Текст книги "Baby, It's Cold Outside"

Автор книги: Anne Melody

Соавторы: Jennifer Probst,Emma Chase,Kate Meader
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

I nip her earlobe. “Tell me.”

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

Yeah. She’s gonna have to do better than that.

I straighten up, smiling, and tease her again with the head of my dick. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”

Her hips squirm with frustration, and she yells, “I want you to fuck me, Drew!”

Almost.

“God, now . . . do it . . . please. Fuck . . .”

Beautiful.

I push inside her with a moan and her back arches. I rest my hand on her hip, holding her in place as I rear back. Then thrust in long and slow and deep.

“Yes,” she keens loudly. “Just like that.”

I look down where I move in and out of her—disappearing into her gorgeous, welcoming body. It’s a view that never gets old.

“Christ, you feel good, Kate. Always so goddamn good.”

It’s true. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Kate’s is the only pussy I’ve ever been inside without a rubber.

It’s her. The life we’ve made together—the way she matches me in every way—her desire, her humor, her mind.

Her soul.

I used to think that stuff about soul mates was bullshit. The idea that out of the billions of people on Earth, there was only one that you’re supposed to be with. That you belong to. Sounded like a fairy tale, a stupid chick flick, or a terrible romance novel that my sister would read.

But now . . .

Now I believe there’s something to it. Maybe not for everyone—but definitely for us. Because I just can’t fathom having this profound, intense love that borders on obsession—the good kind—with anyone except her.

It’s crazy. Like . . . a miracle.

The rhythm of my hips speeds up, ’cause it feels too fucking amazing not to. And Kate drives back against me, meeting me thrust for thrust and moan for moan.

But then I find the strength to grasp her waist with both hands.

And still our movements.

I pull out and Kate groans, “Don’t stop.”

I spin her around, cup her ass, and press her against me with a squeeze. She stands on her toes to trail hot kisses across my throat.

“I want you on top,” I explain with a grin. “I want you to ride me.”

Kate wiggles her eyebrows. “So you can watch my ‘bells’ jingle.”

I laugh. “Exactly.”

She pushes my shoulders, backing me up to the couch. I sit down heavily and she wastes no time climbing aboard. I surge up into her—deeper from this angle—and once again thank God for the wonderfully tight grip of Kate’s snatch.

She closes her eyes and rocks against me. I yank the strapless nightie down, freeing her breasts, and they jiggle as she rotates her hips in tantalizing circles. I palm them in my hand, so soft and full. Kate gasps as I pinch her already puckered nipples. And she groans when I replace my fingers with my lips. Suckling greedily, I rub my tongue against the pointy peak, savoring the exquisite taste of her skin. Kate rises and falls on me quicker—bucking harder.

When I grasp her nipple between my teeth, she holds the back of my head—pressing me against her—pulling my hair. I moan around her flesh and lave at her breast.

And then Kate stiffens, and the sound of her screaming my name echoes around the room as her inner walls clamp down. My fingers dig into her hips as I thrust up once, twice more, then I’m pulsing inside her, grunting and cursing against her chest.

For a few moments we stay right there—catching our breath. Until Kate leans back and gently brushes my black hair from my forehead. “Were you surprised?”

“Very pleasantly, yes.”

Her smile is joyful. “Good. It’s nice to finally give you a present that you didn’t already know was coming.”

I kiss her soft lips. Then glance down the hall toward the kitchen. “Speaking of coming . . .”

* * *

Later, after some quality countertop time, Kate and I lay bare ass on the chaise longue, under a downy red throw blanket—recuperating.

I check my watch. Shit. I have to go, though a big part of me—the large lower part—wants nothing more than to stay right in this spot with my wife. But I kiss Kate’s forehead and force myself to stand. I grab my discarded shirt from the floor, slipping my arms into it.

Kate rests back on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

I can’t find my underwear, so I slide on my jeans without them—being ever so careful with the zipper. “I’m going to head into the office for a few hours.”

