Christmas Beau (Christmas Falls: Season 2)

Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

H ank was convinced there was a law out there that said phone calls had to come in at the most inopportune times.

Juggling three leashes and three excitable dogs, who were desperate for some outdoor time after being cooped up in the house all morning, Hank’s phone rang as he stepped out of his front door into a snowy afternoon, pulling on his gloves as he did so. He took one of his gloves back off, answered the phone with a curt, “Pete, hang on a sec,” and didn’t wait for his brother to respond before shoving both the phone and the glove into his armpit. He’d barely locked up before the dogs pulled him toward the sidewalk.

“Afternoon, Hank,” his neighbor called, heading up her driveway with her arms full of groceries.

“Afternoon,” Hank replied with a wave, forgetting about his glove and phone.

They fell out from under his arm, the former onto the snowy sidewalk, the latter onto his boot, which meant that—of course—he accidentally kicked it into a small pile of snow. “Shit.”

Yager, in his quest to chase anything that caught his attention, stepped on it.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Hank picked it up, getting a tongue bath from Rory in the process, and wiped it off on his pants. It was no worse for wear. Just wet.

He put his glove back on and the phone to his ear. “Pete? You still there?”

“Is this a bad time?” Pete asked. “Because it sounds like a bad time. Why don’t I call you back?”

Hank huffed with both annoyance and amusement. “Nah. I’ve only been waiting a week for you to call me back. Who knows how long it’d take this time.”

“Sorry, man,” Pete said, sounding weary as hell. “Scarlett brought a cold home from preschool, and she gave it to Mikey, who gave it to Rhiannon, and when Rhiannon goes down it means that I can’t because someone’s got to hold down the fort. It’s germ central here, everyone’s sneezing on everything, and Scarlett keeps crying because she misses her preschool BFF.”

Hank winced as he crossed the street, the dogs at his side. “Damn. And you’re still standing?”

“For now. Watch, as soon as everyone’s healthy again I’ll come down with what Rhiannon calls the man flu.”

“You are pretty pathetic when you get sick.”

“Asshole,” Pete murmured without heat. “See if I send you a Christmas gift this year.”

“You didn’t send me one last year.”

“Sure I did. The six-month subscription to that subscription box for dogs.”

Coming up to a stop sign, Hank frowned and waved the driver on before continuing down Dasher Street. “That was from Mom and Dad.”

“But it was my idea.”

“Okay? Well . . . thanks? I guess.”

“You’re welcome,” Pete said grandly, unaccountably proud of himself. “So what’s up with you? How’s life in Christmas Falls?”

“Pretty good. We’re just getting our first significant snowfall of the season.” In fact, Hank’s footprints were leaving a trail behind him. They were only expecting three to five inches, but it had slowly been coming down all morning, and it made the town look like a scene from a Christmas movie—appropriate given the name of the town. “And the dogs and I are heading to a doggie playdate.”

Pete was silent for a moment, then said, “You don’t do doggie playdates.”

Hank scoffed. “Sure I do.”

“Nope. You said, and I quote, ‘Never again. Why can’t people train their dogs properly?’”

Resisting the urge to fidget, Hank said, “This dog is trained.” He thought of Fallon and amended, “Ish.”

“Uh-huh.” Pete sounded amused, and that never bode well for Hank. “Who’s the guy? Or girl? Or nonbinary person?”

“Drop it,” Hank said to Yager, who’d unearthed a candy wrapper that had been half-buried by the snow. “Her name is Fallon,” he told Pete.

“No shit?” Now Pete sounded way too thrilled for what would inevitably be a run-of-the-mill playdate.

If Hank could stop himself from mooning over Scott’s awkward bumbling, that was. Why did the man have to be so goddamn cute?

“I was half kidding, but that’s great,” Pete went on. “I’m glad you’re dating again.”

“What? No. Fallon’s the dog.”

