44. Dane

Ialways thought Santa was such a slacker.

I didn't care what anyone said. He and his slow-ass reindeer took their sweet time each year getting to our house. And who hired only elves to work in their factory? That didn't make any sense—and sounded discriminatory, right? What if some tall-ass dude wanted to make toys? Would Santa refuse to hire a Scandinavian guy due to some holiday height restriction? Would he not be able to board the damn sleigh because he stood above the red line painted on the workshop wall? How unfair was that carnival ride?

The older I got, the more shocked I was by how quickly time passed. It didn't seem that long ago that I was a little boy asking my mom a dozen times a day, "Is it Christmas yet?"

Now, at the ripe ole age of twenty-six, time appeared to be trudging through the molasses of universal planetary spinning.

Damn, I almost sounded smart there.

As I watched my mom hang the last of the ornaments on her spindly fake tree that held more silver tinsel than Times Square held neon, thoughts of family and holidays past rushed to the fore.

My brothers, Robert and Grady, were supposed to arrive later this afternoon. I hadn't seen them in months; shit, almost a year. Robert had graduated from Kansas and entered business school at some college out in California. His moving "half a world away," as our mom so dramatically put it, had kept us apart for more time than at any other in our lives. Grady, our knucklehead youngest, was in the middle of his sophomore year at Arkansas. I still couldn't accept that a brother of mine was a Razorback, much less cheered for a school in the Southeastern Conference. What would he come up with next? Becoming a Baptist? We were upstanding Methodists, dammit, even if shopping for Christmas presents was the most religious thing we did all year.

Still, it would be good to see them, to get the boys back together. We'd probably end up outside, tossing a football or doing idiot guy shit.

My fifth anniversary with the AFD had come and gone, and I realized I had yet to take a vacation in all that time. Captain Zhang was more than happy to give me a whole month off, starting December twenty-second. I thought Mom might fry her phone from all her crying when I told her I was coming home—and that I could stay for a whole week.

I was staring out the window, watching the snow fall, when thin arms wrapped around me and a head pressed into my lower back.

"The tree looks great," I said without turning.

Mom squeezed me tighter in response. "I'm making your favorite for breakfast tomorrow morning."I thought a moment, puzzled.

Her hug tightened, nearly squeezing the air out of my lungs. "Cheese casserole. Don't tell me you've forgotten about it."

Jesus, her mom tone could be harsh. I'd forgotten that too.

"Oh, right. Sweet. That's the best thing you make."

Her arms vanished from my waist and her head lifted off my back, then she slapped my arm so hard it stung.

"Hey!" I turned. "What was that for?"

She wagged a joyously angry finger. "You love everything I cook, as I recall. You'd better. I've been at it all week, just for you boys."

I chuckled and grabbed her, pulling her head into my chest and crushing her tiny body. "I love everything about you, Mom. You're my hero, you know that, right?"

Her snarky tone vanished quicker than snowflakes melting on the windowpane, and I thought her sniffle was more than winter sinuses. "I love you too, baby. I just wish your father could be here to see the man you've become. He'd be so proud of you, so incredibly proud."

My vision blurred.

The mention of my dad hit me hard, but the vulnerability and tenderness in her voice cracked every shell I owned. I leaned down and kissed her head. "Thanks, Mom," was all I trusted my voice to say.

She let me hold her a moment longer, then pulled back, patted my chest, then my cheek, and shuffled back into the kitchen to continue working on the eighty-two dishes she'd prepared for the return of "her boys."

Staring after her, all I could see was the forty-something woman she would always be in my childlike eyes, her hair thick and black without a hint of gray, her face smooth and unmarred by time. Of course, I knew that wasn't the woman I watched passing beneath the mistletoe hanging from the doorframe, but what son could see his mother with any eyes other than those of his youth?

My attention turned to the tree. It wasn't quite the miserable dead limb from the Charlie Brown special, but it was close. I was certain it was the same piece of plastic bliss we'd shoved presents under twenty years earlier.

"I really need to get her a live tree next year," I said, trying to bend a limb into shape, frustrated when it snapped back to create a massive hole in the faux fir.

I was about to adjust the tinsel-covered angel tree topper when another set of arms wrapped around my waist. This time, the head that pressed against my back hit the spot above my shoulder blades, just below my neck. Lips grazed my skin.

