Page 16 of Spicy Nick

“And Marsha and Sam?”

I nod in response. “And all the kids. Including Jasmine’s boyfriend.”

“And Siobhan and Ryan?”

“Yep. All the usual suspects.” And then—because, at this point, I kind of have to say something—I add, “As long as you’re sure you’re feeling up to it? There’s no need to be a martyr, you know.”

“Of course, I’m feeling up to it,” she says frowning at me likeI’mthe one who’s acting strange. As if. “It’s Christmas! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You’ve seemed a little out of it, since you got back. I thought maybe you were coming down with a cold or something.”

A frown appears, furrowing Scout’s brows. “A cold? No. I don’t know why you’d think that.”

“I just told you why!”

“Yes, and I toldyou. I’m fine. I just had a dream and it…it lingers. That’s all it is.” She smiles unconvincingly. “I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me.”

Oh, if only that were possible, I think as I smile and lie right back at her. “All right. If you say so.”

Our drinks arrive then, interrupting us, and Scout takes the opportunity to end our conversation. She focuses her attention on helping Cole who’s coloring his Santa-themed placemat using the box of crayons our server has provided for just that purpose.

The boy loves to color and it’s possible that he’s inherited some of his grandfather’s talent. Although at four, his coloringconsists of scribbling wildly and randomly all over the paper, ignoring the lines, disregarding the picture he’s supposed to be filling in. So it’s hard to tell how good he might end up being.

As I watch Scout work with him, patiently offering suggestions, and absently pursing her lips around the straw in her shake, I can’t help thinking about how her mouth must taste right now. Because, like I said: we’ve been here and done this a few times before. And I can’t help but remember a day several years ago…

I’d run into her—somewhat randomly, as I recall—at her stepbrother’s winery. Cole was just a baby, at the time. I kissed her, long and hard, because I could. Because I had to. Because there was no one there to stop me. And because, after all those years of not being able to, every time I kissed her now; it still felt like a miracle.

I kissed her until she was clinging to me for support. Until the weight of the sun beating down on our heads had begun to feel uncomfortable. Until Cole had begun to squirm and fuss—probably feeling as squished as those roses at the airport.

“Okay, I give up,” I said, finally coming up for air. “What the heck have you been eating?”

A smile played over her lips. “What are you talking about?”

“What have you been eating?” I repeated, kissing her several more times because…well, see all of the above. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“Ohhh,” she said, smiling as understanding apparently dawned; and kissing me again just in cases I was unaware of the truth: She owned me. I was owned. Body and soul.

And…just for the record? I have never been unaware of that fact. I’ve never beenthatbig a fool.

“You like that, huh?” Scout said, smiling smugly. “I stopped on the way out here and got a milkshake.”

“Chocolate?”

“Well, of course chocolate.”

“With a cherry?”

“Several, yes. And whipped cream, too. Is there any other way?”

Not as far as I was concerned. And what was true then, is still true now. And probably always will be. That taste—not just by itself, but onherlips, and inhermouth—is unforgettable, incomparable. And, if I have it my way, it’s the taste I want in my mouth when I die.

Which, I have to admit, when you hear it said straight out like that? Sounds morbid as fuck.

We spendthe rest of the afternoon trimming the tree. Hanging ornaments—some that Scout and I bought together, others that she inherited from her stepmother and still remembers from her younger days. And then there are also the ones my mother passed down to me, and that I had during my first marriage. Which means we have memories from my childhood, and Kate’s as well, hanging from the boughs here. All of them together. All the individual parts combining to make one perfect whole.

Speaking of my daughter, I did check in with her to see if she wanted to come back and help with the tree. But she insisted that she was fine with missing it.

“I’m kind of in the middle of stuff here,” she tells me, sounding distracted and preoccupied—which I take to mean that she’s having too good a time hanging with her cousins.

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