“The dog? Well, fuck, that’s a letdown. You’re not seeing anyone then?”

“No. Let’s put a moratorium on that, thank you.”

“A permanent one?”

“No. Maybe? I don’t know, okay?” Sugar Plum Park came into view with its massive Christmas tree. Kids raced to and fro, tugging sleds behind them, and there was a snowball fight going on off to the left. “Can we put a pin in this?” he said, spotting Scott and Fallon. His stomach lurched at the sight of Scott all bundled in a puffy black winter coat that reached mid-thigh, a checkered red-and-white scarf, and a black knit hat. Fallon bounced around his feet, tangling Scott in her leash. “I’ve reached my destination, so I’ve got to go. Give Rhiannon and the kids my love. I hope they feel better soon.”

“Wait, I called for a reason,” Pete said quickly.

“What reason?”

“You left me a message the other day, said you had a question.”

“Right. I wanted to ask about hockey clubs.” Hank pulled the phone away to check the time. “But I’ve only got two minutes.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t talk so much.”

“You’re a fucking riot.”

Pete snickered. “Seriously, though. What about hockey clubs?”

“I want to start one.” Hank stepped out of the way of an oncoming wall of pedestrians and took shelter from the snowfall underneath a tree, where he told the dogs to sit. “Expand on what’s already available at the community center here by providing more services to the community, ones that will allow kids to continue their hockey training here instead of having to drive an hour into the city. I was hoping you might be able to point me in the direction of someone whose brains I could pick about this, because I’m not sure where to start.”

Pete made a humming noise, and Hank could picture him lounging with his feet up on the coffee table in his ginormous living room, which was about the size of Hank’s living room, bedroom, and kitchen combined.

“My initial thought is Coach Scharf,” Pete said.

“Your development coach in Buffalo?”

“Wasn’t he your development coach too?”

“No, just yours, Marty’s, and Victor’s. He’d retired by the time I got to that level.”

“Ah. Must be why you never made it to the big leagues. We had the good development coach and you got his backup.”

It was said very tongue-in-cheek, yet Hank’s back went up anyway, his chest feeling like someone was pressing a fist against it.

“Either way,” Pete continued, oblivious to how well his barb had hit the mark. “Coach Scharf is on the board there now. If anyone will have insights into hockey clubs, it’ll be him. I’ll text you his number.”

“Appreciate it,” Hank said grudgingly, a hint of a growl to his voice.

“Have fun on your doggie playdate. Maybe find yourself your own date to have fun on too, huh?”

Hank huffed up at the leafless branches. “Bye, Pete.”

“Of the two-legged variety, I mean.”

“The only person who thinks you’re funny is you.”

“And Mom.”

“She’s biologically required to humor you.”

“Mean” was Pete’s opinion on that, and it made Hank laugh.

“I’ve got to go. Thanks for the tip about Coach Scharf.”

“Sure thing.”

Hank hung up and was about to praise his dogs for waiting so patiently when the shock of Scott’s scarf against his black coat caught his eye. Fallon was still running around his legs. Scott didn’t untangle himself from the leash on time, and he tripped over it, going down in a plume of fresh powder.

“Shit!” Hank jogged over, Yager, Rory, and Kinsey next to him, tongues hanging out as though this were a game. “Scott.” Hank slid to his knees next to him. “Are you okay?”

Scott groaned. “You saw that. Of course you saw that. Can I convince you that you didn’t?”

Stifling a laugh, Hank rose and offered him a hand up. “Does anything hurt?”

“Just my ass,” Scott said, brushing off said ass. “Good thing it has all that padding, huh?” Cheeks coloring, Scott hung his head back. “Swear to god, one of these days I’m going to say something intelligent in front of you.”

Amused and charmed, Hank swatted snow off the bottom of Scott’s coat. “You graduated from law school. Trust me, I don’t think you’re unintelligent.”

Infuriatingly cute. Adorably awkward. Endearingly messy.

