13. Moody

13

MOODY

H udson’s kitchen was definitely smaller than mine. He was short on prep space, and I had no idea where we’d assemble the gingerbread ranch. Maybe on the round dining table in the corner where the baby goat was munching a carrot and?—

I gasped and jumped a foot in the air, or at least a few inches. “There’s a creature—a critter…in your house.”

Hudson hummed distractedly as he bent to retrieve something from the refrigerator. “A critter? Oh, that’s just Nelly. I’ll introduce you in a sec. How about some eggnog? We can spike it with a little bourbon and?—”

“Uh…yes, yes, fine, just…Nelly?” I swiped my clammy palms on my shirt, scanning my internal databank for information about this particular animal. I came up blank. “You have a pet goat?”

I didn’t know squat about goats, except that they generally lived in barns. No…wait. I vaguely recalled an acquaintance in grad school who’d claimed to be a goat. Or maybe an otter or a furry or—oh, dear. Oh, dear, not the same thing.

Pull it together, Moody.

Hudson set a carton of eggnog on the counter, then bent to gather the goat in his arms. “Come meet, Moody, Nell. Don’t be shy. He’s a sweetheart.”

“Are you talking to me or the goat?”

Hudson laughed. “Yes. Nelly is a flirt. She follows Tanner everywhere, but she’s taken a shine to me too. This is the third day in a row this week I’ve found her waiting at the gate behind my yard.”

“But she’s in side your domain. Is that…okay?”

“Sure. She won’t get into much trouble in the kitchen, but we’re gonna take her home before we start cooking, anyway. Want to pet her?”

“Um…sure.” I gnawed my bottom lip and inched closer, gently brushing my hand on the soft tuft of hair on Nell’s head. She didn’t flinch or even seem to notice me at all. She was besotted with the big, burly man cradling her in his arms. I couldn’t blame her.

“That’s it. Good girl. I told you he was a good egg, Nell. A little fussy sometimes, but nothing we can’t handle,” Hudson cooed.

“Hey,” I grumbled without heat, petting her long ears. “She is pretty cute, and she?—”

“Baaaaa!”

I jumped again and this time, I bounced into the counter and knocked over a measuring cup and a spatula. Nelly bleated in earnest at the racket, wiggling out of Hudson’s arms and tearing around the kitchen table in circles. Every time he tried to catch her, she’d hop away like a demented bunny.

At first it was alarming. This tiny creature was wreaking havoc, skidding across the floor and bouncing off cabinets and chairs, darting out of reach at the last possible second.

And then, well…I had to admit it was gosh-darn funny. Hudson was so big, and Nelly was so tiny and quick, and the ridiculousness of a goat dodging capture like a child playing tag with an old geezer was slapstick comedy gold. I was not immune. At all.

On Nelly’s fourth lap, I lost my composure. A snicker morphed into a fit of giggles and eventually dissolved into uproarious laughter. I flopped onto the nearest chair, doubled over with tears in my eyes. My feverish cackling and Nelly’s bleating echoed in the small confines. Poor Hudson gave up the chase, raking his hand through his hair, the picture of a man at wit’s end.

“Holy crap. I don’t know where to begin.” He kneeled to grab the carrot Nelly had abandoned earlier and glanced my way. “Are you okay? I can’t tell if you’re crying or?—”

“I’m fine. I’m—baa.” And yes, I was laughing again…so hard that I slipped off the chair.

“Hold that thought. Gotcha!” Hudson swooped the goat in his arms and sat cross-legged on the floor next to me. He offered Nelly the carrot and sighed with relief as she nibbled away as if nothing had happened.

I leaned into his side to pet her, no hesitation. My insides felt warm, and though I could probably claim that was thanks to the unexpected comedy show, I knew that wasn’t it. Just as I knew Nelly’s presence wasn’t an accident.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Right. Because it’s so much fun to chase a fucking goat while I’m trying to impress a guy,” he snarked.

I smiled and kissed his cheek. “I’m impressed. Tell me all about Nelly.”

Hudson studied me intently. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but I liked it when he laced our fingers, squeezed, and started talking.

“Nelly? She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s cute. Like you. Her brother is a little bigger. They call him Gordy, and…”

My December defenses, which had already been on shaky ground for a week or more, crumbled brick by brick, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. I could feel the fall happening, but I couldn’t stop it. Worse…I didn’t care.

Hudson told me about the goats he’d befriended and the cow he was sure had a crush on him. He talked about horses he’d grown up with in Colorado and the cranky old cat that had slept at the end of his bed every night till he left for college.