“But . . .” Kate stutters. “. . . but it’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know. But Media Solutions is finally ready to have a sit-down with Hawaii. We’re going to video conference at nine our time. That only gives me three hours to prep.”

Media Solutions is a conglomerate I’ve been courting for weeks, and I’ve finally got them right where I want them on a deal that’ll revolutionize social media. Think Twitter, reality TV, and YouTube combined—posting broadcasts from and on your television, the star of your own channel.

Narcissistic techies will bow down like it’s the second coming of Steve Jobs.

I give Kate a wink. “But your holiday seduction was definitely worth the lost work time. That Mrs. Claus outfit is going straight to the top of the spank-bank pile.”

She blinks and sits up straight. The blanket falls down, exposing one creamy breast . . . and suddenly three hours seems like a whole lot of extra time.

I can make do with two.

“I’m not worried about your lost work time, Drew. Why are you working at all?” Her enunciation sharpens—the way you’d talk to an old person who’s hard of hearing. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

Kate Brooks-Evans is many things—a loving wife, an amazing mother, a brilliant businesswoman. It’s that last one that has me expecting her to understand my rationale.

“If I don’t do this tonight, I lose the deal.”

“Then you should have told them it’s their loss, not yours.”

“And you think that’s what you would’ve done if you were in my position?”

“Absolutely.”

I button my shirt. And call bullshit. “Easy to say when the deal isn’t actually on your desk, Kate.”

She doesn’t confirm or deny my observation, which means I’m on right on the money. She stands and wraps the blanket snugly around her body. Kate hiding her assets from my appreciative gaze is never a good sign. “We’re supposed to be at your sister’s in an hour for dinner. They’re expecting us.”

Her mouth is pursed, her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in her eyes that . . . well . . . that gives me a renewed boner. Always has, always will.

My dick likes to argue. Sue him.

“Go without me. You can represent. Drink eggnog with my mother, pretend to listen to my old man talk about holidays past.”

Her voice rises. “I don’t want to represent! I want to spend the evening with my husband! There’s a time for work and a time for family, and tonight is supposed to be about family.”

“It is about family!” I counter, my voice doing a little raising of its own. “In the next several hours I’m going to make a shitload of money for our family.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, please. This has nothing to do with the money, Drew. Not for you.” Then a new thought occurs to her. “And what about James’s gifts? For weeks we’ve been pushing off putting his big presents together—the bike, the trampoline . . .”

Damn it. I forgot about those.

“I’ll see if Matthew can come over later and help you out. Until he does, after James is asleep, start to do it on your own.”

“If I’d known I was going to be alone, I would’ve gone home to see my mother.”

I step closer. “First of all, this is your home. Second, we talked about this—I’m not dragging James out to Bumfuck, Ohio, for Christmas. We’d be in line at airport security longer than we’d actually be at your mother’s!”

“We spent last Christmas with your side—”

“And if your side wanted to see us that badly, she could’ve hauled her ass to New York. She’s one person—our three beats her one. Majority rules, sweetheart.”

“Screw your ‘sweetheart’—I am so angry at you right now!”

I roll my eyes. “And we both know you’ll get over it.”

Kate’s mouth widens in a gasp. And a black boot comes hurtling at my head. She has the aim of a major-league closer, but in the last few years I’ve become a master ducker.

Smash.

Another lamp bites the dust.

“You’re an asshole!”

“A fact you were well aware of before you married me.” I shrug. “No take-backs.”

Kate growls.

So hot.

Then she stomps down the hall into our bedroom and slams the door behind her, rattling the picture frames on the walls.

And they say men are the violent ones.

I sigh. I just don’t have time to deal with this right now. Don’t look at me like that—I’m not trying to be a prick. I love Kate; I hate that she’s mad. But give me a break—it’s one day. Why does she—why do women everywhere—have to make such a big fucking deal over one day?

I put my shoes on, then walk down the hall and brace my hands on the frame of the bedroom door. And talk through it.