But definitely not unintelligent.

Scott’s cheeks pinked further, and he let out a little “heh” sound. “That’s nice of you to say even though it’s—Fallon!”

Hank looked over, where Fallon was peeing right there in the snow, surrounded by Yager, Rory, and Kinsey.

“You couldn’t find a tree for that?” Scott grumbled. “Can’t you pretend for five minutes that you’re a dignified dog?”

Hank couldn’t help it—the laugh that had been threatening burst out of him.

Scott gave him a sheepish smile in return. “Let’s head to the dog park.”

The small gated dog park was on the other side of the outdoor ice rink, which was currently packed with skaters. The snow hadn’t deterred family outings, that was for sure, and many kids wore elf hats or reindeer ears as they skated around the rink to the tune of “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” playing from a hidden speaker.

As Hank and Scott rounded the ice rink, wading through snow that had accumulated on the grass, Scott waved at a dark-haired man heading in the other direction on the sidewalk. “Hey, Gray,” he called.

The man waved back, and in his other hand, he held the leash of a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

“That’s Gray Frost,” Scott told Hank. “And before you ask, yes, that’s his real name. He runs the local airport.”

“We met briefly when I flew to Buffalo to see my parents a few months ago,” Hank said. “He was...”

“Kind of a sourpuss?” Scott laughed, the sound tempting Hank to inch closer to him. “Yeah, that’s Gray. There’s a corner of The Snowflake Shack that has storm clouds painted on the wall just for him.”

When they reached the dog park, they let the dogs loose. Fallon, predictably, took off as though she were being hunted. Yager and Rory followed a little more slowly while Kinsey ignored the other dogs and sniffed at a patch of yellow snow.

Bracing his forearms on top of the fence, Hank said, “Fallon seems like a handful.”

“She’s actually pretty tame,” Scott said with a laugh. “It’s only when she’s around other dogs that she tends to lose her shit.”

“How long have you had her?”

“Three years. How long have you had yours?”

“Kinsey came to me first about five years ago.” Hank nodded at his Australian cattle dog. “Yager and Rory came as a pair about a year later. I think Kinsey’s still wondering what they’re doing in his space.”

“Have you got a big yard for them to run around in?”

Hank nodded and brought his arms in closer to his body. Now that he wasn’t moving, he was feeling the cold more acutely. “I bought the house mostly because of the yard. The house itself is nice, but the yard was the selling point, which my brother tells me is dumbass criteria for a house.”

“Not if you have three dogs,” Scott pointed out.

“Exactly.”

“Sounds like your brother’s a pain in the butt.”

Hank choked on a laugh. “All three of them are. But that’s what I get for being the youngest of four boys: constantly picked on.”

On Hank’s right, Scott mimicked his position and leaned his forearms against the fence. “You’re not close?”

“We’re close,” Hank said. “But we also know how to give each other shit. How about you? Got any siblings?”

“One. A younger brother. He was abroad up until a few days ago when he unexpectedly showed up on my doorstep.” Scott sounded exasperatingly fond, which was how Hank imagined his own brothers talked about him with other people. Hank got the impression Scott was none too thrilled about having his brother around. “Teddy is over the moon about it, but...”

“But?” Hank prompted when a muscle in Scott’s cheek twitched.

“Sean tends to blow through town like a whirlwind and blow right back out just as quickly. So even though he says he plans on staying until the new year, I’m not convinced he won’t take off without a goodbye whenever the mood strikes him and leave Teddy moping for days.”

“Hm.” Hank watched Kinsey make moon eyes at a pug. “I kind of wish one of my brothers would show up on my doorstep unexpectedly. It’d be nice to see them for Christmas.”

Scott rotated and leaned his hip against the fence. Hank did the same so that Scott wasn’t looking at his profile.

And also because Hank just wanted to look at him. Hair stuck out the bottom of Scott’s hat, giving him the appearance of a tall, hot, and disheveled elf.

