Page 40 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Here?

My brain did a quick shuffle through possibilities. I didn’t know anyone else in Winterhaven. That left exactly one person, and he was currently starring in every one of my half-conscious fantasies.

“Coming,” I called, voice a little too high. I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Mae.”

I set the reindeer gently back in the duffel and closed it halfway, the way you might tuck a kid in and leave the door cracked.

“You’ll be okay,” I whispered, fingers resting on the zipper for a second longer than necessary. I wasn’t sure if I meant the plush or myself.

After grabbing a hot shower, I dressed in layers: soft socks, jeans, the deep green sweater Mrs. Davis had given me for my twenty-fifth birthday, the one that still smelled faintly like lavender if I buried my face in it. Scarf. Coat. Gloves tucked into pockets, just in case. When I caught my reflection in the narrow mirror by the door, I paused.

I looked… younger, somehow.

Not small, exactly. Just less weighed down.

Downstairs, the inn lobby glowed with lamplight and evergreen garlands. Mae stood behind the small wooden desk, knitting needles paused mid-stitch. She tipped her chin toward the door, eyes soft with something that looked suspiciously like approval.

“He’s just outside,” she said. “Didn’t want to crowd the entryway. Good man, that one.”

“Yeah,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. “He is.”

I stepped out into the crisp air before I could overthink it.

Graeme’s truck idled at the curb, dark blue with a dusting of snow along the hood. He leaned against the passenger side, hands tucked into his coat pockets, breath puffing in visible bursts. His hair caught the thin winter light—silver at the temples, darker at the roots, familiar in a way that made my chest twist.

When he saw me, his whole expression shifted. Not dramatically. Just a quiet softening around his eyes and mouth that landed somewhere deep in my ribs.

“Morning, Rudy,” he said.

God, his voice.

“Hey,” I managed. “Um. Hi.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Gingerbread day at the community center. Thought I’d offer you a ride. It’s not far, but the sidewalks are slick in a few spots.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He shrugged, casual. “I wanted to.”

Heat crept up the back of my neck, hidden, thankfully, by my scarf.

“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He opened the passenger door for me. A folded blanket waited on the seat—soft, plaid, clearly not an accident.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want it,” he said, noticing my glance. “For your legs. Gets chilly in the lot while they’re herding everyone in.”

My chest did that too-full thing again.

“That’s… thoughtful,” I said, sliding in.

He gave a small nod, like he accepted the word and set it aside, no fuss made of it.

Then he reached behind the seat and held out a travel mug and a paper-wrapped bundle.

“I grabbed you something,” he said easily. “Cocoa. And a sandwich. No pressure—just figured it might help.”

For a second, I just stared at it.