Page 23 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“Thank you,” I said. “For… everything.”

He held my gaze, steady and unflinching. “Anytime, Rudy.”

I hesitated, then climbed the steps. At the door, I looked back.

He was still there.

Watching. Making sure.

Only when I went inside did he finally turn and head back down the street.

I leaned my forehead briefly against the cool glass of the door, heart still beating a little too fast.

Not from fear.

From the quiet, unsettling realization that someone had seen me unravel—and stayed.

Chapter 5

Graeme

The bell over the door had a particular sound when the temperature dropped. Sharper somehow, as if cold tightened the metal and made it ring truer.

I heard it three times in the first ten minutes after I flipped the sign to OPEN, and by the fourth ring the shop had warmed into its familiar morning rhythm—boots stamping snow off, scarves unwinding, the evergreen scent waking up as soon as bodies moved through it.

Mrs. Kavanagh swept in like she owned the place, cheeks flushed, curls escaping her hat, with the kind of purpose only a woman on a Christmas mission could carry.

“Graeme,” she said, already halfway to the ribbon wall. “Don’t tell me you’re out of the silver again.”

“I would never tell you something that would make you look at me like that,” I replied, and her laugh came easy.

She started comparing spools, holding them up to the light with narrowed eyes. Her husband trailed behind her at a slower pace,lingering by the ornaments as if he’d wandered into a museum and didn’t want to touch anything without permission.

“That one,” he said, pointing at a glass bulb painted with a snow-covered bridge.

Mrs. Kavanagh didn’t even look. “Harold, if you buy one more glass ornament you’ll spend January sweeping up your optimism.”

He blinked, wounded. “It’s tasteful.”

I handed her a spool from the back row. “Same shade as last year.”

She took it, inspected it, then nodded like I’d passed a test. “You’re a gem. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I’ll add it to my resume,” I said.

Mrs. Kavanagh paid, tucked the ribbon into her bag like it was contraband, and left with her husband still looking longingly at the fragile things as he followed. The bell chimed behind them and the shop settled again.

Five minutes later it chimed twice in rapid succession, which meant only one thing.

The Fitzgerald twins.

Ed and Earl came in talking over each other, both carrying the same kind of snow-dusted energy Winterhaven produced in December. They were grown men who still dressed like they might climb a tree at any moment.

“Tell him,” Ed announced, pointing at his brother. “Tell him it was too much.”

“It wasn't too much,” Earl argued. “It was festive.”

“It was a hostage situation,” Ed said. “A wreath shouldn’t make you feel trapped.”