Page 49 of Single Mom's Christmas Wish

He gives me a confused look. “No.”

“They died when I was more or less your age.”

And just like that, his demeanor shifts. A softness encompasses his moody features. We’ve never really talked about this because Trevor tends to keep to himself when I’m around. Maybe it’s because he’s shy, or maybe he just doesn’t know who I am or what role I play in his foster dads’ lives—which makes all the sense in the world, given the current situation. But today, I’ve got the kid to myself, and it would be foolish of me not to try and connect with him on a deeper level.

“They did?”

“Yeah. An accident, just like your parents,” I say. “I know how awful it feels. And I also know you’re a brave little man, and you think you’ve got it under control. Just know that you’re not alone, okay? It’s not always easy. Some days are better, some are worse, and just when you think you’ve got some peace and quiet, a little girl comes along and bugs you. Right?”

Trevor thinks about it for a moment. “Maisie didn’t mean to bug me. She just wanted to play. But it’s a really violent game.”

“Technically speaking, you shouldn’t be playing it, either.” I pause and glance back at Chelsea. She and Maisie are busy sipping on hot chocolate and chewing marshmallows. “Pretty sure this game is for fourteen-year-olds and up,” I say, loud enough for Chelsea to hear.

“Oh, actually, I got that one for myself,” she replies with a sheepish grin. “Forgot to put it away.”

“There we go,” I mutter, shifting my focus back on Trevor. He looks disappointed. “I’m not going to stop you from playing the game because I’m not your adult. I’ll find something else for Maisie to do if it makes you feel better. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good.”

“But I do need you to apologize to her. She really wants to be your friend,” I say. “I’m not saying you have to be her friend, but you do have to be kind.”

“She’s actually pretty cool for a little girl,” Trevor says, half-smiling. “I just wanted to kill zombies.”

I can’t help but laugh. Once I get him and Maisie to sit down and talk about what happened, peace reigns over Chelsea’s house again. That’s one problem fixed as Chelsea takes Maisie into aplayroom and whips out a couple of puzzle boxes for her to play with. There are bigger problems ahead, however, in dire need of a drastic and quick solution.

“Those puzzles are going to keep your brainiac busy for at least a couple of hours,” my friend says as she comes back into the living room. “And you need to talk to the guys already. Put that ego aside. You need help, and they might be willing to give it.”

“I guess,” I concede with a heavy sigh.

Given how quickly time seems to be flying these days, I will have to find the courage.

With everything so close to crashing down around me, I simply can’t afford not to.

17

Dakota

It’s Thursday night, and I’m working my first shift at the Mona Lisa, a swanky new cocktail bar downtown.

I’ve yet to talk to Reed, Archer, and Maddox about the inheritance, but I’m due to meet them later after I finish work here. It’s only a couple of more hours until I’ll be popping the question. Gah, pop the question. It sounds so ridiculous.

“Still behind the bar, I see,” a familiar voice rips me from my tumultuous river of thoughts.

“Callie,” I mumble, instantly recognizing the vaporous redhead sitting in front of me at the bar. Wrapped in a tight, emerald-green dress, her typical floral scent testing my senses, my sister looks like she could make any man fall to their knees before her. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I came to see how the whole wedding thing is coming along,” she quips with a dry smile, then flips through the menu. “And I’ll have the vodka martini. Hold the ice.”

“Oh, wow, we’re really going to do this then,” I mutter mostly to myself, but she heard me.

“Hope you’re a decent bartender, at least,” she says.

With a flat smile, I proceed to prepare her drink, constantly scrutinized by her sharp, brown eyes. We both get our eye color from our father—one of the very few things that we have in common. I only wish she was nicer. Instead, she sits there and judges absolutely everything I do, purely for the purpose of heartless entertainment.

“How’d you end up being a bartender? I thought Dad was smart with making money,” Callie says after a long and uncomfortable silence.

“Dad died when I was eight,” I remind her. “I grew up with Sally. You do remember crashing her funeral, right?”

“Whatever. I guess I got lucky after all.”

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