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“You didn’t think we were going to let you spend Christmas morning alone, did you?” Addy said bossily. She got that from me.
Shane abruptly ended his full body rubdown of the delighted dog and hugged me. “Addy’s worried you have a concussion, and I missed your peanut butter-chocolate chip pancakes,” he whispered.
I felt a warm glow in my chest buoyed by the rush of relief that my kids hadn’t decided to “surprise” me earlier.
“I’m fine, guys,” I promised.
“I bet you’re better than fine. And I’ll forgive you for not telling me all about it last night if you spill it now,” Addy said, taking her turn to hug me.
“Spill what?” I hedged like a guilty teenager.
The kids shared a can you believe Mom look.
“She’s talking about Vonn Barlowe, Mom,” Shane said.
Uh-oh.
I’d texted Michelle back, swearing her to secrecy with a promise to tell her everything—well, not everything—the following day. But no one else actually knew Vonn had spent the night.
“What about him?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. My children and I had someone traded places. Now it was me worried about evidence of misdeeds like condom wrappers.
“It’s all over Twitter,” Addy said, shoving her phone in my face.
It was a grainy video from the concert last night.
“I can’t believe Vonn freaking Barlowe jumped offstage, punched two guys in the face, and carried my mom backstage,” Shane said. He managed to sound only moderately ill when he said the part about me being his mother.
I snatched the phone from my daughter and pushed Play. There I was, at the bottom of the screen getting snatched into the mosh pit. What I hadn’t seen in real life, being distracted by trying not to get trampled to death, was Vonn shrugging off his guitar and vaulting off the stage after me.
The crowd went wild with him in their midst, wading toward me with security on his heels.
The camera panned over just in time to see Vonn’s fist connect with Drunk Guy #1. The guy went down hard. It was hard to tell what happened next, but I saw tattooed arm pull back and fly straight. Then there I was, cradled in Vonn’s arms as security closed around us.
I decided I was going to watch this video every day for the rest of my life.
“Where the hell was Mark?” Shane demanded. “I thought you were going with him. We’d never have let you go alone.”
“He had a work emergency,” I said lamely.
“I never liked that guy,” Addy told us over her shoulder as she marched into the kitchen.
The doorbell rang, mercifully saving me from having to answer. “I’d better get that.”
“Don’t think this is getting you out of telling us what happened backstage, young lady,” Addy called.
“It’s probably Dad and Val,” Shane said. “They wanted to make sure you were okay. They were a couple of minutes behind us.”
Christmas morning with my ex and his new—admittedly perfect—wife? I guessed the holiday couldn’t get much weirder than it already was.
I escaped to the front door and yanked it open.
Instead of Ryan and Val, I came face-to-face with a huge floral arrangement.
“Uhh…”
“Brooke Aucker?” the person behind the flowers said. I could just make out a florist van in my driveway behind Shane’s ancient Ford Escape.
“That’s me.” Or at least it had been me before I’d gotten married and taken Ryan’s name.
“Here you go. Merry Christmas.” The delivery man shifted the arrangement into my arms.
“You’re delivering on Christmas?” I said stupidly.
He grinned, then winked. “Honey, for a thousand-dollar delivery bonus I got no problem opening the shop for an hour.”
“Thanks,” I stuttered.
He tossed me a little salute and whistled his way back to his van.
“Who are those from?” my son demanded when I walked into the kitchen.
“Are those from Mark?” Addy asked. I could tell by her tone that she was reassessing her opinion of the man. My daughter was easily swayed by expensive presents.
I snatched the card away before either of them could get to it.
B,
Thanks for last night, gorgeous. I’ll be thinking about you. Always.
V
My cheeks flushed and my stomach got that warm, tickly feeling in it.
“Look at her face,” my daughter hissed.
“What’s wrong with her face?” Shane wanted to know.
“She’s flushed.” Addy frowned. “Do you have a fever? Do head wounds cause fevers?”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, pocketing the card.
The doorbell rang again.
I opened the door to find my ex-husband and his wife, holding their gorgeous one-year-old. The three of them were dressed in matching Christmas pajamas that Ryan looked less than thrilled about.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Ryan was not the sentimental let’s pose for a picture type. Which was ironic since he’d ended up marrying a woman who worked as a freelance social media manager and therefore documented every aspect of their life online.
“Merry Christmas,” I greeted them.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asked, stepping in and giving me a kiss on the cheek.