“You don’t spend the holidays together?” Scott asked.

“Nah, we’re too spread apart. Vic’s in Charleston, Marty’s in Washington State, and Pete’s in Minneapolis. They’ve all got kids—of either the human and/or animal variety—so it’s not easy for them to travel. Not easy for me either with three dogs. I could board them, but I don’t love leaving them there for more than a couple of days.”

“You can leave them with me.”

Hank blinked once, unsure why the offer surprised him. “I wasn’t— That wasn’t a hint for you to?—”

“I know.” Scott waved a hand. “But I’d be happy to look after them when you go out of town. I’m currently jobless, so it’s not like I don’t have the time.”

Hank debated for a second on whether it was an appropriate question or not, then finally asked. “Why are you jobless?”

Scott’s cheeks were already red from the cold, but the color deepened at Hank’s question. He rolled his lips inward, letting them out with a pop. “There was an... incident... at my last job.”

Hank was almost too afraid to ask. “What kind of incident?”

“The kind involving fire?”

“Holy shit. You set your office on fire?”

“What? Noooo. That’s not what I said. It was just a small... tiny... insignificant corner of the staff kitchen.”

“Jesus Christ, Scott. Were you hurt?”

Scott shook his head. “It was put out almost as fast as it started. But it was a great excuse for one of the partners to fire me. We’d never seen eye-to-eye. Frankly, there’d never been enough room in that office for the both of us. She’d made partner just before the... incident and used it as an excuse to let me go.”

Wait a second. Straightening, Hank frowned at him. “Scott, that’s not a legitimate excuse to fire someone. Did you fight it?”

“Thought about it,” Scott said as a toddler’s ear-splitting laugh reached them from the ice rink. “But honestly...” He shrugged one shoulder, the gesture not as nonchalant as he no doubt hoped it appeared. “She did me a favor. It was time to leave that place. I was getting disillusioned by practicing law, by the law. More divorces than you’d guess are amicable, but the ones that aren’t...” He turned again, putting his back to the fence. “They sucked the life out of me. It was like looking up at a night sky and expecting stars but getting nothing but a black void instead.”

Fuck. Hank couldn’t imagine feeling that way about his chosen career. Hockey was...

It was . . .

It was fucking life.

Whether he was playing it, watching it, organizing it, or analyzing it, it never failed to send a little thrill through his veins.

“The other day,” Hank began slowly, “when you said you were between jobs, you actually meant you’re between careers.”

Scott cocked his head, like he’d never actually considered it like that. Eventually, he nodded. “Yeah. When you put it that way, I guess I am.”

“Any idea what the next career will look like?”

Scott blew out a long breath that clouded the air in front of him. “Not a fucking clue.”

“What did you want to be when you were younger?”

“When I was a kid?” Scott snorted a laugh. “What didn’t I want to be? A firefighter, a vet, a teacher, a doctor, a funeral director.”

“A . . . funeral director?”

“That was Vada’s father’s job in My Girl ,” Scott said with a bashful smile that made Hank’s heart melt. “I thought it was cool when I was a kid until I realized I’d have to be in the same room as dead people. I also wanted to be a ballerina, but I hated my dance lessons, so...” He shrugged. “Clearly I didn’t know what I wanted as a kid, and I still don’t as an adult. But I’ve got to figure it out soon. It’s not like quilting is going to pay the bills.”

“Speaking of quilting.” Hank dug an envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. “Payment for my quilt.”

“Oh, thanks. I totally forgot.” Scott pocketed it without looking inside to see if Hank had paid him the correct amount. It was a trusting gesture that tempted Hank to kiss him and admonish him in equal measure.

“Who’s watching your booth?” He’d forgotten that Scott was still a vendor at the Arts and Crafts Fair and mentally kicked himself. He should’ve suggested meeting up for a doggie playdate once the fair was over for the day.

