19. Sully
Sully
A cross the massive dining table, Brian stares vacantly, the melancholy expression out of place, especially because it’s Christmas Eve.
“You good?”
He lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. The colored lights from the tree make his face look blue, which seems to fit his mood. “I don’t know. Just feels weird.”
“What?” I need clarification. He could be talking about the enormous tree or the massive cat that’s practically on his lap or the smell of whatever Cal burned that’s still lingering in the air.
“Dad moved up to Boston with Dylan, and with everything going on, I couldn’t make the trip up. It’s weird, not being with my family on Christmas.”
Six months ago, Frank Machon relocated so he could be closer to Brian’s sister and her kids. And I’m a jackass for not even considering that Brian might be lonely.
I’ve always assumed that Brian knows that, as far as the Murphys are concerned, he’s family. We’ve been friends for twenty years, and my dad hired him straight out of law school. There’s no way he’ll ever shake us .
“You’ve got us,” I remind him, putting my thoughts into words. If I learned anything from my problems with Sloane, it’s that I have to tell people how I feel, not just assume they know.
He purses his lips, and for a second, I think he’ll argue. Instead, he nods once. “I know. But now that you and Cal have your own families…” He shrugs. “I’m not sure I belong.”
“Belong where?” Cal asks from behind me.
Brian looks at Cal, his eyes widening.
Oh bullocks. What has my idiot of a brother done now? With a grunt, I turn and assess him. Immediately, a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh leaves my lips.
“Isn’t it great?” Cal twists, shaking his arse, flaunting his ridiculous pajamas. They’re a god-awful green color and looks similar to what one of Santa’s elves would wear. The bottoms even have an arse flap.
And his name.
Daddy Cal.
I shake my head. God only knows whether he chose the name because of his relationship with his son or if that’s a nickname courtesy of Lo.
“It even has a hat.” Cal adjusts the pointed stocking cap on his head, jingling the white ball on the tip.
Brian snorts, and I can’t help but laugh.
Bloody hell, my brother looks ridiculous.
“They’re perfect, Uncle Cal.” T.J. barrels into the living room, dragging his cousin behind him.
The sight of the boys in matching pajamas—both with their names stamped on their own arse flaps—makes it hard not to smile.
T.J. bounces up and down beside my brother.
“Aren’t these so cool, Dad?”
I nod. My little lad looks adorable in anything. Even outlandish pajama sets.
He beams up at Cal, his hands clasped in front of him. “See? I told you he’d wear them too. ”
My lungs seize up. What now?
Cal grins, his chest puffed out. “Uncle Brian, too, I hope. We’re a family, so it’s not Christmas unless we’re wearing matching pj’s.”
Murphy, who looks slightly less enthusiastic, steps up and sets two clear packages on the table. “Apparently, we all have to be elves. Lo and Aunt Sloane are changing into theirs too.”
In almost any other situation, I’d flat-out refuse to take part in my brother’s nonsense. But it’s Christmas. I want it to be perfect for both T.J. and Sloane. If T.J. wants us to wear matching pajamas, then I’m in.
“We’ll put them on,” I assure my son.
“You know what would be fun?” T.J.’s eyes dance in a way that concerns me. Like there’s a good chance he’s about to scale the side of the building like Spider-Man. Again.
“What? I need to know so we can have all the fun.” Cal claps a little too loudly.
Since Murphy showed up unexpectedly a few months ago, it’s been my brother’s mission to make sure his son is happy.
And having the best Christmas is important.
I understand his obsession more than I ever thought I could.
“It’s fun that Santa will come,” Murphy assures his dad.
Cal’s expression darkens. Last week, when Murphy told us that Santa always skips his house, I thought my brother was going to book a flight to LA so he could curse Murphy’s mum out in person. Maybe ring her neck too.
Lo talked him down, and now Cal is focused on ensuring this Christmas is over-the-top enough to make up for the six lackluster years Murphy lived before meeting his father.
My brother may irritate the piss out of me most days, but I have nothing but respect for how he handled unexpectedly becoming a father to a six-year-old.
I would not have been as easygoing had I discovered I had a child only when he was left at our office with nothing more than a backpack and a note.
My brother never went on the attack, though.
He just became the father Murphy needs. And that’s a feat for a reformed man-child.
He’s matured decades in the handful of months that Murphy’s been here.
“I think it would be fun if Murphy and I could have a sleepover in his room,” T.J. announces. “Right, Murphy?”
Murphy eyes his dad. “If it’s okay…”
“Anything you want,” my brother promises.
“Yes!” T.J. pumps a fist and bounces closer to his cousin. Then he whisper-shouts, “We can stay up and catch Santa together.”
