Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Ben
I should’ve been in a holly-jolly mood Saturday evening for the single dads’ night, Christmas edition, but I wasn’t. I was tense and not myself.
Living with Emerson was becoming a daily dose of torture. Kissing her was the dumbest thing I ever could’ve done, because now I could barely talk to her without remembering what she tasted like, how her lips felt. I loved being with her, and I fucking hated it at the same time.
It was getting harder to keep my guard up and keep my hands to myself. Last night at Henry’s, sitting next to her, nearly touching, had felt natural and right…until Ruby had blurted out the marriage question. It’d had the effect of a bucket of ice-cold water being poured over our heads.
Unfortunately, the chilling effect had worn off. There were only so many cold showers a guy could get away with taking. And getting myself off to thoughts of Emerson didn’t quench my need. Only she would.
I had no fucking idea how I was going to get through the next few weeks without losing my damn mind.
“You okay tonight?” Knox asked as he joined me at his kitchen counter, where a slow cooker of chili was simmering.
The five of us—including Chance, Max, and West, who were parked in the living room in front of a college football game—had already devoured a good portion of it.
“Sure,” I said, summoning a smile. “Chili’s damn good. Did you make it or did Quincy?”
“I did, thank you very much. I’ve been trying to cook more.”
“Well, you nailed it.”
“Anyone can follow a recipe,” Knox said humbly. “The cornbread’s a mix. I know my limits.”
Knox was hosting tonight, a rare occurrence since he was one of the two who’d fallen prey to a happily-ever-after and technically no longer met the “single” part of the single dad qualification.
He and Max were still dads, single or not.
We had an unspoken agreement that once you were in, you stayed in.
The ties we built with our weekly get-togethers were strong.
“Where’d you say the girls are tonight?” I asked.
“Quincy’s out with the sisters-in-law. Girls’ night at the Barn Bar. I’m sure I’ll get a call for a ride in the wee hours.” His goofy grin told me he didn’t mind. “Juniper’s with Faye and my father for a sleepover.”
“Nothing like a sleepover with the grandparents,” I said. “For the parents, I mean.”
“You aren’t lying.” Knox set his empty bowl in the sink.
A knock sounded at the door. Then it opened, and Luke walked in.
“Hey, gents,” he said to the group. “Sorry I’m late. The farm was record-setting busy today. We didn’t get the last family taken care of till almost seven thirty.”
“Tis the season,” Chance said in his friendly way. “Get your ass in here and take a load off.”
“Mighta left you a little chow,” West said.
Luke came over to Knox and me and peered into the pot of chili. “I could eat.”
I suspected that was an understatement. The guy worked his ass off on a normal day. The Saturday after Thanksgiving running a Christmas tree farm likely wasn’t a normal day.
“Help yourself.” I moved away from the food so he could dig in.
“We’re glad you joined us,” Knox said.
“Thanks,” Luke said as he set a wrapped box on the island, grabbed a bowl, and filled it. “Didn’t want to miss the presents.” He shot us a shit-eating grin that told me he might’ve gone the gag gift route like I had.
An hour later, the game on the TV was a blowout, the chili pot was empty, beverages were replenished, and we sat around the living room.
Chance checked his phone, undoubtedly ensuring his teenage daughter was still where she was supposed to be. “I’m ready for presents,” he said, telling me Samantha was behaving herself tonight, at least so far.
“You’re worse than a little kid,” West said.
“Who’s staying with your three tonight?” Luke asked the ex-military guy.
“I got a high school gal off the Tattler,” West replied. “Good references, loves kids.”
West was a burly badass I wouldn’t want to piss off, but he had a soft spot a mile wide for his three little girls. When his live-in girlfriend had dumped him and moved out a couple of months ago, he’d been more upset for his daughters than himself.
“Is that the Tatum girl?” Luke asked.
“Allison Tatum,” West confirmed.
“I saw her post,” Luke said. “Let me know how she does.”
“You’re not stealing my babysitter,” West said. “You got your built-in childcare, man.” His tone was good-natured but also adamant.
“My built-in childcare’s sixty-four years old with health issues,” Luke reminded him.
“How’s your dad doing?” I asked.
“Stubborn,” Luke said. “Hates not helping with the farm stuff, especially this time of year. He loves the holidays.”
“Grandma Berty always says getting old’s not for the fainthearted,” I said.
“I’m only in my forties, but I can tell that’s going to be true,” Knox said.
Chance grinned at him. “Good thing you’ve got a pretty, much younger wife to keep you young.”
“Jealous?” Knox shot back.
