BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(67)

He cupped his shaking hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Thank you!” he shouted. “We look forward to this, every year. Last few years, a tattooed boy has come buy. Haven’t seen him yet this year, though.”

I realized Baker was wearing a long-sleeved blazer.

Baker patted him on the shoulder, and then gave a nod. “Have a Merry Christmas. Maybe he’ll be by in the next day or so.”

The man gave a nod and yelled his response. “Sure hope so! He’s got a set of pipes!”

It was the first Christmas since my arrival that I felt festive. The caroling gave me a sense of holiday spirit that I’d been missing for years. I couldn’t help but admire Baker for doing it, and wondered what drove him to do so year after year.

On the way to the van, Baker turned to me and grinned. “Come back day after tomorrow?”

“Day after tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

He stroked his beard. “Makes it that much better, doesn’t it?”

I glanced over my shoulder. The man in the pajamas was still standing on the porch, waving.

“Yes,” I said, hooking my arm through his. “I’d love to.”





Epilogue





We put up the tree on Christmas Eve, which was a tradition of Baker’s. Although there weren’t any gifts under it when we went to bed, I enjoyed decorating it immensely, and hanging the lights together was a memorable experience. Spending the night with him – and waking up at his side Christmas morning – was going to be gift enough.

We woke the next morning, and showered together. Eager to give him the gifts I’d bought, I begged him to go into the living room and look under the tree. After he’d fallen asleep, I got up and placed his presents under the tree, and I was giddy to have him see them.

Hand in hand, we walked into the room. Much to my surprise, the tree was surrounded by gifts.

“Oh wow,” I gasped.

“Looks like Santa Claus was bored.” He turned toward the kitchen, “Let’s make a pot of coffee.”

I wanted to rush to the tree and see what, if anything, was mine. Heck, for all I knew, the gifts were for – or from – his five brothers.

A few minutes later, coffee in hand, we sat beside each other, cross-legged on the floor. He handed out the gifts, and I ended up with four and him three.

I never viewed the amount of the gifts as important. One gift, if selected with love, was plenty. I pointed to a two-foot square box that sat at his side. “That one first, please.”

He agreed, and opened it. Inside, the gift itself was wrapped in another paper. He picked up the thin package and smiled. “I wonder what this is.”

After unwrapping it, he clutched it to his chest and laughed. “Don’t have this one.”

“Well, you do now.”

It was Amos Lee’s Supply and Demand, on vinyl. It wasn’t an easy record to locate, but eventually I found it. I looked at The Wind as our song, and I suspected I always would.

He pointed to a small box. “That one.”

I picked it up the eighteen-inch-long box and shook it.

“Be careful,” he said.

Carefully, I took the tape from the paper, peeled the paper away, and looked at the top of the box.

My heart raced at the familiar sight of the manufacturer’s label, written in cursive on the top of the box.

“Is it?”

He shrugged. “Open it.”

I lifted the edge of the top and peered inside. Upon seeing the shoes, I flipped the top to the side and pulled them out.

“A pair of Louboutin’s,” I said. “I’m in love.”

I stood up and slipped the shoes on my feet.

He looked at them and smiled. “Fit?”

“Perfect,” I said.

The black heels with the signature red bottoms were a staple in the closets of the rich and famous. They weren’t anything I could ever afford, but I’d surely wear them on special occasions.

Giddy, I sat down and admired them.

He cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

I looked up. “Oh. The big red one.”

He pulled off the bow, peeled off the paper, and opened the box. Immediately, he laughed out loud. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I love it when you wear hats.”

Carefully, he removed the felt porkpie, and lifted it to his head. The black hat looked sexy on his head, and gave him a distinguished look.

“I like it.”

He tipped it toward me. “As do I.”

He pointed to a little blue box. “I think that one next. This is going to be weird in a minute.”

“Why?”

“Just open it.”

After carefully unwrapping the three-inch square box, I peeled back the top. Inside, a key to his car.

“My own key?” I asked, lifting it from the box. “In case I want to go racing?”

“You own car,” he said. “There’s another one on there, too. It’s a key to this house.”

My heart went aflutter. “It says Por-Shah,” I said, pronouncing it the way he had when we met. “Are you serious?”

“It’s not just like mine, but it’s close.”

“It’s mine?”