Page 30 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“So,” Graeme said after a few minutes, carrying over a small box of pinecones and setting it nearby, “is this a proper vacation for you, or are you secretly working between cups of cocoa?”

A smile tugged at my mouth. “Proper. Mostly.”

He glanced over, not prying—just curious. Waiting.

“I wrapped things up before I came,” I said. “Two weeks blocked off. I’m trying very hard not to ruin that.”

“That sounds like effort,” he said.

“It is,” I admitted, twisting a hook into place. “I work remotely—social media, copywriting. A mixed bag. Musicians, smallbrands, nonprofits that know they need help but aren’t sure how to ask for it.” I hesitated, then added, quieter, “Work’s been a way to stay steady.”

I threaded another hook through a painted heart and set it at the edge of the tray. My hands had stopped shaking. It was… nice, actually, talking about work with someone who wasn’t a client demanding numbers.

“And you?” I asked. “How’d you end up running a Christmas shop year-round? Was that always the dream?”

He was quiet for a second, like he was weighing how much to say.

“My parents ran a greenhouse,” he said finally, voice softening on the word. “I grew up in soil and seed trays and humidity. After they died, I… couldn’t be in there for a while. Too many ghosts.” His fingers brushed a length of ribbon, smoothing it flat. “When I finally came back, I realized I still loved the evergreens. The winter plants. The feeling of walking into warmth when it’s freezing outside. So I turned the front into Holly & Pine, kept the back as a workspace, and let the town decide if it wanted it.”

“And it did,” I said, looking around.

“And it did,” he agreed. “Sometimes I still can’t believe it.”

There was a quiet pride in his voice that made my chest ache in a good way.

We worked like that for a while—me on hooks, him adjusting lights and shifting displays, both of us talking when words came and letting the silence be comfortable when they didn’t. Every so often, he’d pass close enough that I could smell pine sap and a hint of whatever soap he used. Up close, the hair at his templeswas more silver than dark, the rest of it salt-and-pepper instead of truly black.

I caught myself wondering, yet again, how old he was—and how wide the gap was between us—then flushed and dropped my gaze back to the tray.

“You okay?” he asked lightly.

“Yeah.” I hooked one last star and set it down. “Just, um… brain wandering.”

“Brains are allowed to do that,” he said. “As long as they come back eventually.”

I smiled, small and crooked. “No promises.”

A few customers came and went—locals, from the way they greeted Graeme by name and lingered to talk. I shifted my chair a little closer to the window to give them space, instinctive and unobtrusive. No one paid me much mind beyond a friendly nod. An older woman paused long enough to tell me my sweater was “a good color for Christmas” and asked how I was liking town so far.

“It’s… really nice, actually,” I said, surprised by how true it felt. She smiled, satisfied, and moved on.

The ordinary rhythm of it all—voices, footsteps, the soft rustle of greenery—settled something inside me that had been wound too tight for a long time.

I kept threading hooks through ornament loops, the motion simple and repetitive. After a while, my hands slowed without my permission. Not dramatically—just enough that I lost the rhythm. I set one ornament down and stared at the hook between my fingers, realizing I’d been holding it without doing anything with it.

“Rudy?”

Graeme’s voice came from just behind me, close enough that I felt it rather than heard it.

I looked up. He wasn’t hovering. Just standing there, watching with an ease that didn’t make me feel examined.

“You look like you drifted off,” he said gently. “Head a few rooms away.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Heat crept up my neck. The old reflex kicked in—smile, wave it off, say I was fine. I almost did. Instead, I let myself pause.

“I think I might just be… tired,” I said, the admission clumsy but honest. “Didn’t realize how much until just now.”