Hudson loved animals…all animals. He’d thought about becoming a vet, but he’d been needed at the ranch, and there hadn’t been enough hours in the day. He talked about losing his dad to cancer and how he’d slipped into a mode of playing it safe. He was sure that was why he’d proposed to Kylie. He said he’d heard that she’d married the yoga instructor and that his family wanted him home for the holidays.

“What do you want?” I asked, snuggling closer to the sexy rancher and the goat sleeping in his arms.

“I don’t know. It’s only a few days and part of me thinks it might be fun, but…I also think I have a bad habit of trying to please others for the sake of keeping the peace.”

“ Hmm .”

“Not sure what I’ll do, but I know that I need to peel my ass off this cold floor before I’m stuck here for eternity with a drooling goat on my chest.” He stood and held his hand out. “C’mon. Let’s put the eggnog away for now and take Nelly home.”

We exited through the gate in his yard and strolled the moonlit path to the barn. Hudson dropped Nelly off with her family, then gave me a tour, introducing me to his favorite cows and a horse in the stable he’d nicknamed The Boss.

I’d always been skittish around animals. They were big and smelly and possibly dangerous. And while I didn’t think I was incorrect, with a real cowboy at my side, I felt brave enough to pet an animal who outweighed me by eight hundred pounds or more. It was invigorating and fun…the way everything seemed to be when I was with Hudson.

I was so giddy from our excursion that I forgot to decline his offer of bourbon in my eggnog and I didn’t make a fuss about the amount of work ahead of us after we’d scoured the kitchen post goat visit.

We couldn’t simply make the dough and bake it, we needed a design. We discussed various ideas while sipping eggnog, finally agreeing that a basic rectangular shaped ranch with a small barn was the way to go.

“We can bake tonight, cut the gingerbread and let it harden tonight. I recommend waiting till tomorrow to decorate.”

Hudson smiled and tied an apron over his plaid shirt. “I’m in. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

I glanced up from the recipe on Hudson’s iPad as the first notes of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” blasted from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter.

This was my wakeup call.

This holly jolly nonsense was the worst. It was everything I’d sworn off years ago—the gateway to crushing memories and debilitating fear. Dramatic, yes. I knew it. And trust me, my therapist did too. I’d funneled my nonsensical feelings into a curmudgeon persona of sorts that made the holidays palatable, but the eggnog, the tree, the twinkling Christmas lights in the kitchen window, and now…holiday music? This was too much.

This was where I’d say, “Turn that off or I’m leaving,” or perhaps I’d walk out the door without a word. I didn’t owe Hudson an explanation. I was a nutball during the holidays. Everyone knew it. They’d warned him, I’d warned him. What was he thinking?

I froze, hoping my whirling mind would quiet so I could make a decision. But Mariah sang louder and Hudson was shaking his hips, dancing as he refreshed our drinks and added more bourbon. Oh gosh, and now he was humming and he was wearing an apron and he was nice to baby goats and to horses and to me and?—

I plucked the glass from his hand, set it on the counter, and lunged for him, standing on tiptoe as I fused my mouth to his.

Hudson took my overenthusiastic lip-lock and turned it into something hot and sexy. I melted into the kiss, loving the taste of sweet eggnog and alcohol on his tongue and the feel of his strong arms around my waist. It was heaven, and I didn’t ever want to let go.

He rested his forehead against mine and tilted my chin till I met his gaze. “You okay?”

“I’m splendiferous.”

Hudson threw his head back and laughed. “Glad to hear it. Should we start baking?”

I nodded. “Yes. Let’s bake.”

A little-known fact about yours truly…I was an excellent baker. Top tier, first rate, “could lend a hand at a fancy French patisserie in a pinch” good. Seriously.

“Whoa! How do you know how to crack eggs like that?” Hudson asked, wrinkling his nose in wonder or confusion. “Hang on. Did you even measure the sugar? How do you know if that’s the right amount?”

Fair questions.

“I perfected this recipe at the tender age of twelve and made it continually for twenty years. I’ve taken a couple of years off, but I’ll never forget how to crack a darn egg.”

“Okay…well, what can I do?”

“You could measure and mix the flour, salt, and baking powder.”

Hudson gave a thumbs-up, tossing curious glances as I blended sugar and butter, swaying to a familiar carol on the radio. “Twenty years of baking?”

“Yes.” I pushed at the frame of my glasses with the heel of my hand and proceeded to spill all the beans. “When I was ten years old, I took over baking my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. She loved them, though too much sugar made her queasy after chemo. She kept me company in the kitchen and gave me pointers I still use today—unsalted butter only, always add an extra quarter cup of flour, and refrigerate the dough for at least twenty minutes before putting it in a properly preheated oven. Cooking, baking, and books were my safe haven during my mom’s illness and my dad’s sadness.”