“Okay . . . so, I’m gonna head out.”

I wait. I listen.

Nothing.

“So that’s how you’re gonna play this? Not speaking to me? Real nice, Kate—very mature.”

Still nothing.

I admit—her cold shoulder bothers me. Not enough to change my plans, but enough for me to try to talk her out of the silent sulk one last time.

“You’re not even gonna kiss me good-bye? What if I get pushed in front of a subway train by a deranged homeless person? It could happen. And if it does, you’re going to feel awful.”

That does the trick. The bedroom door is yanked open.

Kate stands there, with one hand on her hip and a sugary sweet smile on her face. “And we both know I’ll get over it.”

Then she slams the door in my face.

chapter
2

Although I don’t believe I have any actual firsthand knowledge, it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside. Wind cuts through the city streets and the sky is a gloomy gray, hinting at a coming snowstorm.

On the corner, a block from my building, a scraggily faced man in layered, shabby clothes shouts about the apocalypse—the end of days—and how we all need to turn our lives around before time runs out. It’s not an uncommon occurrence; guys like him litter the city. But today it seems weirdly . . . foreboding.

I open the door to the building and am greeted by Sam, a security guard in his early twenties who typically helms the night shift.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Evans.”

“Same to you, Sam.” He swipes my ID badge and I ask, “They put you on Christmas Eve?”

He shrugs. “I volunteered. Hard to argue with time and a half. Plus it gives the fellas with families time to spend at home.”

Guilt pokes at me like the spring of worn-out couch. But I ignore it. “You don’t have any family?”

“Not yet. My girlfriend and I are going to my mother’s for dinner tomorrow. She’s out in Yonkers.”

I slide my badge into my pocket and pull a fifty out of it. “I’ll be here pretty late tonight. In case I don’t catch you on the way out, have a happy holiday.” We shake hands and I slip him the fifty. Because I subscribe to my father’s line of thought: an employee who feels appreciated—and well compensated—is a productive employee. And if I want anyone to be productive, it’s the guy responsible for keeping the building safe.

He smiles gratefully. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Evans.”

I nod and head up the elevator to the fortieth floor.

The offices are dark, the only light coming from the full-size Christmas tree in the corner and the illuminated electric menorah on the table beside it. The whole floor is quiet and still.

Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse.

I flick the lights on in my office and sit down at my desk to get to work. While my laptop boots up, I look at the phone.

And consider calling Kate.

I don’t like it when she’s pissed at me. It feels . . . wrong. Off-kilter. And it’s distracting. Tonight I need to be focused—on top of my game.

I don’t pick up the phone.

Because calling her to say I’m sorry, but I’m staying at the frigging office anyway, won’t go over well. Besides, she’s never been able to stay mad at me for long. By the time I get home, I bet she’ll be over it, just like I said.

* * *

An hour later, I’m staring at my computer screen, reviewing the proposal I’m gonna pitch to Media Solutions. I yawn deeply and my vision blurs. The scorching rechristening of our living room and kitchen must’ve worn me out more than I thought. I stretch my arms and crack my neck, trying to wake myself up.

But after five minutes, as I read paragraph seventeen, my eyelids become heavy. Until they droop and drag to a close.

* * *

I bolt awake at my desk—disoriented and slightly panicked. The way my grandfather used to snore away in his recliner, before jerking up and claiming he was just “resting my eyes.”

Glancing at my watch, I’m relieved to see it’s only been a few minutes since I dozed off. “Wake the fuck up, Evans. No time for a nap.”

I head over to the conference room and make myself a quick cup of coffee. I sip the hot beverage of the gods and step back into my office.

And there, sitting on my suede couch—the same suede couch that played such a prominent role in my early Kate Brooks fantasies—is a woman.

Do you see her, too?

She’s strikingly beautiful. A pert nose, full lips, bright green eyes, and aristocratic cheekbones. Her hair is honey blond and long with a slight curl. She’s wearing a conservative white dress, blazer, and heels—something Kate would wear to the office. A string of pearls adorns her long neck and matching earrings decorate her lobes.