“Oh, hell no. Have you tried raising a teenager? Full-time contact sport that takes all my focus.” With that, Chance checked his phone again like a habit. “So far she’s still at the friend’s house she’s supposed to be at.”
Chance stood and went to the pile of wrapped gifts on the table between the kitchen and living room. He plucked one off, walked over to Knox, and tossed it on his lap. “Merry Christmas, old guy.”
Knox laughed. “I’m forty-three, asshole.”
“That box doesn’t look like it has a cane inside,” Max joked.
“I’m first?” Knox asked.
“Must be something good since Chance can’t sit still,” West said.
“Open it.” Chance sat back down, grinning.
Knox ripped open the box and took out a placard of some kind.
“What’s it say?” Max asked from one of the chairs.
“‘Please do not annoy the writer. He may put you in a book and kill you,’” Knox read, laughing. “Hell yes. This goes on my office wall. I should get Ava one too,” he said of his writing partner and sister-in-law.
“There’s more,” Chance said.
Knox set the plaque aside and pulled out a T-shirt. Laughing, he shook his head and said, “Asshole,” again, then held it up.
The T-shirt said, Who’s your daddy? in big, bold letters.
A collective explosion of laughter broke out.
“That’s perfect,” West said, then howled.
“Double duty,” Max said.
There wasn’t a more appropriate saying for Knox, as he’d not only showed up in town last year as Simon Henry’s secret love child but also had baby Juniper left in his SUV with a note claiming he was her father. The claim turned out to be true, and he’d been smitten with that little girl ever since.
“Maybe triple,” Chance said. “We’ll have to ask Quincy.”
“I’ll wear it with pride,” Knox said like a good sport.
“Who’d you draw?” Chance asked. “You’re next as Santa.”
Knox set aside his gifts, stood, and went to the table. He picked up a gift bag and delivered it to Luke.
“You got me, huh?” Luke said, taking the bag. He dug into it and pulled out another T-shirt. He chuckled as he read it.
“What’s it say?” I asked.
“‘Things I do in my spare time,’” Luke read. “‘Drive tractors, look at tractors, research tractors, talk about tractors, think about tractors, dream about tractors.’ I don’t talk about ’em that much, do I?”
“You do love your tractors,” Chance said.
“Heck yeah, I love my tractors.” Luke’s expression said, Duh.
“Okay then,” Knox said as if that settled it. “There’s more.”
Luke dug back in, pulled out a coffee mug, and howled. As he held it up, he said, “‘Get plowed by a pro. Sleep with a farmer.’ That’s what I’m sayin’. Thanks, man.”
“Knox pretty much nailed you,” West said.
“Knox is the last person I want nailing me,” Luke quipped.
“You’re missing out,” Knox shot back. “Who’d you buy for?”
Luke set his gifts on the floor by his chair. He headed to the island, where he’d left his present, picked it up with both hands as if it was heavy, and handed it to Chance.
“Damn. Some barbells?” Chance asked.
“You could use some,” West said. “Mr. Soft Job.”
“You just wish you could get paid to market beer too,” Chance said. He ripped the gift wrap off and tossed it aside. He leaned forward and put the box on the floor, then lifted out a growler. “Beer?”
“Hard cider,” Luke said. “Because apples are better than hops any day.”
In addition to Christmas trees, Luke grew apples and strawberries on his land. Chance was the marketing manager for Rusty Anchor Brewing and lived and breathed beer.
“Did you start brewing the hard stuff?” Chance asked.
“It’s not mine. I got it from a cidery on the west side of the state. I’m looking into the possibility. We might be in competition soon, my man,” Luke said.
“Eh, not direct though. Bring it on. We might even be willing to carry a local cider at the Anchor for the nonbeer folks.” He twisted the lid off and sniffed. “That’s nice…for apples.”
Luke told him the four different varieties in the box.
“Hey, this is actually cool,” Chance said. “My mind is open to multiple kinds of alcohol. Thanks, Luke.”
“You might have to share,” Knox said, reading the label on one of the growlers.
“After gifts, we’ll do a taste test,” Chance said. “Who’s next?”
“I’ll go,” Max said, then delivered a bag to West.
West sat forward and pulled out a large water tumbler perfect for his construction job. “Jesus. I love it,” he said. He turned it so we could read it.
It had a hard hat on it and said, Always use protection, eliciting more laughs all around.
“Use protection for sure,” West said, shaking his head. “Unfortunately not much opportunity for that these days.”
“I feel you,” Luke said.
“There’s something else in there,” Max said to West.