CHAPTER 23
DEVON
"NO." I PLANT my hands on my hips, glaring at Wall like he's just suggested we burn down the building. "The mistletoe goes by the door."
Wall crosses his massive arms, unmoved. "You want to ambush people the second they arrive? That's not festive; that's aggressive."
"It's strategic."
"It's annoying."
Becker appears between us, holding up both hands like a referee. "Guys, guys. You're both wrong. The mistletoe needs to be scattered. Create pockets of romance throughout the space. It's called atmosphere."
I turn to stare at him. "Pockets of romance? What are you, an interior designer?"
"I have vision."
Wall sighs, looking at the ceiling like he's praying for patience. "We have two dozen mistletoe sprigs. We could cover every surface in this bar and still have leftovers."
"Then we use them all!" I gesture wildly. "Maximum coverage. Maximum holiday cheer. Maximum—"
"It doesn't even matter," Wall interrupts, and he's grinning now, pointing across the bar. "We have a portable mistletoe."
I follow his finger to where Hendrix claims the bar top, head bobbing enthusiastically to Mariah Carey. He's doing this little dance—if you can call it that—wings slightly spread, feet shuffling, completely absorbed in the music.
"He's not a mistletoe," Becker says, but he's already walking toward Hendrix, his expression with every step. "He's a bully."
He stops next to Hendrix, who pauses his headbanging long enough to screech, "KISS KISS!"
Becker grins. "But he's my bully."
Hendrix ruffles his feathers, looking smug, and goes back to his Mariah Carey appreciation.
The front door opens and Mama Paws walks in, carefully balancing what appears to be the world's largest pie pan. The scent hits me immediately—cinnamon, apples, butter, all the good things that make life worth living.
"Boys!" she calls out, and everyone in the vicinity turns toward her. "I made you something."
The team materializes out of nowhere. I didn't even know half of them were here yet, but suddenly there's a small crowd gathering around Mama Paws like she's distributing gold.
"You didn't have to do that," Wall says, but he's already eyeing the pie.
"We're happy to help," Petrov adds. "Is just what friends do."
"Really, it's our pleasure," Groover chimes in.
Mama Paws beams at them, setting the pie down on the nearest table. "It's the least I can do."
"The least you can do is not tempt us with baked goods," Becker says, grabbing a fork that appeared from nowhere. "But since you already did..."
He digs in before anyone can stop him.
And then there’s a frenzy.
Forks materialize. Plates are located. The pie is descended upon from all directions, the team crowding it like a pack of wolves—which, given the name, is fitting.
"This is amazing," Jinx mumbles through a mouthful.
"Best pie I've ever had," Snooze agrees.
"In Russia, we have saying," Petrov starts.
"Here we go," Groover mutters.
"—about pie and—"
"Nobody cares about Russian pie sayings!" Becker yells, but he's grinning.
I hang back, watching the scene, and catch Mama Paws's eye. She looks happy, but there's something underneath—a tightness around her eyes, a tension in her shoulders.
I drift over to her, keeping my voice low. "You good?"
She smiles, but it wobbles slightly. "Just nervous, I suppose. This is all so much. So many people helping, so much effort, and I keep thinking... what if it's not enough?"
"It'll be enough."
"But what if—"
"Mama Paws. Celeste." I put my hand on her shoulder. "Look around. Look at all these idiots eating your pie and arguing about mistletoe placement. You think they're going to let anything bad happen to the shelter?"
She chuckles. "When you put it that way..."
"We've got this. The game is going to be huge. The fundraisers are bringing in money. The adoption applications are flooding in. Everything's going to work out."
"You sound very sure."
"That's because I am."
The door opens again and I glance over, my heart doing that little flutter thing when I see Ace walk in.
Our eyes meet across the bar for a brief second and he smiles, this small, private smile that's just for me. And I feel it everywhere.
But before either of us can move, Becker materializes at Ace's side like a ghost. "Perfect timing. Settle an argument."
"Oh God, what now?" Ace says, but he's already being pulled into the group.
I watch, amused, as he gets absorbed into whatever debate is currently raging.
Ace is trying to extract himself, I can tell. He keeps glancing my way, making these subtle gestures that his teammates are completely ignoring.
Finally, he says something—I can't hear what—and suddenly everyone's arguing even louder, completely distracted.
He catches my eye and jerks his head slightly toward the narrow hallway that leads to the employee area.
I wait a beat, making sure no one's paying attention—they're not, too busy yelling something about Bruce Willis—and then casually drift toward the hallway like I have very important business back there.
My very important business is waiting in the shadows, leaning against the wall.
"Hey," I say, keeping my voice low.
"Hey yourself."
He's got this little smirk playing at his lips, and his eyes are dark in the dim light, and I want to climb him like a tree.
"You summoned me?" I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
"I did." His smirk widens. "You owe me something."
I raise an eyebrow. "Owe you? That's bold."
"Mistletoe rules." He reaches up and I follow the movement, watching as he produces a sprig of mistletoe from behind his back, dangling it above our heads. "It's tradition."
I smack him on the chest, not hard, just enough to make a point. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"Debatable."
"Then debate this." He leans in and kisses me, and whatever smart-ass response I had prepared evaporates like it never existed.
The kiss starts soft but turns heated fast, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I go willingly, because I'm weak, and he's hot, and I have zero self-control when it comes to this man.
My hand slides down between us, finding the front of his jeans, palming him through the denim. He's already half-hard and getting harder by the second, and I squeeze gently just to hear the sound he makes—this choked-off groan that goes straight to my dick.
"Devon," he breathes against my mouth. "We're in public."
"Barely public. This is basically private," I whisper.
I'm about to kiss him again when Becker's voice cuts through the moment like a knife.
"YO, ACE! Where'd you go? We need a tiebreaker on the John McClane debate!"
Ace jumps back so fast he nearly trips over his own feet, putting an absurd amount of distance between us like we were doing something way more incriminating than kissing.
Which, okay, fair. We kind of were.
"Be right there!" Ace calls back, his voice impressively steady considering his pupils are blown and his jeans are tented.
Becker's footsteps retreat and we're left standing there in the dim hallway, breathing hard, staring at each other.
Ace's face falls, guilt creeping into his expression, and I know exactly what he's thinking before he opens his mouth. I take a step closer but keep a respectful distance this time. "Hey. It's okay."
"Devon—"
"I get it. I assumed you wouldn't want to come out. That's totally fine. I'll be more careful. We can keep this—" I gesture between us, "—on the down-low. No problem."
"That's not—" He runs a hand through his hair.
"I mean, yes. I'm not ready to come out to the world.
That's... that's a whole thing I haven't even processed yet.
But the team?" He looks at me, and his eyes are so earnest it makes my chest ache.
"They're family. I want to tell them. I will.
I just... I'd prefer it happen some other way than getting walked in on. "
I can't help it—I laugh. "That's fair. They'd never let you hear the end of it."
"Exactly." He's smiling now, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I'll tell them when it feels right. But I will tell them."
"Yeah. Okay." I gesture toward the main room. "But now let's get out there before Becker sends a search party. And for the record?" I grin. "You look really hot when you're flustered."
His ears go pink and I count it as a victory.
We head back separately—me first, then Ace a minute later—and rejoin the chaos like nothing happened.
When I catch his eye across the bar a few minutes later, he's smiling, and I'm smiling, and everything feels exactly right.