“Hello,” she greets me in a warm voice.

My eyes dart from her to the door. Security always calls before letting a client up.

“Hi,” I return. “Can I . . . help you?”

“Actually, I’m here to help you, Drew.”

Huh. She knows my name.

Has she crawled from the sea of my former one-night stands? It wouldn’t be the first time one tracked me down at my place of business. But with me riding the monogamy bandwagon these last eight years, it hasn’t happened for a long time.

“Have we met somewhere before?” I ask—but I really mean Have we fucked somewhere before?

She laughs, though I don’t know why. It’s a pleasant, alluring sound. “Always so clever. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Drew. You never fail to entertain.”

I set my coffee on the desk and face her head-on. “You’ve been watching me for a long time? Yeah, ’cause there’s nothing weird about that.”

“Well, it’s my job to watch you. I’m your guardian angel, after all.”

There’s a lot of crazy walking around New York City. And I don’t just mean the obvious vagrants mumbling around Penn Station or the naked cowgirl in Times Square. Professional dog walkers, bicyclists, and most employees of the sanitation department have several fucking screws loose, too.

You have to be careful with insane people. Getting them worked up isn’t a good idea. So I just nod and try to keep her calm.

“Interesting. You don’t look like an angel.”

“How do you imagine I should look?”

“Wings, halo, blinding heavenly light.”

She winks. “I only bring the halo out for formal events. As for my wings . . . I’m still working on earning them.”

I snap my fingers. “That sounds familiar. To earn your wings, you have to, like, stop me from offing myself, right?”

Her jade eyes round with surprise. “Oh, nothing as drastic as that. If things became that desperate I wouldn’t be doing a very good job. I’m here because you’re starting down the wrong path, Drew. We need to nip your behavior in the bud; get you back to where you should be.”

With a chuckle, I sit down in my chair and roll closer to the phone.

Her head tilts to the side, regarding me. “You don’t believe anything I’m telling you, do you?”

“I’m sorry, but no, I don’t.”

She’s unperturbed. “That’s all right. No one believes at first.”

You’re probably wondering why I’m not getting the hell out of here. I’m a fantastic judge of character, and in this case, I’m just not feeling the psycho vibe. In fact, despite the words that are coming out of her mouth, she seems completely harmless. So I play along.

“For argument’s sake, let’s suspend reality for a second and say that you are my guardian angel. I think I should fire you. You’ve done a shitty job. Where were you when I thought Kate was cheating on me, and I pulled that stupid stunt with the stripper? That would’ve been a good time to show up, kick me in the shin, and say, ‘Hey asshole, it’s not what you think.’ ”

She nods sympathetically. “It was difficult to watch you go through that. But I couldn’t intervene. It was a lesson you could only learn by living through it. Kate, as well.”

“But you’re here now?”

“That’s right.”

“Because I’m about to commit some grievous sin?”

“Because you already have.”

I brace my elbows on the chair, clasp my hands, and rest my fingers against my lips. “You’ve got your wings crossed, honey. I haven’t done anything. I work hard every single day to be a good father and a devoted, thoughtful husband.”

She raises a doubtful eyebrow, reminding me of Kate.

“Thoughtful? Really? Were you being thoughtful when you came to work on Christmas Eve, even though Kate asked you not to?”

I roll my eyes. “This is a onetime thing. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s never a big deal, Drew. Until it is. Do you think the Grand Canyon was created in a day? No. It happened in increments—one small grain of soil at a time. Tonight is how it starts. Then you’re missing birthdays, basketball games, anniversaries, simple but crucial quiet moments. You mean to make it up to them later, but later never comes.”

I put up my hand. “Hold up—that’s . . . that’s not gonna happen. I would never do that.”

“Just like you would never leave Kate to put together your son’s gifts all alone on Christmas Eve?”

Bull’s-eye.

