Chapter 17
Rain had started sometime before dawn, and curtains of water bathed the windows of the cozy sitting room. By ten in the morning on Christmas Day, the inn was loud with voices and warm enough to fog every pane of glass. A few of Boone’s friends had decided to join them for the Christmas holiday, too, and he was kind of glad that they had the inn rooms available.
“You aren’t nauseous at all?” Demarien asked Felix.
“Nope.” Felix shrugged. “No cravings or emotional rollercoaster either.”
Boone rubbed his omega’s shoulders as Demarien glared at his friend. “It’s Christmas, love. You can’t murder your friend on Christmas.”
“I’m only now past the nausea,” he said, eyes narrowed. “At his stage, I lived at the toilet.”
Boone ran a hand over Demarien’s distinct baby bump. He was now about five months along and tired all the time. “Here, honey. Sit down and rest your feet. I’ll make you something to eat.”
Demarien’s shoulders stiffened. “You’ll burn everything. I love you, Boone, but you can’t cook.”
Boone just shrugged. “True, but you’ll get to rest.”
His omega grumbled about overcooked bacon and hurried to the kitchen.
Felix giggled. “I love the two of you.”
Boone made sure his ring was prominently displayed as he pushed his hair back. “We’re getting married.”
“I know,” Felix said, shaking his head. “That’s probably the hundredth time you’ve told me today.” His smile faded. “Have you heard from your parents?”
Boone shook his head with a sigh. “They aren’t answering my calls or texts. They didn’t take the news of the engagement well.”
“Who hid the cinnamon rolls?” Milo demanded, striding into the room to stand in the middle of the room with flour on his cheek and a wooden spoon in hand.
“I didn’t hide them,” Haley said from one of the sofas, her children curled around her as she read to them. “I relocated them for safety.”
“Safety from who?”
“You.”
Laughter rolled through the room. Milo pointed the spoon at her. “Traitor.”
The living room looked like Christmas had exploded in it. Wrapping paper littered the rug, ribbons dangled from the couch cushions, and the tree blinked steadily in the nook under the bay window, beneath a mountain of opened gifts. Milo’s cats chased each other around the sofa wearing matching dinosaur pajamas while Brownie barked excitedly at absolutely nothing.
Puck sat cross-legged on the floor near the fireplace, helping Abuela untangle yarn from a gift basket.
“You know,” Wilma-Jean said quietly, comfortably situated in a wingback chair, “when my parents hosted Christmas, there were fourteen people in one trailer.”
“Fourteen?” Mia laughed. She sat on another sofa, cuddling with Elise.
“And one bathroom,” Sammie added. “You people today are spoiled. A whole inn to host the holiday? Guests with their own rooms? What’s the world come to?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the two women said dutifully.
Across the room, music drifted from an old speaker perched on a bookshelf. Someone had put on classic Christmas songs, and every few minutes, everyone would halfheartedly sing along to the chorus before getting distracted again.
Boone left the room, drawn to the kitchen because that was where his everything was. Demarien was pulling the turkey from the oven while Patrick stole pieces of crispy skin straight from the pan.
“You are unbelievable,” Demarien said, grabbing a piece for himself.
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you during federally recognized holidays.”