“My brother. He said he was happy to—” Scott jolted upright, squinting into the distance. That squint quickly turned into a frown and his hands fisted at his sides. “The fuck?”

Hank followed his gaze to a man wearing a dinky windbreaker over a hoodie—on a day like today?—and a pair of battered running shoes. No gloves, no scarf, no hat. He looked as out of place as Santa on the beach.

He was grinning, though, as he approached. “Hey!”

“Who’s at my booth?” Scott demanded.

Ah. The brother, then. Sean.

Now that Hank understood the connection, he could see the resemblance. Same nose, same smile, same shape to their lips. But where Scott’s hair was dark blond, Sean’s was several shades lighter, and where Scott was winter-pale, Sean was tanned. Wherever he’d been, he’d clearly gotten some quality time in the sun.

“I called Mom,” Sean said, still grinning as though Scott wasn’t silently fuming next to Hank. “She’s taking over for me for a bit, so I left your phone with her in case anyone buys a quilt. But she’s having lunch with...” Sean screwed up his face. “Shelley? Maybe? Anyway, in, like, half an hour, so you’ve got to get back to the fair.”

Scott’s mouth worked for a moment. Where Hank had previously thought the color in his cheeks had been cute as hell, the angry flush spreading up to his hairline wasn’t cute so much as it was concerning.

“But you said you could stay,” Scott spluttered.

“That was before I found out about the wreath workshop at Milton Falls Christmas Tree Farm. I thought I’d take Teddy.”

The corner of Scott’s eye twitched. “He’s hanging out with his friends today.”

“I’ll go by myself then,” Sean said with an easy smile that he turned on Hank. “Hey. I’m Sean Jersey. Scott’s brother.”

“Hank Beaufort,” Hank replied.

“Good to meet you. Anyway, I’ve got to run.” Sean started walking backward, the way he’d come. “The workshop starts in fifteen minutes.” He sent a double thumbs-up at Scott. “You good?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before turning and jogging away.

Hank leaned his shoulder against Scott’s in solidarity. “I think I see what you mean by whirlwind.”

Letting out a huff of air, Scott rolled his shoulders back. “Sorry about this. Fallon! Come!”

The dog bounded over, tail wagging. Scott swung the gate open and clipped her leash on. “Want to continue this playdate at my house over dinner later? The dogs can run around the backyard, we can eat baked mac and cheese, and—” A snowflake landed on his nose, and he went cross-eyed looking at it. “We can cuddle in front of the fire?”

Hank didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe when Scott waggled his eyebrows. “Like a date? This from the guy who said he’s even more jaded than me?”

“Being jaded doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not open to opportunity.”

God. He was so damn sincere. Hank could admit—if only to himself—that he was tempted.

But he’d only been divorced a year, and his ears still rang with Carly’s last crude parting shot.

You’re a hockey player. You’re supposed to be fun. But you could barely find the back of the net last season, never mind the back of me.

“Thanks, but I’m not dating,” Hank said gently. “Twice divorced, remember?”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “You know you can date without getting married, right? It’s not a contract.”

“Yes, thank you, counselor.”

“Stick with me. I’ve got lots more where that came from. Like, did you know that eyelash mites are a thing?”

Hank shuddered. Felt his breakfast crawl back up his throat. “Gross.”

“Sure is,” Scott said with much more enthusiasm than was warranted. “So? Dinner? Six o’clock.” He rambled off his address, and before Hank could say anything, added, “Strictly a friends-only, non-date dinner. See you then.”

Hank stared after his retreating back as a swirl of snowflakes danced around his head.

What the hell had just happened?

Scott bopped his hips to “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” as he removed the baked mac and cheese from the oven. The song had been stuck in his head since he’d heard it at the park earlier this afternoon, and he’d had it on repeat since he’d returned home from the fair, which Teddy clearly wasn’t impressed about.

“Daaaaaad,” Teddy clomped halfway down the stairs to yell. “There’s only so many times you can rock around the damn Christmas tree. Can you play literally anything else?”

