dreamy at the loaded tapas. Patrick prepared another plate of treats and set it in front of Sandy.

After a moment of successfully getting food into his mouth, Sandy seemed to take note of Patrick sitting across from him. "How did you do today? How today—how was your day today?"

At this point, Patrick could spout any nonsense, and he doubted that Sandy would remember a word of it tomorrow. "I went golfing with Blitzen, then the elves let me join their bowling league, and then I screwed Santa—overall pretty awesome."

"Sounds unbub . . . unbublievable." Sandy chewed and then guzzled his water.

Patrick took a spoonful of the wonderful soup. He looked up at Sandy, who had stopped chewing. Sandy's lips turned down and his face turned green. He doesn't look well. Patrick stepped quickly to Sandy and got him to his feet. Sandy slapped his hand over his mouth. Together they ran to the men's bathroom. Sandy sprinted to the first stall. Patrick stopped at the door. The sound of Sandy getting sick turned his stomach.

"Can I get you anything?"

The groan Sandy made was a cross between embarrassment and pain.

"I'm going to give you a minute." Patrick stepped out of the bathroom.

Sam and Chelsea stood by the table looking uncomfortable.

Unsure of what to say, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey, um, he's not doing so well. Would you mind taking care of all of this? I should probably get him home."

With a nod, Chelsea started the clean-up.

"I'm so sorry. Let us know if you need help getting him downstairs." Sam tossed the plates into the trash.

He thanked them and put on his jacket. After picking up Sandy's stuff, he retrieved Sandy from the bathroom and took the elevator down. Hopefully, Sandy had gotten everything out of his system. Patrick didn't want to make a big deal out of Sandy getting stoned, but he was hurt, and he didn't understand why he'd pull such a stupid stunt on their big night.

After stuffing Sandy into the backseat, he considered the disastrous evening as he drove home. Is this a routine for Sandy? Why do I get involved with men like this?

He pulled up to his house and went through the drag-and-carry-the-stoned-man saga all over again. Once they were inside, Patrick helped Sandy out of his coat and boots before Sandy stumbled into the living room. As he turned to go to the couch, he tripped and knocked the small Dickensian village off its display table, causing it to crash to the ground. And then he fell face first onto the couch.

Stunned, Patrick stared in horror at the demolished village, feeling like it was his heart that had been dumped on the carpet. I deserve better than this. It's Spencer all over again.