12. Hudson

12

HUDSON

H oliday music wasn’t something I thought much about. I had some favorites and there were a few I didn’t really care for, but on the whole, I was ambivalent. The season never lasted long enough for me to form a strong love or hate bond. However, if I heard “Last Christmas” one more time, I was going to come un-fucking-done.

“What’s with this song? I hear it every time I come in the store.”

Katie, one of Moody’s sales assistants, chuckled as she tore open a box of merchandise I’d carried in from storage. “Moody loves it.”

Yes, hanging out at Moody’s Marvelous Bah Humbug Bookshop had become a daily habit. It happened organically. Sort of.

I’d start my day bright and early on the ranch, watering and feeding animals, meeting the staff, and generally getting the lay of the land. By early afternoon, I’d run out of ways to be useful. Sure, I would have been welcome anywhere on the ranch if I jumped in to help, but something pulled me into town…to Moody.

What had begun with a friendly check-in to make sure he was feeling well after his illness had become an afternoon ritual that usually ended with me doing some manual labor. The toilet got clogged; I volunteered to fix it. The boxes in the alley needed to be broken down; I was the man for the job. The Ghastly Grinchy Holiday display was a mess? No worries, I didn’t mind diverting kids while Moody and his elves cleaned up.

Everyone knew we were friends, and they might have even suspected there was something more between us, but neither of us paid attention. We were at that blissful phase where a budding friendship collided with amazing sex. I wanted to kiss him, blow him, fuck him…and yeah, I wanted to know what made him tick.

Funny enough, I knew he felt the same about me. I caught his clandestine stares and noticed his blush when I waltzed into his shop. His hand trembled when I brushed our pinkies and offered to help. And when he was ready to close for the day, he let me walk him home…no squawking about not needing an escort.

Why would he? The second he clicked the lock, we were all over each other, tearing off clothing in a rabid effort to get to skin. Honestly, I loved that we’d mutually reached the same conclusion that there was no reason to overanalyze our attraction. It existed. That was enough.

I was addicted to Moody—the curve of his spine as he rode my cock, the sharp jut of his pelvic bone as he picked up the pace, the rise and fall of his chest as he chased his orgasm, and that sweet, whimpery sound he made as he shot his load…yeah, sign me up.

It was more difficult to explain why his smile made my heart skip a beat and why his curious list of eccentricities seemed like clues I shouldn’t ignore.

Like this damn song.

“You have to admit that this song is on heavy rotation and?—”

“That’s because I’m exceedingly fond of it.” Moody popped his head around a bookshelf, pausing to give me a thorough once-over.

I flashed a knowing grin that made him blush and damn it, I wanted him again. I pushed my porny thoughts aside and tried to remember what the hell we were talking about.

“Moody loves sad holiday songs,” Katie chimed in. “He’s like a reverse romantic during the holidays.”

“ Hmph . I like it, it stays,” Moody scowled. “Feel free to vamoose now if you want, Katie. It’s almost five o’clock anyway.”

“Oh! Thank you. I need to stop at the market for confectioners’ sugar before it’s sold out. I’ll grab you some too,” she said, squeezing his arm as she passed by.

“I don’t require sugar.”

“Actually, you do. Vicki put your name on the gingerbread house sign-up sheet and I think you forgot to cross it out like you usually do, so…you better get baking! See you tomorrow, Moody.”

I frowned. “Gingerbread house sign-up?”

Moody shook his head in resigned exasperation. “It’s a yearly contest in town that I won’t be partaking in.”

“Why not? If I recall correctly, you mentioned you were a decent baker.”

“I’m excellent,” he huffed indignantly.

“But…” I prompted.

“It’s…” His glasses slipped as he wrinkled his brow, the way he always did when his brain and mouth were out of sync. “…messy. You have to bake the gingerbread from scratch, no prepackaged designs. And then you have to assemble it and decorate with aplomb.”

“ Hmm . Sounds like fun. I’ll sign up.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Do you bake?”

“No, but it can’t be that hard, and you can help me.” I trailed a finger along his forearm, loving the flustered flare of desire he couldn’t quite mask.

“I know what you’re doing. This is more trickeration.”

“Trickeration?” I repeated with a laugh. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s gingerbread.”

“Baking is a science. Not difficult, necessarily, but it requires patience and…and…you have no idea how cutthroat this competition gets. This isn’t Christmas Town’s version of The Great British Baking Show . This is war.”

I snorted derisively. “Really?”

He fiddled with his glasses again. “Well, not war, but…a very serious contest that requires a team of bakers. Katie partners with her mom, Vicki signs me up on Team Vixen, knowing full well that I’ll politely bow out, and?—”

“Why? I know you have a strong anti-holiday stance, but does it have to be a Christmassy gingerbread creation? We could just make a house. Or better yet, a ranch.” I picked up a couple of the empty boxes I’d stacked in the corner. “Me and you…could be fun. Like a baking date.”

“A baking date?” Moody repeated.

I pointed at his chest. “Exactly. Your kitchen is bigger, so?—”

“No gingerbread in my house.”