“Don’t say damn,” Scott muttered absentmindedly, eyeing the mac and cheese. The breadcrumbs needed to be crispier, so he popped the dish back in the oven.

“You say it all the time,” Teddy complained loudly.

“Not in front of you, and certainly not in front of my elders.”

“Elders,” Teddy snickered.

“You sticking around for dinner?”

“Nope.” Teddy’s footsteps were loud on the stairs as he headed back up. “I’m going to Liam’s. His mom’s making tacos.”

Scott made a face. “Did you invite yourself over for dinner again?”

“No,” came Teddy’s attitude from his bedroom. “Liam invited me when I was over earlier. Yuri’s coming too.”

Scott texted Tracy Araya, Liam’s mom, to confirm Teddy’s story, nodding in satisfaction when she confirmed the invitation.

“Where’s Uncle Sean?” Teddy asked a few minutes later, coming into the kitchen carrying every video game he owned.

“At the wreath workshop at the Christmas tree farm.”

“Wasn’t that, like, five hours ago?”

“Sure was.”

Sean had probably bumped into an old friend or, more likely, made new friends of the other attendees or the workshop leader or hell, even Bruce and Felix—the owner and his fiancé.

Scott nodded at Teddy’s armful. “Want a bag for those?”

“I’ll just stick them in my backpack.” Teddy trudged to the front hall. “Can I ride my bike to Liam’s?”

Scott peeked out the living room window into a darkened evening. Across the street, Jack Skellington was draped in Christmas lights in Mrs. Gilmore’s window.

“In the snow?” Scott replied.

“It stopped snowing.” Teddy grabbed his winter coat off the hook. “The sidewalks aren’t plowed, but I can ride on the street.”

“There aren’t any reflectors on your bike, kiddo. You can walk or I can drive you.”

“I’ll walk,” Teddy said huffily, like walking two blocks was the end of the world. “Save me some mac and cheese for tomorrow.”

“I make no promises.”

Teddy rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “See ya later. Bye, Fallon.”

Fallon, half asleep under the dining room table, gave a feeble tail wag.

“Text me later if you want a lift home from Liam’s,” Scott said.

“Okay.” Teddy wrenched the door open. “Oh hey, Hank. Wow. Are these your dogs? Hi, guys.”

Nerves shot through Scott like a cannon being fired. The fair, then cooking, then Teddy had kept Scott distracted from the fact that Hank was coming over for a friends-only, non-date, doggie playdate.

He was, truthfully, bummed that Hank had declined his admittedly less-than-stellar date invitation. On the other hand, however, he understood. If he were twice divorced, he’d rethink the whole dating thing too.

Hell, he’d had a client who’d been married and divorced five times.

“I like being coupled up,” she’d said when Scott had asked her why she’d gotten married so many times. When he’d pointed out that she could be coupled up without the marriage, she’d looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

He’d wisely never brought it up again.

Reminding people that they could date without getting married seemed to be a theme for him. He should get that written on a T-shirt.

Clearing his throat of lingering nerves—even though this was expressly a non-date—Scott let the curtain fall closed over the window and stepped into the foyer. Teddy had left the door open behind him, and he currently knelt on the porch, giggling as he played with Yager and Rory. Kinsey sat stoically next to Hank, eyeing Scott with a very human can-we-go-home-now expression that tugged at Scott’s heartstrings.

Fallon, hearing the commotion, trotted out to play.

“Hey,” Scott said to Hank, stepping out into the frigid evening. He hugged his arms to himself. “You found us.”

Hank smiled, and Scott’s stomach went a little funny.

“I didn’t realize you live across from the Gilmore matriarch,” Hank said, jerking a thumb toward Mrs. Gilmore’s house.

“You know her?”

“We’ve met a couple of times.” Hank placed a hand on Kinsey’s head when the dog nosed at his leg. “Her grandsons coach at the community center.”

