Chapter 43 ADAM
Chapter forty-three
ADAM
It’s our first Christmas morning in Sandwich Bay a year later, and I’m ninety percent sure the dogs are plotting mutiny.
Eve’s warm beside me. The house is a mess.
And I wouldn’t trade a second of it. Still in a rental, but discovering the best place for decaf coffee, and walking the beach whether there’s sunshine, rain, snow or wind.
During the tourist season, Eve spends more time in the garden and in small committee, but she doesn’t retreat on herself.
And right now, there's a foot on my thigh. With a warm and heavy sock.
"Foster," I say without opening my eyes, "are you trying to initiate something, or warm up?"
"Depends," she murmurs, sliding her foot a little higher. "Is there coffee?"
"There will be if you stop trying to start a holiday sex tape before the dogs eat the Christmas tree."
She snorts. "You say that like I haven't seen Blanche turn off the TV just to get attention."
"She's selective. Like you."
Eve grins against my shoulder, stretching like a smug cat. Her bare leg brushes mine, and the sheet shifts with her. I should get up. The dogs are going to start a riot any second now. But she's pressed up against me like I'm the only heat source she trusts, and I can't bring myself to move.
My pulse kicks up the way it does during a complicated surgery.
Focused. Present. A year together and I still react to her like it's that first night.
I roll toward her, pin her wrist gently to the mattress, and kiss her like I've been waiting all night for it.
Which, technically, I have. She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, the kind that still short-circuits my brain, and then:
Crash!
"Dorothy and Mama Bear Sophia" we say in unison.
I sigh. She groans. The moment breaks like the ornament that Dorothy and Mama Bear probably conspired to get off the tree.
I drag myself out of bed while Eve rummages for a sweater, sliding mine on top of her head.
It's too big on her—hanging off one shoulder, pooling at her wrists—but seeing her in my clothes still has my mouth go dry.
She catches me staring and glances at my barely-concealed hard-on with that look that's half clinical assessment, half pure want.
Like she wishes she could do something about it.
Her and me both.
I step forward and brush my fingers on her lips, down her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my touch. This woman who once kept everyone at a distance now leans into my hand like it's exactly where she belongs.
"Shower together after breakfast?" My voice rough with the promise of what comes next.
"It is Christmas," she murmurs. "We need to celebrate. Thoroughly."
And I laugh, because only Eve could make "thoroughly" sound that filthy. Only Eve could transform a small-town vet who spent years taking care of everyone else into someone who finally understands what it means to be taken care of too.
We're still renting this creaky house until we finish fixing up the one by the boardwalk, the fixer-upper with the perfect yard for Blanche and enough windows to satisfy Eve's need for light.
The place where we'll build our life together, one room at a time.
This temporary home smells like cinnamon, candle wax, and wet dog, with Christmas chaos waiting downstairs.
As I go down, Blanche is pacing with her usual righteous indignation.
Dorothy has chewed the corner off a gift bag and is pretending she doesn’t know it.
LoverBoy has climbed onto the kitchen table and looks pleased with himself.
Mama Bear Sophia watches it all from the fridge like a grumpy landlord, who definitely knocked off three ornaments.
"Do you think," Eve says as she tries to wrestle a dog-sized Christmas sweater over Dorothy's head, "that one day we'll have a peaceful morning?"
"Not if we keep adopting animals with opinions."
I hand her a mug of decaf coffee, pumpkin creamer already in it. She sips, then moans. Not the sexy kind. The "this coffee may solve climate change" kind.
"Thank you," she murmurs. Like she's still surprised I do that. Give her coffee. With creamer. Not every single day, but every weekend at least once if I'm not working.
My phone buzzes.
Group Name: We Love Pickles (Shut Up, Yes We Do)
I stare at my screen. "When did Kellan change the chat name? Again?"
Eve peeks over my shoulder, laughing. "Last night, apparently. While we were assembling that ridiculous dog tent."
Me
Dorothy took down two reindeer. Casualties include one stocking and my will to live.
Kellan
Sandwich Bay suits you. Can't wait to see…
Me
EYES. Everywhere.
"What do you mean eyes everywhere?" Eve leans forward and my jaw clenches, trying very hard not to spill the plan I have for the afternoon.
"Oh, it's a joke… about movies."
Luckily, LoverBoy spins around asking for attention and Eve doesn't ask more questions.
Kellan
Got it. We're definitely not going to see you until Spring Break. So. Sad.
Wes
Smooth, K. Super smooth.
Kellan
Smooth is my middle name.
Kellan adds Mom.
Mom
TELL EVE THE NEW ZUCCHINI WINNER AT THE COUNTY FAIR IS BIG. AND THERE'S A PICTURE OF A SANTA HAT ON IT. SHE'LL UNDERSTAND.
Kellan
Mom! We talked about this.
Mom:
ABOUT WHAT? THE CAPS OR THE ZUCCHINI? LOL
SEE YOU AT SPRING brEAK. Wink, wink. Also it's freezing in Sandwich Bay.
