Page 85 of Daddies on Ice

The fire crackles softly, filling the quiet space with warmth.

From my vantage point, I watch Trisha move around the main room, her dark hair catching the golden light.

She’s pulled it back into a loose ponytail, but rebellious strands frame her face as she examines a box from storage. Even in simple jeans and a cream sweater, she’s breathtaking.

She pulls out strings of twinkling lights, testing them at a nearby outlet.

When they illuminate, her face lights up with genuine joy, and something tightens in my chest.

At forty-eight, I should know better than having these thoughts about a woman young enough to be my daughter. But there’s nothing fatherly about what I feel when I look at Trisha.

She emerges with a small artificial Christmas tree, struggling with its weight as she maneuvers it toward the coffee table.

I set down my mug and stand. “Need some help with that?”

She looks up, slightly breathless, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. “I’ve got it, but thanks.”

Before I can reach her, the front door swings open, letting in cold air along with a delivery driver pushing a hand truck loaded with boxes.

“Delivery for Trisha Johnston,” the driver calls out.

Trisha hurries over, signing the electronic pad.

The driver unloads an impressive pile of boxes before heading back into the cold.

She rushes off and returns from storage with a smaller hand truck, attempting to stack the towering boxes.

“Trisha.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Let me help you with those.”

She pauses, one box balanced precariously. “I can manage?—”

“I know you can,” I interrupt, stepping closer. Close enough to catch a hint of her perfume, something light and floral that makes my pulse quicken. “But you don’t have to.”

For a moment, we stand there, the air between us charged with something I’m not ready to name.

Her dark blue eyes search mine, and I wonder if she can see the hunger I’m trying to keep buried.

Finally, she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

Together, we load the boxes and make our way across the snowy path to her cabin.

Inside, the warmth envelops us immediately. The space is cozy and feminine, with soft throws and scattered candles.

We unload the boxes onto her dining table, and I lean against the kitchen counter. “So, are you going to tell me what’s in all these boxes?”

She grins, something almost mischievous in her expression. “Oh, you’re going to love this.” She opens the first box and pulls out what can only be described as the ugliest Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen. It’s bright red with a reindeer that looks like it’s been hit by a truck, complete with googly eyes and a pom-pom nose.

I groan. “Please tell me those aren’t for the team.”

“Oh, but they are.” She’s practically bouncing with excitement, pulling out sweater after hideous sweater. “It’s Christmas, Carl. We need some fun.”

She opens another box, revealing a sewing kit and Thunderwolves patches. “I’m going to sew these onto each sweater. Make them official team ugly Christmas sweaters.”

“You’re really going to make us wear these?” I ask, picking up one with a light-up Christmas tree.

“Absolutely.” She threads a needle with practiced ease. “And you’re going to help me sew on these patches.”

It’s not a request, yet I find myself settling into the chair across from her.