Page 30 of Naughty-ish

Understanding, I smile.

“Anyway. Zebb is a fellow fireman and one of my good friends, and his little girl has some serious medical needs. He has a ton of money as a former NFL player, but he and a friend developed an organization called Snowball’s Chance to provide help for families with children who have severe medical needs and struggle with the steep costs. Zebb is a great guy, and his daughter Tam is a hoot.”

The animation in Nick’s voice has my brows lifting. He’s proud to be a part of this organization in some way.

“A few firehouses come together to host this event, each chipping in for the party, but also collecting funds for the cause. Last year we raised close to twenty-thousand dollars. The bar comps all the drinks and firefighters like to drink.”

“I feel bad. I didn’t bring much cash to donate.”

Nick scowls at me. “You don’t need to donate. I already purchased our tickets.”

“Still, ’tis the season.” I haven’t done anything to donate food or gifts this year. When I was married to Mitch, I’d purchase additional gifts from giving trees and schoolkid wish-lists, but there aren’t extra funds this December.

I haven’t even paid Nick for the Zlot 720 yet.

Nick gives me a quick glance as he weaves through side streets leading us further into the city of Chicago.

“You know it isn’t always about money. Give where you can, however you can. Sometimes that means giving time instead of food or cash.”

“Like you volunteer at places dressed like a hot Santa.”

Nick shrugs. “That doesn’t really count. I like playing Santa. The smile on kids’ faces. The excitement of the season. But my part is easy. The real deal is a tougher job.” He chuckles. “And did you just say I was hot?”

“You know you are,” I tease, waving up and down at him. “You’ve got the whole sexy Santa thing going and those come-sit-on-my-lap eyes.”

Nick’s head turns quickly, wide-eyed for a second before returning his attention to the road. “If I asked you to sit on my lap, would you?”

I bite my lower lip, fighting a smile. “Depends on if you’ve been bad or good this year.”

Nick barks out a laugh. “Oh, I’ve been a very, very bad boy.” His fingers clutch tighter at the steering wheel as he expertly guides us down a major street.

I don’t dare ask how bad or with whom. My imagination already pictures Nick in a hundred positions doing an equal number of graphic things with his lips, his tongue, and his fingers.

“But back to the donation stuff for a second,” he says, breaking the mood as he flips on his blinker and slows to parallel park. “Go to a shelter where they serve dinner or volunteer for a night ministry where they pack food bags to pass out to homeless people.”

I’d have to think about it, but I understood what Nick was saying. There are other ways to be generous. Time was one of them.

Like being present. Or a light of hope.

I’d amend my list.

Donate time.

+ + +

Murphy’s Bar was a Chicago staple. Like many bars that have been around for decades, it was long and narrow with dark paneling and few windows. Positioned on a corner, the locals might consider it a neighborhood hot spot. A line of people wanting general admission stood outside the entrance. Tickets for the event were collected at the door. The place is packed, chaotic, and loud.

Nick easily ushers us inside and we squeeze our way through the crowd. The bar is garishly decorated with tinsel and holiday lights. Still, it’s festive with silver and gold foiled streamers and multi-colored bulbs on anything that will hold them.

“What would you like?” Nick shouts over the riotous rendition of a Christmas song people are singing to off-key and without a care. I can’t help but smile.

“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” I shout back. “Malbec, if they have it.”

While Nick has wedged himself between two guys, clapping one on the back to place our order, a man on the other side of him shifts and levels me with an intense stare. He’s a large guy, broad across the shoulders and firm in the middle, although I can’t gauge his height as he’s seated on a stool. With hair a mix of snow and ink, he’s a solid silver fox. However, he looks like he’s been at the party before it was a party.

“Hey, snowball.” He smiles at me.

I open my mouth to greet him, but Nick responds. “Hey, Brock. Good to see you.” He holds out a hand and Brock shakes.