“Yeah, they’ve both coached Teddy. And Mik Gilmore was Teddy’s private hockey coach for a few months earlier this year.”

“Daaaaaad.” Teddy rose, glowering under the glow of the porch light. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“But... it’s Hank,” Scott said, bewildered. “He’s the hockey director. He probably knows Mik was your coach.”

“Still,” Teddy grumbled. “Don’t say it so loudly.”

Scott glanced around at the unmistakably empty street. It was lit up like, well, Christmas, and there was the sound of a snowplow nearby, but other than that, everyone was cooped up inside.

“I’ll make sure to whisper next time we’re alone on an empty street.”

Hank, very wisely, turned a laugh into a cough.

Teddy groaned. “God. You’re such an adult.”

“Can’t argue that.”

“You’re not the only person in the world who’s had private hockey coaching, you know,” Hank told Teddy gently. “Look up your favorite player online. I’d bet money you’ll find they’ve had private coaching at some point in their career.”

Teddy didn’t seem convinced, but neither did he dismiss the idea either. “Maybe. What are you doing here anyway? Are you taking my dad on a date?”

Scott choked on his own spit.

Hank, by contrast, didn’t bat an eyelash. “Our dogs are having a playdate.”

“Aw, that’s a bummer. How come you’re not dating my dad? What’s wrong with him?”

Horror washed over Scott, almost in slow motion as he realized what Teddy had said. “Oh my god.” He dug his fingertips into his eyes and left them there so he wouldn’t have to see Hank’s reaction. “And you call me a disaster.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be your wingman.”

Jesus fucking Christ. He’d raised a monster. “How do you even know what that means?”

“I’m twelve.”

“I’m twelve,” Scott repeated in a childish voice because a) it was what they did, and b) Hank hadn’t said anything yet and Scott wasn’t convinced he hadn’t silently retreated back whence he’d come.

But then Hank chuckled, and all of the anxiety and embarrassment melted away.

Well, the anxiety did anyway.

Scott let his hands drop to find that yes indeed, Hank was still here, still smiling, and looking much too entertained for Scott’s peace of mind. Stooping, Scott picked Teddy’s backpack off the ground and shoved it at his son. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving.”

“Have fun. Don’t eat all the tacos.”

“Don’t eat all the mac and cheese,” Teddy shot back.

“Oh shit!” Scott bolted inside, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, three out of four dogs giving chase. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

With the dogs barking around him, he wrenched open the oven door and?—

“Oh, thank god.”

The breadcrumbs topping the mac and cheese were nice and toasty, not even a little bit charred.

“Settle,” came Hank’s deep voice from the kitchen doorway, all smooth and confident and commanding. All three dogs obeyed—even Fallon—quieting instantly. Hell, the command had been so assertive that Scott was tempted to join the dogs where they’d settled at Hank’s feet and await further instruction.

Like suck my dick . Or strip .

He was halfway to a very naughty fantasyland when Hank’s question registered. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can strip the table. I mean, set ! Set the table.”

Good god, either it’d been too long since he’d had sex or Hank was doing his head in.

He suspected it was the latter although the former was true too.

Hank’s lips twitched.

“I’m, uh, gonna let the dogs out,” Scott muttered. “Cutlery’s in there.” He gestured at a drawer.

“Sure.” Hank opened the drawer, singing the chorus to “Who Let the Dogs Out” under his breath.

Christ. This man.

So. To recap: Scott was a mess of epic proportions—no filter, no job, no common sense—and Hank was as put together as they came.

Cool.

Scott let the dogs into the backyard, where he had an epic puppy playground, if he did say so himself. Even Kinsey seemed interested. Shivering against the cold, Scott closed the door and turned back to Hank.

“My grandmother had this same cutlery set,” Hank said. He added a fork and knife to both place settings.

