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“Nope. It fits you just right.”
She laughs and takes a seat at the table. “Can I help with anything?”
“Not a thing. Do you want coffee? I’m making eggs for you; scrambled with a little cheese on top, right?”
Her neck jerks up and she stares at me. “You know how I eat my eggs?”
“You know how I eatmyeggs,” I remind her. “I couldn’t be the friend who doesn’t know your egg order. Besides, you had that whole argument with me the night we did breakfast for dinner at Maggie and Aiden’s a couple months ago. You gave me a lecture on the egg to cheese ratio, and I swear to God I’ve never seen someone talk about something so passionately.You had more enthusiasm than the people who preach about world peace.”
“Because I take it very seriously. Maybe the secret to world peace is a perfectly scrambled plate of eggs.”
“Fuck, now I’m nervous. I hope I get this right, otherwise, I think I’m going to be in deep shit.”
I slide the plate her way and hand her a fork. I lift an eyebrow as she takes a bite, closing her eyes and slowly chewing so she can give me her honest opinion.
“Well?” I say.
“Damn you, Holmes. These are better than when I make them.” She shovels another bite in her mouth, and I pump my fist in the air. “What’s your secret?”
“A chef never tells.”
“Oh, come on. This isn’t some family recipe of yours that’s been handed down for millennia.”
“A splash of milk and a hint of cream. Makes them nice and fluffy.”
“I’ll have to try that when we get home.”
We eat our breakfast and I start a pot of coffee. I know the smell of caffeine is going to wake up the masses.
“We’re going to head out in about an hour.” I pull out the sheet of paper from my back pocket and smooth it out on the counter. “This is the house here,” I say, tapping the small square.
“What’s that?” she asks, and her finger lands on the blob to the left.
“It’s supposed to be a Christmas tree.”
“It looks like a dying fish. Maybe you should stick to sports.”
“Oh, fuck you. I’m a great artist. My houses are almost three dimensional. Look. There’s a goddamn roof.”
“Okay.” Lacey pats my hand and smirks. “Whatever you say, honey bunches of oats.”
“Veto. Jesus, Daniels. I’m not a box of cereal. Have some class.”
Her laugh is light and loud, and I smile at the sound. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Please continue, Picasso.”
“The nerve of some people,” I mumble under my breath, and her fingers dig into my side. “We’ll loop around the perimeter of town, then zig-zag back in. A quick stop for lunch should have us wrapping up around four, which is just in time for dinner tonight. Having you here is going to help us go much faster.”
“This is incredibly thought out.” She traces the lines of the road and the markings on the crumpled sheet. “What do the symbols by each house mean?”
“If it’s their first time receiving gifts, or if they’ve been on the list before. It doesn’t really mean anything. They can be on the list for five years, and I don’t care. I just like to check in with folks. Make sure they’re doing okay. It’s impossible to expect someone to get back on their feet in a year. I like to keep track of the people who might need a little extra help.”
Lacey’s lips quiver. I press my finger against her mouth, and she kisses my knuckles. “I’m going to cry so much today, and I amnota crier. It’s usually only when I see those sad dog videos where the pet is reunited with their owner after three weeks apart. God, I turn into a blubbering mess. But this—” she gestures at the paper and taps the drawing— “this is going to ruin me.”
“I’m not curing cancer. Thousands of people do this every year, and I’m not any better than them. Hell, I’m giving away toys, not cars.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re immune to the reach you have, Shawn, but this is pretty freaking spectacular. The kids are going to be more appreciative of a Nerf ball than a Ferrari. Imagine waking up and thinking you’re not going to get anything for Christmas, then this tall, hot, tattooed—”
“You think I’m hot, Lacey girl?” I ask.
