“Good,” I muttered and pulled away from Brock, ordering, “Honey, go wake the boys. I’ll start breakfast. The Christmas trees aren’t going to march in our houses by themselves and we need to get there early. There’s always a rush the weekend after Thanksgiving and we need two good trees.”

“She always bossy?” Levi asked as I turned to the coffeepot.

“No, she’s usually always sweet but Christmas does shit to people,” Brock’s departing voice replied.

I yanked out the coffeepot, turned to Levi, and rolled my eyes.

He took that in and, sounding just like his brother and nearly as beautiful as when Brock did it, he burst out laughing.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

You’re with Me

Nearly two weeks later…

I PARKED BEHIND Brock’s brand-new huge dark-blue GMC, turned off the ignition, exited my car, and headed to the trunk, shivering the minute my body left my warm vehicle and hit the arctic air.

It was Denver. Tomorrow, it could be sixty degrees even in December. But that night it was freezing and the air felt like snow, not to mention the forecast said we were going to get a dump.

Good for the mountains and ski resorts. Bad for Tessa O’Hara.

I loved snow, playing in it, looking at it, making hot cocoa, and reading a book while it was falling outside.

Driving through it… not so much.

I opened the trunk and grabbed the handles of the plethora of parcels in the back, carefully arranging the bags in my grip, bags made awkward due to the copious rolls of Christmas wrap poking out.

I had a weakness for Christmas wrap. In fact, I had a weakness for any kind of wrap including bows and ribbons. I gave into this weakness often so I had an entire closet at my house dedicated to wrapping paper and all its accoutrement.

No joke.

Juggling bags while avoiding poking myself with rolls of paper, I slammed the trunk using my elbow and headed to Brock’s patio.

When my eyes went there, my brows drew together.

There was a Harley outside the gate. It wasn’t Brock’s. It was a Dyna Glide. And anyway, when not in use, Brock kept his Fat Boy on the patio under a sturdy, custom-made cover.

Hmm. It appeared Brock had company.

Still juggling bags, I maneuvered myself through the high, wood patio gate then through the storm door and front door.

Before I could call a word of greeting, I heard Brock say low, “Tess.”

I knew instantly he wasn’t greeting me. It was a warning to halt conversation.

Oh man.

“Hey!” I called, shut the door, and walked into the living room, eyes to the right.

Then I saw them. A Hispanic man and a Native American man on the stools in front of Brock’s bar, Brock standing behind the bar.