Locke settles his massive frame down onto the rug right beside me, leaning his broad back against the base of a heavy leather armchair, and taking a slow, long sip of his black coffee.
I hold the warm ceramic mug between both hands, breathing in the rich, dark aroma before looking over at him sideways.
"You know," I say, taking a small sip. "It’s going to be Christmas in three weeks."
Locke glances over, his eyes sparkling with quiet humor. "Is it? Time moves fast when you’re goddamn busy."
"It really does. What do you usually do for it?"
"I spend it with Evelyn at her place. Just a quiet day. I fly over to Maine and we decorate the tree and cook together. She makes this incredible roast that takes about eight hours, and we just sit around, watch old movies, and drink good whiskey."