“What?” Cal’s spine goes ramrod straight.
I chuckle. T.J.’s tried to catch Santa for the last two years, but there’s no way he won’t pass out before midnight. “You two go brush your teeth. Then we’ll read The Night Before Christmas and get cookies out.”
“And everyone gets to open one present,” T.J. reminds us, as if we could possibly have forgotten that. All day he’s been talking about whose present he’ll open.
“I still think you should open mine.” Cal rocks back on his heels, smirking.
“ Or …” T.J. drags the word out. “Maybe we should open one from each person .” He tilts his head and breaks into his most winning smile. The little bugger never quits. We’ve shot down the suggestion three times already today.
“T.J.,” I warn.
He giggles. “Okay. Only one present tonight.”
I point to the hall. “Teeth.”
With a nod, he turns to his cousin. “Let’s go. We can make a big bed out of blankets on your floor.” He darts toward Murphy’s room with Murphy a few steps behind him. Once the boys disappear, I stand up.
“They can’t catch Santa.” Cal’s panicked comment is directed at me.
I chuckle. “Don’t worry. They’ll be asleep in an hour. Come on.” I pick up both sets of pajamas off the table and toss one to Brian .
He swipes the bag out of the air and stands, knocking the cat’s head off his legs. The cat lets out a how dare you? hiss in response.
“Chill.” Brian frowns at the giant feline.
With a twitch of his nose, he leaps onto the table.
“Aw, over here, Fuzzy,” Cal coos.
Nose in the air, the cat ignores him, instead gracefully jumping to the floor and padding toward Brian’s bedroom.
“Dammit.” Brian glowers as Fuzzy disappears through the open doorway.
“Don’t worry, he’ll come back for the Christmas treats I got him.” Cal rushes to the tree and picks up a bag adorned with a kitten in a full Santa suit. “We’ll do presents once you wankers have changed.”
Brian groans. “You really expect me to wear this?”
“The whole family needs to match,” I say. “And that includes you.”
Cal nods, fiddling with the gift bag. “Yes, and we elves have a lot of work to do after the kids go to bed. We have to put the bikes together and hang the stockings and wrap the rest of the gifts.”
Brian shakes his head. “Sounds like Christmas at Dylan’s.”
“Exactly.” I skirt around him. “This is what Christmas with family looks like, and we’re family,” I remind him.
I knock on my closed bedroom door, and when Sloane says, “Come in,” I twist the knob and duck inside.
The view before me stops me in my tracks.
“Do not laugh at me,” she warns, running her hands down her sides to smooth out the red shirt. The fitted pajamas give me the perfect view of the small bump on my wife’s lower stomach. The knowledge that our child is growing safely inside her makes my chest swell.
“I know I look ridiculous.”
“No, sweetheart.” I take a tentative step forward. “You could never look ridiculous. You look radiant.”
Fighting the urge to reach out to her, I clench my hands at my sides .
As if she noticed the movement, she shuffles closer and gently grasps my wrist. Then, with her eyes locked on mine, she places my palm against her lower stomach.
Her warmth soaks into me, waking up every dormant part of me. I haven’t felt this alive in months. Maybe years. Emotion welling up inside me, I lower my focus to where we’re touching.
“You can’t feel anything yet.” Her voice is low, raspy.
Nodding, I swallow down the lump in my throat. That’ll come later. Right now, touching her, feeling the swell that is our baby, is enough.
She wets her lips, searching my face, the look in her eyes one I haven’t seen in months. It’s pure desire. She looks like she wants me to kiss her. Hell, she looks like she needs it.
A weight I’ve been carrying for way too long lifts, making it easier to breathe. My wife still wants me.
I angle in a fraction, and she tilts her chin up and inches closer to me. My pulse kicks up, thumping in my ears. Six inches. That’s all the space left between us. Her lips part, her breath warm on my face. The need to kiss her, to once again feel her mouth against mine, pounds through me.
The door flies open with a bang, sending my heart lurching, and we jump apart.
“Mom, Dad. Hurry up!” T.J. calls from the doorway.
When I glance back at Sloane, all the heat in her eyes has tempered.
“I’ll let you get dressed.” She steps away.
I nod, swallowing back a rush of disappointment. When the door clicks shut behind her, though, the lightness of that moment stays with me. Things between us are changing, and from the look of it, they’re moving in the right direction.
A smile tugs at my lips as I step out of my trousers and into the awful green pajama bottoms. The expression is quickly replaced by a grimace when, even with my boxer briefs still in place, I feel a breeze where the bloody flap is.