She has a point. A completely impossible, unrealistic point—that makes me feel like dog shit all the same.

“The first step downhill is the hardest, Drew. After that . . . sliding is easy. Taking our loved ones for granted works the same way.”

I stare at her for a moment. And she looks so sincere, I almost believe it . . .

Until I come to my fucking senses.

I laugh. “Did Kate put you up to this? Are you a friend of Dee-Dee’s? An actress?”

She sighs. “Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits.”

“Wow, a foursome. Will they all look like you?”

That makes her chuckle. “No.”

I pick up the phone from my desk. “While this has been memorable—and totally bizarre—I have work to get done.”

“They will come to you one by one—the spirits of Christmas past, present, and future—to show you what you will never again forget.”

“Since it’s Christmas Eve and all, it seems only fair to warn you—I’m calling security.”

“Good luck, Drew. It was a pleasure meeting you, at last.”

I look down at the phone and punch in the extension for the security desk, then glance back at the couch. But—you guessed it—she’s gone.

What. The. Fuck?

I stand up and look out the door. No trace.

“Can I help you, Mr. Evans?” Sam asks through the receiver.

“Did you see . . .” I clear my throat. “Have you let anyone up to our floor tonight? A woman?”

“No, sir. It’s been quiet down here.”

I knew he was going to say that.

“Well, if anyone comes by, make sure you call before letting them up. Okay, Sam?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Evans.”

I put the phone in its cradle and stand there, brow furrowed. What the hell was that?

My cell phone chimes with an incoming email. It’s Media Solutions’ lead attorney, confirming our conference in . . . damn it, in two hours.

I brush off the uncomfortable, eerie feelings left from the crazy woman’s little visit, and sit down at my desk to focus on what’s really important. What I came here to do—pissed off my wife to do.

Close this major fucking deal.

chapter
3

Here’s where shit gets weird.

Weirder.

Ten minutes later, while I’m detailing the projected profit margin in my proposal, I hear a giggle from the hallway.

A feminine, familiar giggle.

And a second later, my niece Mackenzie comes breezing through my office door.

She’s twelve years old now, with her mother’s build—tall and lithe. Her blond hair is pulled back in a long ponytail, and she’s wearing a red coatdress with pearl buttons, black leggings, and flat black boots.

I have no frigging idea how she got here or why, but you can bet your ass I’m going to find out.

She talks into a glitter-covered cell phone. “Tell them if we don’t have those numbers by tomorrow, their balls are going to be sitting in a glass case on my desk, goddamn it.”

It’s safe to say the whole bad-word jar thing didn’t work out like my sister had hoped.

“Mackenzie?”

She ends her call and flops down into the chair across from my desk. “Hi, Uncle Drew.”

“Did you come here by yourself? Do your parents know where you are? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, come on—you know why I’m here.” Mischief dances in her big green eyes.

Which is frigging strange, because Mackenzie’s eyes are blue.

I don’t have time to comment, because in a flurry of red fabric, she’s on her feet holding her hand out to me. “Let’s get going. Places to go, people to see. Time is money.”

I take her hand and we walk out of my office, down the hall to my father’s closed office door. Mackenzie opens the door and we step over the threshold.

And I feel the color drain from my face.

Because this isn’t my father’s office. Not even close.

I stumble backward, making contact with the yellow living room wall.

“What the fuck . . .” I whisper. Confused. A little horrified.

“You don’t look so good, Uncle Drew,” Mackenzie comments.

Losing your mind will do that to you.

I turn in a circle, taking in beige couches and an oak entertainment center housing a television that is definitely not a flat screen. Miracle on 34th Street is on, and the air smells like fresh baked cookies. A modest Christmas tree sits decorated in the corner and dark red poinsettias are scattered between multiple framed family photos on the shelves. Family photos of my parents, my sister, and me—until I’m about five years old.

And then I finally fucking realize what’s going on.

