“I didn’t fake anything.” Witt had been telling her that for that last day and a half.
Max knew he was lying. He’d covered her ass in more ways than one. They were tit for tat at this point. Because she hadn’t told him she’d gotten the information about Bud and Bootman from Riley Morgan. A girl couldn’t reveal everything and change at the snap of a guy’s fingers, could she? She’d tell him about Morgan’s little threats eventually. Maybe she could make him beg her to tell him everything while she was doing something extremely kinky and delicious. Or vice versa. Oh yeah, there were all sorts of possibilities just around the corner. “And you should have told me that they lifted your suspension.”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
Witt squeezed her hand. “You sound like a wife.”
She gasped. “I do not.”
He bent and pecked a kiss to her nose. “Yes, you do. Haven’t been ragged on in years, and I kinda like it.”
“No man likes being ragged on. And I wasn’t ragging, I was just saying that you—”
This time he shut her up with his lips on hers.
Mmm. That was nice. He probably liked her to rag on him so he could cut her short just like this. And there was a high likelihood that she liked giving him a bad time for the same reason.
Ladybird’s front door burst open, and Witt’s tiny mom twittered unintelligibly.
“What’s that smell?” Witt’s brow furrowed, his lips twisted, and his nose twitched.
It was pretty bad. Like rotting vegetables, worse than a compost heap on a hot, humid day.
“It’s the brussels sprouts,” Ladybird finally managed, skipping down the hallway to her kitchen, Witt and Max close on her heels.”
This time they both raised their eyebrows. “Brussels sprouts?”
“I put them in the microwave with plastic wrap over them. And when I took the plastic wrap off...” Ladybird wrinkled her nose, and her blue-gray hair bobbed. “Well, they didn’t smell the way they were supposed to.”
Brussels sprouts were not the most deliciously fragrant of vegetables at any time, but now ... the stench hung like a cloud. They all stared at the glass plate of offensive green stuff.
“I tasted them, and they’re fine. In fact, despite the aroma, they’ve got a unique nutty flavor I’ve never noticed before.”
“I’m not eating something that smells that bad,” Witt announced. “Don’t you know that smell is 99 percent of taste?”
Max jabbed him in the ribs. “Don’t be silly. Of course he’s going to eat them. We’ll all eat them.” And throw up later.
Ladybird beamed, like a little gnome or one of Santa’s female elves. Was that silver glitter in her hair?
Then she bounced on her rubber-soled shoes. “Oh my, our first Thanksgiving together. I’m so excited.”
Max, horribly, incredibly, wonderfully, agreed with Ladybird. “Do you want me to help with anything?”
Ladybird scooped a shiny pile of utensils from the counter and plopped them in Max’s hand. “You can set the table. Witt can make the eggnog. I like the way he does it because he always puts an extra shot of vodka in mine.”
Max waggled one eyebrow. “Well, then I think he can put an extra shot in mine, too.”
“The two of you are lushes.” But Witt bent to the refrigerator and pulled out a quart of the delicious concoction. Max hadn’t had eggnog since ... since before Cameron died.
She sorted through the utensils Ladybird had given her. Place settings for four. Max simply stared.
Ladybird patted her arm. “Horace told me that Cameron wouldn’t be with us this time.”
Max glanced over the top of Ladybird’s head and met Witt’s suddenly intent gaze.
“Horace is right,” Max said. “Cameron won’t be attending.” Not ever again. The thought didn’t cut as deeply as it had just yesterday. She held onto Witt’s gaze as if she’d trailed her fingers along his jaw. “I’d venture to say we can retire his place setting.”
“Oh my,” Ladybird chirped. “I’m so happy for him.”
Witt merely poured the eggnog, then the vodka, and saluted Max with the empty shot glass. He sampled from her cut-glass mug, then handed it to her. She sipped, savoring the rich nog, the vodka’s bite. Then he bent and licked the residue from her lips.
His eyes blazed with promise. More than alcohol warmed Max’s belly.
“Hmm,” Ladybird murmured after slugging back a whopping gulp of her own spiked drink. “Christmas weddings are nice.”
“Mom,” Witt warned.
“I’m not getting any younger.” She moved her hand, and eggnog sloshed precariously close to the rim of her mug. “And what if your father decides to go into the light? No, no, we can’t risk him missing the nuptials. Max dear, we have to talk about whether you’ll wear white or not ...” She twittered about the kitchen like a bird flitting from flower to flower, asking questions, making plans, and not in the least concerned that nobody answered her.