Hudson frowned. “I’m sorry, baby. How old were you when she passed away?”

“Fifteen,” I said. “My parents were in their midforties when they adopted me and?—”

“You’re adopted? I didn’t know that.”

I shrugged. “ Mmm . It’s not news to me, but yes. My birth parents were forced to surrender me to the state or so the story goes. They were either neglectful or just bad people. My real parents, the ones who raised me, never went into gory detail. I was adopted officially at nine months old to a lovely older couple who’d never been able to have children of their own. They adored each other, and they adored me. They accepted me as is, too.”

“Good. That’s the way it should be.”

“Yes.” I added cinnamon, allspice, and ginger. A minute or so later, I was yapping again. “My dad fell to pieces after we lost Mom. He didn’t know what to do with himself. His hobbies had been her hobbies—antiquing, gardening, cooking. He was terribly depressed, so one year, I signed up for a gingerbread house competition and asked for his help. Actually, I recall an exaggerated desperate plea. Dad agreed…grudgingly. And guess what?”

“He loved it and decided to become Santa?”

I cast a sharp sideways glance his way. “How’d you know?”

Hudson chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Just a guess. There must have been a step or two in between.”

“It began with gingerbread and a little weight gain. He let his beard grow too, and one of his students commented that Mr. Moody bore a striking resemblance to Santa Claus. My father loved it. He loved it so much, he became Santa.”

“That’s pretty damn cool.”

I grinned. “It is. My Aunt Kathy was a little concerned. But he didn’t move to the North Pole, hire elves to make toys, or wrangle a few reindeer to do some heavy lifting. Dad wore the costume—red T-shirts in warm weather, red sweaters in colder months, and he kept his beard long year-round. And…he started volunteering—food banks, hospitals, events for cancer awareness, child and domestic abuse—if he was needed, he showed up. And it made him happy.”

“He really was a great man.”

“Yes, and Mom was equally fantabulous. I’m lucky they chose me. I wouldn’t be me if it weren’t for them,” I replied matter-of-factly.

Hudson pushed the bowl of flour toward me and dusted his hands off. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me too, but I’m okay. I have a lot to be grateful for, and I know it.”

“Now that sounds like something the Moody I met in October would say,” he teased, nudging my shoulder. “Not December Moody. That guy’s a grouch.”

“ Hmph .”

“December is tough for you,” he stated. No judgment, no question…just a simple acknowledgment.

Silence.

But not quite. “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” was playing now. I’d always liked this song. It was silly and funny and…it reminded me of happy memories and warm kitchens that smelled like cinnamon and hope.

Just like that, I was yapping again.

“My best friend moved to Texas on December thirteenth when I was nine years old. I was devastated. My first boyfriend dumped me on December second. I was seventeen and thought he was all that and a bag of chips. I confronted him on what I thought was his erroneous “newly single” status on Myspace. Apparently, it was my Dear John letter.”

“Asshole,” Hudson huffed.

“Total jerk soda,” I agreed. “I knew it, but I was crushed anyway. Two days later, I broke my wrist. It was a woe-is-me year. There were worse Decembers, of course. My mom was diagnosed on December fifteenth, and she passed on Christmas Eve five years later. But I lost Dad in December, too…and that one broke me.”

My voice cracked and I hated it, but Hudson pulled me close, ignoring my squawked warning that my hands were dirty. I held them up but found myself slowly melting into his embrace.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m repeating myself, but I am sorry.”

“Thanks.” I gently pushed out of his arms and sighed. “Dad died the day after Christmas four years ago. He was older and not in great health. In some ways, it wasn’t unexpected, but I miss him…so much. And I selfishly struggle with being alone.”

“How is that selfish?”

I waved dismissively. “It just is. Dad must have known he didn’t have much time. Almost every day that month, he told me how grateful he was that I was his son and how much my happiness meant to him. He’d point out a pretty bird or a beautiful sunset and just…go gaga. It was sweet and charming and…very Dad. His last words to me were ‘Be happy.’ I’ve tried, but…I have a very hard time embracing joy. The incessant pressure to smile through it all weighs on me. It’s easier for me to keep my head down and work through it, grumpy face and all.”

Hudson brushed his thumb over my cheek and cupped my chin. “I like this face just the way it is.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, but I’ve unwittingly become the opposite of my dad’s sunny Santa.”

“You seem pretty happy now.”

I cocked my head, furrowing my brow as if taking stock of my emotional state of mind. “I am. You have an interesting effect on me.”

He grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yes, it’s quite curious.”

Hudson set his hands on my hips. “You know what I think?”

