Storm sees what’s happening, sighs, and plunks down to wait, the model of patience. Dalton sips a far more cautious drink from his bottle. Hesitates. Gulps a larger swig.
I laugh and put my arms around his neck, bottle dangling from one hand.
“Having a good night, Sheriff?” I ask.
“It started off good. It’s getting better.” Another gulp. Another kiss. He blinks, forcing his eyes to focus, and I have to laugh at that.
>
“You are such a lightweight,” I say.
“I’m not the only one.”
“Hey, I shoot tequila. Straight.”
“Yeah, Miss Two-Shots Max. You like to look like a badass, but I definitely saw some wobbling as we left the Roc.”
“Which is one of the reasons we left.” I hoist my bottle. “If I’m having more, I’m having it with just you.”
“Ditto.”
As he kisses me, his gaze shunts to the side, and he gives a start. Then he chokes on a laugh. I look to see …
It looks like a person standing there. It’s actually a dummy, sitting on a wooden chair. A very homemade dummy, constructed of stuffed trousers stuck into boots and an equally stuffed red flannel shirt. The head is cotton stuffed into a nylon and painted with a red smile and round eyes. More cotton forms a beard. On the figure’s head is an old red knit hat.
“Is that supposed to be Santa Claus?” Dalton asks.
I shudder. “Reminds me of the mall Santas my parents made me sit with. We had to get a duty photo every year to send to family—one of me sitting on the knee of some very sketchy Santas. April got out of it, naturally.”
He scoops me up.
“No!” I say. “Don’t you dare—”
He turns at the last second and plunks onto Santa’s lap, crushing the poor dummy. Then he settles me onto his own lap and tugs the knit cap onto his head.
“So, little girl, what do you want for Christmas?”
“Oh God, now I really am scarred for life.” I shudder. “Wrong, wrong, so wrong.”
He tosses the hat aside and leans back, arms tightening around me. “I’ll ask the question like this, then. What do you want for Christmas this year?”
I twist to look up at him and smile. “I do believe I have everything I want.”
He goes as red at the Santa’s flannel shirt.
“You’re cute when you blush.” I lean over to kiss him. “Still true, though. If we make that extra trip to Dawson, I’ll come up with a completely frivolous wish list for you, but you’ll owe me a list, too. As for what I want tonight—”
The sudden wail of a baby sounds in the distance. We look at each other.
“Not that,” I say.
“Definitely not that.”
We dissolve into tipsy giggles. Then I say, “Gotta admit, you looked damn good holding a baby. It suited you.”
His head tilts, and I know he’s catching the note in my voice. A wistful one that says this isn’t a hint that I want a child, but maybe a hint that I’m suddenly feeling the loss of that possibility.
“I might look good in a Speedo bathing suit, too,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I should have one.”