"Then we use them all!" I gesture wildly. "Maximum coverage. Maximum holiday cheer. Maximum—"
"It doesn't even matter," Wall interrupts, and he's grinning now, pointing across the bar. "We have a portable mistletoe."
I follow his finger to where Hendrix claims the bar top, head bobbing enthusiastically to Mariah Carey. He's doing this little dance—if you can call it that—wings slightly spread, feet shuffling, completely absorbed in the music.
"He's not a mistletoe," Becker says, but he's already walking toward Hendrix, his expression with every step. "He's a bully."
He stops next to Hendrix, who pauses his headbanging long enough to screech, "KISS KISS!"
Becker grins. "But he'smybully."
Hendrix ruffles his feathers, looking smug, and goes back to his Mariah Carey appreciation.
The front door opens and Mama Paws walks in, carefully balancing what appears to be the world's largest pie pan. The scent hits me immediately—cinnamon, apples, butter, all the good things that make life worth living.
"Boys!" she calls out, and everyone in the vicinity turns toward her. "I made you something."
The team materializes out of nowhere. I didn't even know half of them were here yet, but suddenly there's a small crowd gathering around Mama Paws like she's distributing gold.
"You didn't have to do that," Wall says, but he's already eyeing the pie.
"We're happy to help," Petrov adds. "Is just what friends do."
"Really, it's our pleasure," Groover chimes in.
Mama Paws beams at them, setting the pie down on the nearest table. "It's the least I can do."
"Theleastyou can do is not tempt us with baked goods," Becker says, grabbing a fork that appeared from nowhere. "But since you already did..."
He digs in before anyone can stop him.
And then there’s a frenzy.
Forks materialize. Plates are located. The pie is descended upon from all directions, the team crowding it like a pack of wolves—which, given the name, is fitting.
"This is amazing," Jinx mumbles through a mouthful.
"Best pie I've ever had," Snooze agrees.
"In Russia, we have saying," Petrov starts.
"Here we go," Groover mutters.
"—about pie and—"
"Nobody cares about Russian pie sayings!" Becker yells, but he's grinning.
I hang back, watching the scene, and catch Mama Paws's eye. She looks happy, but there's something underneath—a tightness around her eyes, a tension in her shoulders.
I drift over to her, keeping my voice low. "You good?"
She smiles, but it wobbles slightly. "Just nervous, I suppose. This is all so much. So many people helping, so much effort, and I keep thinking... what if it's not enough?"
"It'll be enough."
"But what if—"
"Mama Paws.Celeste." I put my hand on her shoulder. "Look around. Look at all these idiots eating your pie and arguing about mistletoe placement. You think they're going to let anything bad happen to the shelter?"