"Hey, you," I said, craning my head back so it nuzzled fluffy hair.

"Hey, handsome," Patrick said. "Thank you so much for bringing me here. This place is so beautiful."

I barked out a laugh. "You only say that because it's covered in snow and there are no cows to milk or fields to till. You, my prince, slept while I fed the horses and Mom took care of the chickens at four o'clock this morning. Tell me how beautiful this place is after you've worked the land for a summer."

I could feel him grinning into my back. "Is that how you got so big and strong?"

I spun about to face him, making sure his arms remained locked around me.

"Yeah, you're alright, I guess," He reached up and squeezed a bicep then smirked. "You could always work out or something, try to put a little meat on your bones. I mean, really. Do you have any self-respect?"

I snorted, reaching down to grip his arms like he'd done mine. "You're gonna be the beefy one before this is all over. I won't stand a chance."

Over the last few months, since we'd started dating again, Patrick had thrown himself into working out like no one I'd ever seen. He drank creatine before his workouts, protein shakes after, and took enough pills before bed to make Karen from Will and Grace blush. His body responded like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon: slowly at first, then BAM! Now, his abs were better defined than mine, and his shoulders and chest caused even his loosest-fitting shirts to strain. His arms were stubborn, refusing to grow as quickly as his chest and shoulders, and he hated leg day. Every time we walked into the gym and I announced it was time for squats, he'd let out a string of curses that might get him a nickname in the firehouse.

Then again, he'd already earned one of those.

It had taken a couple of months for Patrick to man up and walk into the station with me, but he was rewarded with open arms and smiles from Burton and Sam. Drew was a dick, but that was nothing new. When he started flirting with Patrick, I threatened to beat him with a hose.

My wicked-smart boy cut off whatever smart-ass response Drew was thinking by pooching out his lower lip and pouting like a child. "I thought you were beating me with that tonight."

Sami laughed so hard, she had to run to the bathroom before she peed her pants. Burton hollered from the kitchen.

For once in his life, Drew was speechless. The blush that colored his cheeks matched our plastic fire hats and was almost as bright as the fire tone light in the ceiling.

That's when Patrick earned his nickname: Hose.

It has so many double entendres and connotations; it was perfect. And he would never live it down.

They even got him a department T-shirt with the nickname screen-printed on the back, like some baseball jersey.

But if I was surprised by how quickly Sami and Burton accepted Patrick, we were all stunned when he and our resident raging asshole hit it off. By the end of his first visit, Drew and Patrick were huddled around the table in the den area, playing Jenga, laughing and taunting each other, while the rest of us sat at the table, chatting and sipping coffee.

Who knew Drew could be human? Was there a good guy hiding beneath all that painfully beautiful bluster?

It had taken Patrick to bring that out of him.

Patrick.

I stared at my man. I still couldn't believe that's what he was.

Five months ago, I wanted to wring his scrawny neck. Now, I couldn't kiss that neck enough. How in the name of all that is holy had that happened?

My heart wasn't the only thing that had changed. Patrick was flourishing in his own right.

His series on the Grady Hospital System won an award from the Atlanta Press Association and earned him a nomination for regional recognition. He still struggled to accept that he was a "real reporter," but it swelled my chest to see his confidence grow. It was like watching the man I knew he could be coming into his own.

"You're thinking. I can see it." Patrick reached up and rapped my head with his knuckles. "That's dangerous."

His little smirk was so damn cute. I let go of my hug and smacked his butt. "You're a naughty boy. I'm telling Santa."

"Oh no." His brows shot up. "I'd rather you punish me."

I let out a growl. "Keep that up and—"

"Boys! Lunch!" Mom's voice was anti-Viagra, killing the mood as quickly as it had arisen.

"Best not keep Mom waiting," Patrick said. She'd insisted he call her that. Something about hearing it roll off his tongue made my chest tingle.

The moment he'd set foot in her house, Mom had wrapped him in her arms and claimed him as her fourth son. I didn't think I'd ever loved her so much.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to his.

"What was that for?" he asked as I pulled back and turned toward the kitchen.

I shrugged. "I love you, Hose. Every inch of you."

The way his ears burned brightly made me laugh all the way into the kitchen.