“ Hmm .”

“I think it’s good and healthy to mourn. And it’s okay to be sad. It’s also okay to let yourself be happy. I’m no therapist, but I’ve visited a couple, and I think it’s true that we punish ourselves when bad things happen. As if we deserve to suffer, and that’s not right. You should always give yourself a chance.” He gave a wry half grin. “Trust me, I’ve gone through some sticky emotions over the past year. Anger, grief, hurt, peace…some emotions are easier to swallow than others.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“I feel…hopeful,” he replied.

I smiled. How could I not? I rested my arms on his shoulders and stared into Hudson’s eyes, surrendering to a wave of contentment I hadn’t felt in…years.

“Me too.”

The first strains of Michael Bublé’s version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” drifted from the speaker. For once, that familiar panicky sensation didn’t grip me and pull me under. It actually did look and feel Christmassy, and I didn’t mind. Not one little bit.

Hudson inclined his chin and kissed me. “Wanna dance?”

I did. I really did. I couldn’t summon any part of me that hated corny Christmas music or dancing, and I didn’t want to, anyway.

I nodded my response and laid my head on his shoulder.

We swayed in the cozy kitchen like an old married couple. Tears clouded my vision as ancient memories flooded my mind—sleigh rides and hot chocolate, homemade stockings and tinsel, and laughter. So much laughter.

And peace.

I felt it now in Hudson’s arms—shuffling in a circle, my secrets and shortcomings revealed in a bourbon-laced eggnog haze. It was good and right. And I wanted to believe it was real.

We stayed up late, baking sheets of gingerbread and cutting them into carefully measured squares and rectangles.

“We can begin assembly tomorrow or the following day,” I said.

“Sounds good.”

“Excellent.”

Hudson turned off the kitchen light and followed me to the foyer. “You all right?”

Fair question. Honest answer: undetermined.

I lingered at the front door, eyes on my cell, pretending to scroll my calendar. I wasn’t ready to leave, but it was late and we’d never had a sleepover. That probably required a conversation.

Don’t do it, Moody. Don’t say anything goofy or silly or ?—

“We’ve reached an impasse in our sexual journey that some might construe as crossing a line. I certainly wouldn’t want to impinge on boundaries, literal or figurative, but it occurs to me that we’ve never spent the night at either of our abodes.” I paused to push my glasses to the bridge of my nose, aware that I’d morphed into a verbal runaway locomotive. There was no stopping me now. Unfortunately. “Together in one bed, that is. And I’m definitely not asking for an invitation, nor am I issuing one. Although, I will say that I’m not averse to?—”

“Stay.” Hudson backed me against the door and held my face in his hands. “Stay here with me. Let me make love to you. All night. Please.”

I leaped into his arms. Gah! Yes, yes, yes.

Hudson caught me with an oomph , laughing as he fused our mouths, half carrying, half pulling me to his bedroom.

We undressed in our usual frenzy, but we slowed once we were skin to skin, sucking and licking. His slid his erection alongside mine, rutting and pumping his hips while our tongues mated. I hiked my legs high, wordlessly inviting him to take more.

He prepared me with thick, lubed fingers…one, two, three—dragging them over my prostate until I begged him to give me what I really wanted.

“Do it. Please, now.”

Hudson slicked his cock, his knees nudging my inner thighs while he took in the view of me spread out and open for him. “Say it. Tell me you want me to fuck your sweet hole.”

“I did,” I whined. “I just said it.”

He rested the tip on my pucker, then reached for my dick and stroked me, twisting his wrist slightly…the way he knew I liked it. “Go on, Moody. Let me hear it. I want inside you more than I want my next breath, but you’ve got to say the words and you’ve got to?—”

“Fuck my sweet hole, cowboy!” I growled.

I thought he’d laugh. I mean, I sounded ridiculous to my own ears.

Hudson didn’t agree. He entered me, his trembling arms caging my head as he began to move. And it was glorious and beautiful and sexier than every other time. Don’t ask me why…it just was. His rippled muscular torso, the clench of his jaw, the rhythmic slide of his hand on my shaft timed perfectly to his every thrust. But I liked it better when he lost control, released my cock, and slammed into me over and over and over and?—

“ Ungh !” He roared like a wild beast, pouring every ounce of himself into me.

Two quick strokes later, I joined him, falling apart as he wrapped me in his arms, spent and gasping for air.

It wasn’t until my breathing returned to normal that I heard the soft strains of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Strange. I thought we’d turned off the music. I opened my mouth to ask Hudson, but I didn’t want to mar this perfect moment. Besides, I liked the sentiment.

I was with Hudson, and I felt very much at home.