“This is a dream,” I say, in a voice that can’t decide if it’s a question or a declaration. “I fell asleep at my desk and I’m dreaming right now.”

Funny. Usually my dreams are the more X-rated variety. Involving me and Kate in multiple porn-toned scenarios. Sometimes I’m a Roman emperor and she’s my toga-less slave girl who feeds me grapes and happily caters to my every whim. Sometimes I’m Han Solo and she’s Princess Leia, screwing our way across the galaxy. Other times she’s the powerful, ambitious businesswoman who lands a major client with me, then we fuck on the conference table until neither of us can walk.

Oh, wait—that last one actually happened.

The point is—out of all the dreams I remember having, my sweet niece sure as shit hasn’t featured in any of them. And not a single one took place in this place—an apartment I barely remember living in.

Mackenzie shrugs. “If it keeps you from wussing out on me, we’ll call it a dream. Do you know where we are?”

“This is the apartment we lived in when I was a kid, before we moved uptown.”

“That’s right. Do you know why we’re here?”

I try really hard. “Um . . . the sushi I ate for lunch was bad and the toxins have spread to my brain, causing some strange-ass hallucinations?”

Giggling, Mackenzie drags me forward. “Come on.”

We enter the kitchen. Sitting at a small round table is the preteen version of my sister, Alexandra. Around this time, she hadn’t yet grown into her nickname, “The Bitch,” but the early signs were there. She’s chewing gum and flipping through a Tiger Beat magazine with the New Kids on the Block on the cover. And her hair—Jesus Christ, she must’ve used a whole can of hair spray, because her bangs form a poof on top of her head, stiff and unnaturally high.

Sitting beside her, looking dapper in a long-sleeved Back to the Future T-shirt, is me. Five-year-old me. I’m kind of small for my age; the growth spurt won’t hit for another few years. But with my thick black hair brushed to the side, my deep blue eyes shining with youthful exuberance, I’m nothing short of fucking adorable.

There’s a plate of cookies in the middle of the table, with still-warm gooey chocolate chips. My mom’s homemade cookies. They’re indescribably awesome. But when young Drew reaches for one, Alexandra smacks his hand. “No more cookies, Drew. You’re going to give yourself a stomachache.”

“But they’re so good,” I whine. And I give her the puppy dog eyes. “Just one more? Please?”

At first Lexi’s expression is stern. But under the power of young Drew’s cuteness, she melts. “Okay. One more.”

Are you feeling the foreshadowing here?

He smiles his thanks and talks with a mouthful of cookie. “You’re the best sister ever, Lexi.”

She ruffles his hair.

I chuckle and tell Mackenzie, “How irresistible am I? Didn’t even have to work at it.”

Mackenzie laughs. “You were really cute. Watch—this part is important.”

My mother breezes into the kitchen, smooth skinned, blond, and beautiful—despite the atrocious Christmas tree sweater she’s sporting. In her hand she holds a cordless telephone.

A heavy, square cordless phone. With an antenna.

“Drew, guess who’s on the phone?” she asks.

“Is it Daddy?” he asks hopefully.

“No, darling—it’s Santa Claus! He took time out of his busy day-before-Christmas-Eve schedule just to talk to you.” She taps five-year-old Drew on the nose.

He flies off the chair, knocking it over behind him. Lexi, who by this time was old enough to know the truth, smiles at his excitement.

Young Drew brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”

And it all comes back to me. Like a door opening to a dark room, finally letting the light in, I remember this.

“How do I know this is the real Santa?” My five-year-old self asks skeptically. Because even as a kid, I was damn sharp.

My father answers in a deep, bellowing, disguised voice, “Well, I’ve got the Christmas list you mailed to me here in my hand.”

Young Drew braces the phone on his shoulder and walks out to the living room. Mackenzie and I follow. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Santa clears his throat. “A BMX bicycle, the new Sega system, GI Joe action figures, a Walkman.”

That’s right, a Walkman. Because this is the eighties, kiddies.