“You know, some people might be offended by that.” Scott retrieved two beers from the fridge. “But my grandmas have great taste, so I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“Mine also had doilies and these creepy doll paintings that followed you with their eyes, so make of that what you will. Thanks.” Hank accepted the beer Scott handed him. Their fingers brushed briefly, sending bolts of awareness up Scott’s arm.

Hank’s gaze flew to his, his eyes widening with... something. Recognition? Interest? Discovery?

Please let it be all of the above.

“How was the rest of your day?” Scott asked.

“Uneventful,” Hank said. “Picked up a few groceries at Tidings it’s not fair.” He set the treats on the coffee table while Hank tried not to fling the cookie platter aside and haul him in for a kiss.

Instead, he waited until Scott turned to him with a friendly “What’s up?” before leaning forward to kiss him over the platter.

Scott sucked in a shocked breath.

Hank did too.

It was the chastest kiss Hank could ever remember exchanging with someone he was interested in—closed lips against closed lips—yet it nevertheless shot a zing up his spine. He clutched the platter awkwardly between them, the edge digging into his ribs, and ignored how his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

This was everything he shouldn’t want after being burned by two divorces, but in this moment, he didn’t give a flying fuck about anything other than what was happening right now.

He pulled back slightly, hands shaking, and swallowed hard.

Scott, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, whispered, “What was that for?”

“A thank-you.”

“For what?”

For not giving up on him. For treating his dogs like his own. For the personalized cookies, which were possibly the sweetest gesture anyone had ever done for him.

“For the cookies,” Hank eventually said, because it was the easiest to articulate.

“Oh. Um, you’re welcome.” Scott stared down at the platter. “Wow. I need to go back to Ginger’s Breads and tell the teenager it worked.” He sent Hank a mischievous smile. “Want to thank me again?”

Damn right, Hank did. He set the platter on the coffee table, hauled Scott close like he’d wanted to earlier, and kissed him. No holding back, no hesitation, just tongues and teeth and spit.

It was messy.

It was amazing.

Scott’s mouth was as demanding as Hank’s, and he tasted like the beer he’d had with dinner. His hands were everywhere at once—in Hank’s hair, on the skin of his back, squeezing his ass. Hank let out a moan when Scott caressed a particularly sensitive area on his left side.

“Jesus,” Scott pulled away to gasp. “Personalized cookies for the win. Yay.”

“Shut up,” Hank muttered back.

“Okay.”

Their lips met again, wet, hard, rough. Finesse went out the window in favor of urgency.

Hank was no stranger to passion. He’d been married twice and had a few lovers before and in between. There’d been no shortage of good sex in his life, with both men and women.

But he couldn’t remember a kiss flaying him open as spectacularly as this one did. If he wasn’t conscious that this was the home of a twelve-year-old boy—who could walk in at any moment—he would’ve already drawn Scott to the couch to do very filthy things to his body.

As if Hank had conjured him, the door burst open, slamming back against the wall, and a voice yelled, “Ack! Sorry. Shit, fuck. Sorry.”

Hank jerked back, belatedly noticing that the voice was much too deep to belong to Teddy.

“Sean?” Scott said, the huskiness in his voice doing nothing to settle the problem in Hank’s pants.

“Sorry, sorry.” Sean covered his eyes with one hand and blindly toed off his boots. “Pretend I’m not here.”

“Too late for that,” Scott muttered. “What a mood killer.”

“Also,” Sean said, peeking out through his fingers. “Are the dogs supposed to be doing that?”

As one, Scott and Hank turned toward them. They stood clustered around the coffee table wearing equally guilty expressions. Cookie crumbs were everywhere.

“Hey!” Scott clapped his hands once and dove at them, sending them scattering in four directions. “Shoo! These aren’t for you. Do they say Fallon on them? No, they do not. Do they say Kinsey or Rory or Yager? No, they do not. They say Hank. These are Hank’s cookies.”

Hank couldn’t help it—he laughed until his stomach hurt.