Page 13 of A More Than Mayhem Christmas

“Absolutely not.”

“What?Why?”

“Because it’s weird.”

I scoff. “What’s weird?”

“Men don’t ask for details.”

I sit up, confused. “What do you mean,men don’t ask for details?”

He’s in our closet now, slipping on a shirt before rifling through a bag in the corner of the closet floor. “We just don’t talk about shit. You know Will at work?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“He got married a few months ago.”

My eyes narrow. “Did we not get invited to the wedding?”

“I guess not.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t care. Didn’t ask. Anyway, they got annulled like two weeks later.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Becausemen don’t ask for details.” He turns to me, holding up something he clearly purchased without my knowledge. “Put this on.”

“Wait.” I hold up my hands between us, still trying to wrap my head around everything. I don’t know what I’m confused about the most. The part where a guy he works with got married and unmarried in the space of two weeks or the giant grin on his face as he pulls abushcostumeout of its plastic wrapping. “Yeah… I’m going to need details,” I mumble.

“Whatever. Just put this on first.”

I roll my eyes, but don’t argue. I simply find something suitable to wear under the costume and don’t ask questions. Besides, I love it when Cameron gets excited like this. When he gets to let loose and act like the carefree boy I fell in love with and not always be the man constantly worried about whether he’s doing enough to take care of his family.

“Fits perfectly,” I say, viewing my reflection in the mirror. I look ridiculous, covered head to toe inleaves,but the pure joy on Cam’s face makes it worth it.

Cam settles his hands on my waist. “Goddamn, you’re sexy.”

I bust out a giggle and turn in his arms. “I’m far from it, but I’m glad you think so.”

His grin only gets wider as he takes my hand, leads me to the laundry, where an array of guns awaits us. Not real ones, obviously, but a paintball gun, BB gun, and the biggest, baddest water pistol I’ve ever seen. I sniff, trying to find the source of the putrid scent wafting through the air. Then I smell the end of the water pistol. “Tuna brine?” I ask.

He pats the top of my head. “I love how well you know me.” Then he reaches into the laundry sink for a tiny water pistol and hands it to me. “This one is yours.”

It fits in the palm of my hand. “What the fuck am I going to do with this?”

“Go hide in the bushes,” he’s quick to say, suddenly in a rush. “They’ll be here any second.” He practically pushes me out of the room, saying, “I’ll be up on the roof.”

I give him a cheesy thumbs-up. “Got it.”

“Who’s your target, baby?” he asks.

Shrugging, I assume, “Micky?”

He nods, then pulls a leaf off me and pockets it. “For good luck.”

“You’re not going to war!” I laugh out.

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