“Holy crap, it really is you!” five-year-old Drew yells.

“It really is. Now tell me, young man, have you been a good boy this year?”

His face scrunches up as he attempts to be honest. “I try. It’s hard to be good.”

Santa chuckles. “Do you do what your mother tells you?”

He nods. “Yes, sir.”

“And do you listen to your sister?”

He frowns. “Lexi’s bossy.”

“Yes, she is bossy. But she’s your big sister, Drew—she wants what’s best for you. You should always listen to her.”

Reluctantly, he nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, young man,” my father exclaims. “I’m getting my sleigh all ready for the big night! I should be at your house tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, with lots of presents for you.”

Five-year-old Drew looks behind him—making sure the coast is clear. Then he speaks hesitantly into the phone. “Hey, Santa, can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything, Drew.”

“Would it be okay to add something to my list?”

I hear worry in the old man’s voice when he responds, “Add something? I’m not certain we could—”

“Or, I could trade. You can keep my other presents—I think I really only want one thing.”

“What do you want, Drew?”

“I want you to bring my daddy home for Christmas.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

My younger self explains, “He had to go away for work, and Mom says she doesn’t think he’ll be home on Christmas Eve. And . . . she’s sad about it. We all are. It’s not as fun. I miss him.” He sighs. “So, if you can make sure he’s home tomorrow—you can keep the other stuff.”

I grin. Because I know what’s coming next.

Wait for it.

“Well . . . maybe not all the other stuff,” he amends. “You could still drop off the Sega. But you can keep all Lexi’s gifts—she won’t mind.”

Santa’s voice turns rough with emotion and conviction as he promises, “Your daddy will be home for Christmas Eve, Drew. I promise.”

Young Drew smiles with so much enthusiasm. Delight. Innocence.

It makes me think of my son. The sound of his laughter. The warmth of his embrace. The way he bounces on the bed—even when Kate tells him not to—and he jumps into my arms, with total abandon. Complete faith and trust. Because he knows I’ll catch him. That I’d never let him fall.

That I’d never let him down.

“Thanks, Santa,” my younger self whispers earnestly.

Mackenzie looks up into my eyes. “Did Pop make it home in time?”

My voice takes on a faraway tone, because I remember what happened the next day—and I remember exactly how it felt.

“We went to the Fishers’ for Christmas Eve dinner. We were all there—me, Matthew, Steven. At seven years old, your dad was already following your mom around, wanting to hang out with her. I kept watching the door. Waiting for my dad to walk through it. Hoping.”

A smile comes to my lips. “And then he did. Laughing and loud and bigger than life. I ran to him and—even before he hugged my mother—he scooped me up and spun me around. Carried me on his shoulder like Tiny fucking Tim. And it felt . . . magical. Like real Christmas magic. And I was so . . . proud of myself. Because I thought my wish brought him home.”

I blink, snapping out of my reverie. And I gaze down at Mackenzie. “Out of all the Christmases I enjoyed as a kid . . . that one . . . that one was the best.”

“But you forgot about it?”

That’s how it happens, right? You grow up, and the wonder of the holidays fades. It becomes more of a burden—places to go, traffic, gifts that have to be found and bought. And you forget the little things, the simple moments that are supposed to make a regular day—more.

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

It’s only when I glance up from Mackenzie’s face that I realize we’re not in that small apartment anymore. We’re back in my office. My head swims a little—like vertigo. I sit down on the suede couch until it passes. I glance at my watch, and it’s the same time as before Mackenzie walked through my door. Still two hours to go before my conference.

“Do you know why I showed you this particular memory tonight?” Mackenzie asks me.

I snort. “To demonstrate I’m obviously more like my father than I ever realized?”

She shakes her head. “No. I showed you this because moments matter. You may not have remembered it, but it still played a part in who you grew up to be. And how you felt about Christmas, your dad, and in some ways, yourself. It’s the little things, all added together, that make us who we are. So now that you remember, what are you going to do, Uncle Drew?”