Me
I have to go.
We're not working today, but we make one stop on Christmas morning.
Maya—Eve's bright-eyed third grader with the sparkly pink glasses and determination that could move mountains—fell in love with Santa two months ago.
The scruffy terrier with the white beard had stolen her heart during a class visit to the shelter, but then she broke her arm falling off the monkey bars. And Santa got sick.
Her parents had already been approved to adopt him. They'd filled out all the paperwork, paid the fees, even bought supplies. They told Maya they adopted him, but when they didn't bring him home and said Santa wasn't feeling well, everyone was devastated.
When I offered to treat Santa under our clinic's care program, they agreed immediately. And Santa is ready to go home.
The clinic is transformed for the holiday. Evergreen garlands drape the reception desk, twinkling lights reflect off the polished floors, and the air smells like pine and peppermint.
When Maya walks in with both her parents, my veterinary students are waiting. A small group who volunteered to help, despite it being Christmas morning.
"Everything set?" Eve asks me quietly, her professional efficiency seamlessly blending with genuine warmth.
"Ready when you are," I confirm.
Maya spots Eve and her face lights up. "Ms. Foster! Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas, Maya," Eve responds, her smile reaching her eyes in that way reserved for the select few she truly connects with. "I hear Santa might have a special delivery today."
Maya's mother puts her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "We have a surprise for you, sweetie."
At my signal, Marco opens the exam room door.
There, looking healthier than ever, sits Santa with his white "beard" freshly groomed, his eyes bright and alert, so different from the lethargic pup who'd been fighting for his life just weeks ago.
Maya freezes, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Santa?" she whispers, voice quivering with hope.
The dog, who's been waiting patiently like he somehow knew this moment was important, lets out a single joyful bark and rushes toward Maya, tail whipping back and forth with such force it seems likely to propel him airborne.
Eve kneels beside Maya, hand steady on the girl's back.
"He's been waiting for you," Eve tells her softly.
"But I thought… He's okay?" Maya says, tears streaming down her face as Santa covers her cheeks with enthusiastic licks.
"He is," her mother says gently. "And he's part of our family."
"Santa was very sick," her father explains, kneeling down next to her. "Dr. Harrison has been helping him get better so he could come home with us."
"He's... ours?" Maya asks, looking from her parents to me, then to Eve, disbelief and hope warring on her face.
"All yours," Eve confirms, her clinical precision giving way to genuine emotion. "Your mom and dad arranged everything."
As Maya throws her arms around her parents, then around Santa again, I notice Eve step back slightly, not disconnecting, but creating the space she knows the family needs for their moment.
When she catches my eye across the room, her look says everything: this is why we do what we do, but also, we should go soon. So that I don’t get roped into doing more for more pets and people. But I know better, now. I’ve got a support system.
I’ve got her.
And myself.
Back home, Dorothy is tangled in Christmas tinsel, Blanche has claimed the guest bed adorned with holiday pillows as her own throne, and LoverBoy is actively trying to unwrap presents with his teeth while "White Christmas" plays softly from the speaker in the corner.
My students and a few surprised guests will be arriving later for Christmas dinner, a tradition we're starting this year for those who couldn't be home.
Or don't have anyone to celebrate with. Eve has prepared everything with her trademark efficiency: name cards at each place setting, a schedule for serving that accounts for dietary restrictions, and a quiet corner set up where she or anyone else can retreat when the social battery runs low.
"Should we stop him?" Eve asks, flopping onto the couch beside me, her Pickle Christmas sweater catching on the pine garland we'd strung across the furniture.
I sip my cinnamon-spiced coffee. "Let's see if he gets to the box with the pickle sweaters first."
"You bought pickle sweaters?"
"They were on sale. And my students insisted. The entire class voted between pickles and dinosaurs wearing Santa hats."
She leans into me, warm and content in the glow of Christmas lights. "You're a menace. No wonder your students volunteered on Christmas morning."
"Hmm… they stayed because they like you and our dogs and cat," I remind her.
I look down at her, this brilliant, thoughtful woman who once thought she had to pretend to be something she wasn't, who now navigates social gatherings on her own terms, giving generously of herself without second-guessing herself all the time and without doubting her own worth.
Knowing that everyone will like her and she can be cold, warm, funny and serious… she can be herself.
"Me neither," I whisper, and kiss her like there's no crash in the kitchen behind us, like Christmas carols aren't being drowned out by Blanche's excited barking.
Spoiler: there is definitely a crash.
We don't move right away.
"Merry Christmas," I whisper, knowing what I have planned for this afternoon is probably showing on my wide goofy grin I can't help.
"Merry Christmas. I love you," she murmurs back and she kisses me. Like the dogs and the cat aren't running around the house, like we don't have her parents and our friends arriving in a few hours and a whole community celebration.
In this moment, with pine scent in the air and "Silent Night" playing softly, it's just us.
And a box in my pocket that doesn’t feel heavy. But filled with a future I can’t help but smile about.