Page 174 of The Badger in His Burrow

McKinley barked a laugh. “Family, am I right?”

“We love them anyway.”

“We do,” he agreed. “So how about we work this fast and efficient and get the hell back to them before Christmas dinner?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I agreed fervently.

Nobody,least of all me, was at all happy when I smelled the gasoline over by where the Christmas tree had been—the charred metal stand still sitting amid the ashes and steam.

“You have got to be shitting me,” was McKinley’s reaction, making me feel almost like I was working back with Hart again, although I had the sneaking suspicion that Hart’s version would have been even more colorful than the banal ‘shitting’ McKinleyhad used. But I’d almost gotten used to Smith’s extremely clean language, so the mild profanity made me weirdly happy.

Sometimes, we take what very little we can get.

Colfax tromped over, still wearing most of their fire gear, although the jacket was open and they’d left their helmet somewhere else.

“Merry Christmas?” I offered.

“Like hell,” came the big orc’s response. “You’re telling me this is arson?”

I nodded. “Sniff for yourself.”

Colfax drew in a long, deep breath. “Well, fuck.”

I didn’t disagree.

Somehow,I actually made it back to the house before dinner—barely, and smelling of smoke, ash, and death. The victim had been loaded up and sent to the ME’s office, and I’d done my best to get samples that contained gasoline as evidence of arson, under Colfax’s supervision, of course. Borde had naturally not made an appearance at all, and McKinley had released everyone else, swearing under his breath that he’d have Borde fired if it was the last thing he did this year. I wished him luck with that, although I wasn’t sure who we’d end up with if he succeeded.

Back at the house, I showered as quickly as I could, then threw on a dark green sweater and a different pair of jeans, since my Christmas-themed sweater was no longer acceptable to wear to dinner, sweaty and filthy as it now was. I threw it—and my dirty jeans—in the wash and hoped for the best.

While I’d been at work, Elliot, Noah, and Lulu had finished decorating the house, and other than the plywood over the patiodoor, it could have passed for a Hallmark Christmas movie house, all pine and sparkling lights and beads and glass.

After dinner, Elliot found a bunch of pillows and blankets and piled them up on the floor in front of the couch, then basically made himself a nest, pulling me down to join him and leaving the couch for Noah and Lulu so that we could watch Christmas movies all night.

We hadn’t had dessert yet because we’d all stuffed ourselves on duck and squash and brussels sprouts and bread and a cold bean salad. I was pretty sure we’d get to the pears and ice cream at the end of the first of theChristmas Storymovies, which were Noah’s favorites.

I put the them back into the oven to rewarm while everybody else took a bathroom break, so that when the movie finished, the pears were warm, the bourbon caramel sauce steaming, and I served up bowls with ice cream that caused everyone to make satisfied noises.

By halfway throughA Christmas Story Christmas, all three of them were asleep, so I paused it and went into the kitchen to make a french toast casserole that I could put in overnight for a tasty breakfast Christmas morning.

Extremelyearly.

Because Elliot was following through on his promise to drag us down to Madison with the Harts. Noah was genuinely excited. Lulu was nervous.

I was…

I didn’t know what I was.

Nervous, yes, because I was about to spend an entire day with a family that wasn’t mine, and that was stressful. I didn’t know them, didn’t know what they would make of me—although I hadn’t heard any nightmare stories about the fact that Hart was gay and Taavi was a shifter—and didn’t know what to expect.

I felt like it was also a test—of my commitment to Elliot, of how much I loved him, how much I was willing to put up with for him, and of what the people he considered family thought of me. That I had to pass the test in order to be worthy of him.

But I was also happy that he wanted me there.

I mixed egg and almond milk, added cinnamon and a little honey, then set it aside so that I could assemble the rest. I took slices of crusty french bread, cranberries, apples, and pecans and put them in a baking dish—a thick slice of bread, then some apples and cranberries, a few nuts, then another slice of bread, and so on.

I smelled Elliot before I felt his hand on my waist. “What’re you making?” he asked, snuggling up against my spine.

“Breakfast,” I replied. “For when we all drag our asses up at five a.m. to go over to the Harts’.” We had to be there by six-thirty, and Noahinsistedthat we had to open Christmas presents in the morning. Not tonight, not tomorrow after we got back, but first thing in the morning in our pajamas.

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