Page 31 of Hot Rucking Canadian

She eyed Travis. “You’re too skinny. I’m going to put some meat on your bones. Now, do you accept hugs or am I being too forward? My son likes to chastise me for stepping into other people’s spaces.”

“Uh…”

I nudged him forward. I wasn’t one hundred percent certain he was ready for aMamahug. But he also hauled steel around for a living.

He was tough.

And then he stepped into my mother’s embrace. They were almost the same height and, after a long moment, he sagged against her.

Slowly, I rubbed his back.

He shook under my touch.

Mama soothed, in her gentle way. “Oh, my dear boy. Welcome to my home.”

Welcome homewas what she meant. Mama’s place was home to anyone who needed it. I’d often brought home strays as a kid. We couldn’t keep the animals—but some of the kids had become lifelong friends to me and pseudo-adopted children to Mama.

“Okay, ham waits for no one. I hope you like pineapple.” Mama finally released Travis, then put her hands on his cheeks.

As I often did.

And she sent the message I always tried to convey.

I see you for who you are. Your beauty on the inside is what I treasure.

Whether he’d be able to accept those sentiments was a challenge. He struggled. He couldn’t believe someone like me could care about someone like him. That hurt my heart.

“I love pineapple. And ham.” Travis grinned as Mama released him. Then he gave me a glance. Part panic, part relief, part adoration.

Yeah, Mama could engender all those sentiments at the same time.

She bustled back into her condo, wearing her bunny rabbit slippers I’d bought her when she’d moved into the place. Imaintained she needed dignified slippers when she greeted guests.

As predicted, she’d laughed uproariously. And had worn them every time I visited since.

Travis and I removed our shoes, then followed her into the condo. She had a pullout couch, a desk, several comfortable chairs, a few bookcases, and a high-top table with four stools. Said table was laden with bowls, containers, and three plates.

“Sit.” Mama bustled to the slow cooker.

“Do you need me to carve the ham?” I fingered the electric carving knife.

“Well, yes, that would be lovely.”

I always carved the ham.

Mama always acted like she was going to do it herself. She was perfectly capable, but she knew the pleasure I took from this simple action.

“What can I do to help?” Travis stood nervously twisting his hands while standing on the artificial border between the kitchen and the living room. A delineation which was just tile floor to carpeting.

“Sit.” Mama motioned to the table. “And maybe turn up the music a bit. I’m playing that all-Christmas music radio station.”

I sighed. “I bought you that stereo system. Heck, I even installed it.”

She waved at the ham. “Too complicated. I grew up listening to the radio, and so I’ll do it now.”

Arguing was pointless.

So I carved the honeyed ham while listening toSilent Night,Jingle Bell Rock, andDo You See What I See. Which happened to be my favorite. I cut Travis a glance.

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