I narrowed my gaze. “Okay, we’ll do it at my place. Send me a list of ingredients, and I’ll do the shopping. Sound good?”

I braced for a grumbly Moody brush-off, and let’s be real, I kind of deserved it. He’d clearly stated that he had no intention of participating and once again, I’d inserted myself. Sue me. I liked this man, and I wanted to see him smile the way he had a few months ago, unfettered and free.

But really…a gingerbread-baking date?

Ingredients for a gingerbread house: flour, baking powder, salt, brown sugar, ground ginger, cinnamon, allspice…

I scoured the Santa Ynez supermarket spice section and came up empty. They had basil, bay leaves, cardamom seed powder, cayenne, and thirty more with tiny labels and even smaller font, but no allspice. Maybe that wasn’t important.

I pulled out my cell and texted Moody.

Where the fuck and what the fuck is allspice?

I hit Send just as a new message popped up from my family chat. It was a group selfie of my mom, my brother, a slew of cousins, their significant others, and my aunt and uncle taken at Sunday dinner. The caption read: We miss you, Hud! Come home for Christmas.

“Well, fancy running into you here!”

I spun, jostling my cell and nearly dropping it. “Whoa.”

Vicki cupped her hand beneath mine to catch it, wiping her brow in mock relief when that proved unnecessary. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay. I was texting and got distracted.”

“Happens to the best of us,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair into her loose bun and pointing a red manicured finger at my screen. “Is that your family?”

“Uh…yeah.” I turned my phone toward her and gave a brief rundown of the Calhoun and Babineaux clan.

“That’s a big crew,” she commented, sidling around me to grab two jars of cloves.

“There are even more of us during the holidays. Cousins I haven’t seen or sometimes even heard of come out of the woodwork.” I checked to be sure I hadn’t missed a new message from Moody before pocketing my cell. “It’s chaos…the fun kind. My mom’s convinced I need that in my life, so she’s enlisted the whole gang to coax me home for Christmas.”

Vicki cocked her head, her hand frozen over a package of powdered sugar. “You’re staying in town?”

“That’s my plan.” I turned back to the spice section.

“Ah…well, that’s good. I noticed that you and Moody have become…close, but knowing Moody, he won’t offer the appropriate holiday invite, so if you happen to be available for dinner on Christmas Eve, you’re welcome to join us at my house. Believe it or not, there will be no soup on the menu.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“My pleasure. And good luck with your gingerbread house. You’re going to need it,” she chided playfully. “I’ve got my husband’s secret recipe.”

“Gingerbread smack talk? That’s a new one.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t know the half of it. My late husband was very serious about gingerbread flavor, and Moody was all about construction and design. They were very close, and together, they were a great team. But…things have changed,” she commented, her voice suddenly wistful.

The baking aisle at the local grocery store probably wasn’t the best venue for probing conversations, but I was too curious and this woman knew Moody better than anyone.

“Moody told me his dad was literally Santa.”

Vicki grinned. “Yep. Milt looked the part, and that man embodied kindness and joy and…blessings. Can you believe I met him at a Vegas strip club?”

A woman pushing a drooling toddler in a shopping cart glanced up, immediately veering in the opposite direction.

“Is that so?”

Vicki waited for the young mother to clear the aisle and nodded. “It’s true. Milt came to my show every night during his two-week vacation. It was hard not to notice the guy with the bushy white beard and twinkling eyes. Santa at a strip club? The story just wrote itself. He was such a gentleman…always laughing, always able to find a silver lining. Like Moody.”

The “except in December” was inferred, but I let it go and refocused on the spice shelves.

“He sounds like he was an amazing guy.”

“The best.” She smiled sadly, motioning to the shelves of baking goods. “What are you looking for?”

“Allspice. Got any idea where I can find it?”

Vicki joined the search and found the allspice hidden behind a container of cumin. She dropped it into my cart, nudging my shoulder as she stage-whispered, “The decorations are crap here. You need to buy your supplies at the Candy Emporium in Christmas Town. If you give Sally my name, she’ll hook you up with the good stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she called out, stopping in her tracks at the end of the aisle. “Hey, Hudson?”

“Yeah?”

“Moody played ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ at the store earlier today. That’s kind of a big deal ’cause it’s a downright happy song, so…thank you.”

I furrowed my brow in amused confusion. “That’s great, but that’s not me.”

“Oh, yes, it is.” She waved and disappeared a moment later.

Okay, that was cryptic and odd, but also…sweet.

Buzz buzz.

Allspice is also known as Jamaica pepper or myrtle pepper. Contrary to popular belief, it is not a combination of spices, but its own distinct spice. Its flavor is reminiscent of cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg. If you’ve exhausted all options, we can make do with a homemade blend. However, my alchemy skills are rusty.

I took a photo of the allspice and sent it to Moody. Allspice, all good.

Smiley face emoji. Magnificent!

I snorted at the exchange, but I was grinning like a fool. I was doing that a lot lately. Was it regular sex with a beautiful, interesting man or was it something else? Hard to say. I just knew I was…happy.

I liked to think Moody was too.