“Your hat, Cade’s socks. Are we really gonna argue over who burned what? Or promises we made when we were hungover? Can’t we just enjoy the bloody fact that your head’s still the same size as it was a couple years ago?” Plenty of silver linings to be found, in his opinion. He didn’t smile as he spoke, but it was clear he was pleased by the reaction he’d gotten.
Mason tipped his head back and made a frustrated growl in his throat. Owen was always better at talking her out of her irritated moods. That, among other reasons, made him miss Christmas with the others. She was drinking, though, so she obviously wasn’t as annoyed as she sounded.
“Same hat,” he confirmed, cracking the cap off of his own ale and having a drink. “Had it in my trunk the whole time.” Along with the other three, but he didn’t tell her that. “Was waiting for the next year when we could make you wear it again.”
“Do that and I’ll break your camera or whatever the fuck you use to take pictures,” he promised.
Ren’s threat did nothing more than make Mason’s lips twitch as he fought back another smile. Without a word, he reached over the side of his chair and tugged another Santa hat free of the junk piled up. He propped his drink between his knees long enough to pull the hat down over his own ears. The white ball on the end stuck in his peripheral vision and he gave his head a toss to get it out of the way.
Mason arranged his face into the picture of innocence - or as close as he could manage. “Still cranky that we didn’t burn them all?"