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“Yep. Sleepless night, so they’re going to try to doze the best they can this morning without visitors.” The early morning text from Gabe was what had awakened me, but I was glad I’d had the chance to watch Zeb sleep a few extra minutes. “Gabe sent a list of things they need from their house, so that’s our Christmas mission if the roads cooperate. We can see them later in the afternoon or so.”
“We’ll make the drive.” Radiating good humor and confidence, Zeb strode naked to look out the window. Luckily, we were up high enough he was unlikely to be seen. “The snow has stopped. Think we should hunt down some food and rescue Gabe’s car from the parking garage?”
“Sounds like a plan.” I grinned at him because I was usually the one with the plan. In my military life, entire operations and dozens of souls counted on my ability to strategize quickly yet thoroughly. My crew and I were their ticket home, and I couldn’t afford to wing it. But with Zeb, I didn’t have to be in control of every last thing. Yes, he happily let me lead in the bedroom, but with other things, I could simply sit back and let events unfold in a way I couldn’t with anyone else. Being around Zeb continued to be both thrilling and relaxing.
To that end, I tossed Zeb the SUV keys as we approached Gabe’s vehicle in the hospital parking garage.
“What’s this?” Zeb’s nose wrinkled.
“The roads are better, but still not great. You’ve got more snow-driving experience than me, and you’re more likely to have an idea of where we might be able to find food on Christmas morning.”
“Oh, I’ve got ideas.” Zeb’s eyes twinkled, and the soft blush above his beard said he was pleased about being asked to drive. Which he did admirably well, navigating minimally plowed side streets, icy patches, and slushy highway to lead us to a truck stop diner partway between West Chester and Kringle’s Crossing.
Rudy’s 24-Hour Diner was barely bigger than a railroad car with a similar, low rectangular shape and looked to be easily seventy years old with a weathered roof that matched its faded menus. The server who seated us had long gray hair twisted into a topknot with a pen stuck in it and a crooked nametag that read: Martina. She seemed to be of a similar age to the diner. Along with the menus, she handed us a thin sheet of holiday specials, which Zeb eagerly studied.
“Oh my God, they have gingerbread pancakes.” He made a near-orgasmic noise that had me regretting not going for morning sex.
“Get them,” I ordered gruffly.
“Only if you do the cinnamon roll French toast.”
“Deal.” I chuckled because Zeb hardly had to twist my arm to make me try something decadent on one of the few days of the year custom-made for indulgence. And cinnamon-anything was already going to remind me of him for the rest of my life.
“Coffee?” Martina, the same server who’d seated us, appeared with a steaming pot of what smelled like an excellent dark roast.
“Please.” I moved so she could reach our cups. I’d worked enough holiday duty shifts myself to know what a thankless day it could be, so I added, “Merry Christmas.”
“Happy Holidays to you boys too.” Martina gave us a wide smile that reminded me of Aunt Lucy. “And it’s a good Christmas. Steady stream of highway patrol, truckers, and stranded drivers all night. Can’t beat those holiday tips.”
“Glad you don’t mind working the holiday.” Zeb smiled back. “Feels like all Atlas and I did this month was work, so you’ve got my sympathy.”
I frowned because I personally felt like we’d done so much more than work. The month had flown by, and the hours we’d put in at Seasons were the least of the reasons time was at such a premium. But before I could shoot Zeb a pointed look, Martina chuckled.
“Oh, honey, I volunteered. Every year since my Nadine passed, I try to take all the holiday shifts so my regular servers can enjoy the day.” She offered up another winsome smile. “Owner perks, Nadine would say. I work when I want.”
“That’s…great.” Zeb swirled his tongue over his lips like he wasn’t sure of the proper response. “And I’m sorry about Nadine.”
“Eh. We had a good long run.” Martina shrugged. Long run. I tried to picture what sort of partnership could give rise to such a fond tone. My Nadine. And what I wouldn’t give to be able to say my Zeb. Earlier, when he’d felt so much like mine, my heart had barely been able to hold it. What would a long run for us look like? Who might we become in twenty or thirty years or more? If circumstances were different, I liked to think we would have made it work, the same as Martina and her Nadine. “Two old broads running this place. We even made an episode of a show about truck stops once. Said we had the best biscuits north of Virginia.”
