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Welp.

Ba-hum-fuck.

Chapter 6

Brynley

Fine.

I’ll confess this, but only for the captain’s log.

Do I enjoy having almost our entire estate look magazine decorated ready from the day after Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day?

Yeah.

Do I enjoy the fact that I myself have to put up and take downnoneof those decorations?

Fuck yeah.

Do I love that Wes has a holiday tradition started by his own father – and godfather – of saving one space in our home for kid-led decorating only?

More than anything else at this time of year.

It’s one of the rare cases where “Mr. Always My Way” offers his gold shirt to our children.

Followstheirleads.

Has them calling the shots even when it’s clear hehatesthe decisions they’re making.

Like now.

“Floss?” Wes adjusts his hold on Brae who is reaching for one of the branches near the top. “Are you trying to tell Santa he needs to visit the dental hygienist for a cleaning after all the cookies he eats?”

“That’s a bold message,” I playfully add to their conversation while tapping the chicken tangled in Christmas lights wrapping paper – that the kids picked out this year – around the pillar closest to the door. “Should we leave out mouthwash instead of milk?”

Board – who is holding my tape dispenser – tilts his head in what can only be called sarcasm.

“Don’t give me shit.” Kicking my chin across the room is instantly done. “It was her idea!”

“You know he has no clue what you’re saying, right?” Mom thoughtlessly accuses between bites of a cookie prompting our brown fur ball to whip his head over his shoulder and snuff.

“I believe our grand dog objects to that statement,” Clark chortles in the distance where he’s adding colorful candy canes into Wes’s Batman mug that usually only stores his pens.

“It’s not dental floss, Dad,” Brae dramatically sighs, calling our attention back to her. “It’s aviolinstring.” She lets her crystal gaze find his mismatched one. “I want him to remember it’smethat wants a new electric violin for Christmas.”

“I don’t think Santa needs a reminder, mini maestro.” Wes lets the corners of his lips warmly kick upwards. “He has a list, that he checkstwice.”

“And Mom has a list that she checks twice butstillforgets to pack me a pre-rehearsal snack.”

“Don’t throw me under theEnterprise,” I swiftly scold on a mirthful glare. “It’s not my job to pack you a pre-rehearsal snack. That’sTemps.”

“Unless you give Temps the week off becauseyou’reon vacation,” Mom reminds on another cookie bite. “Then it’syour job.” She sassily smirks in my direction. “The next Jeri Lynne Johnson really needs proper fuel before she rehearses.”

“You’re supposed to be on your daughter’s side.”

“Why? You weren’t on yours when you sold her out to the dog.”

Board snuffs in agreement redirecting my glare to him. “You wereso notinvited into this conversation.”

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