Page 43 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I pulled the blanket a little closer, my body loosening in a way it rarely did.

The parking lot of the community center—low brick building, lights already glowing—came into view sooner than I wanted it to.

Graeme pulled into a spot and cut the engine. The sudden quiet wrapped around us, thick and still.

“Ready?” he asked.

No, a part of me thought immediately. I want to stay here, in your truck, under this blanket, where nothing has to move forward yet.

“Yeah,” I said aloud. “I think so.”

“If at any point you don’t, you tell me,” he said. “That includes if the crowd gets loud, if you get tired, if you want to leave, or if you want to… shift.”

He didn’t say be small.

He didn’t have to.

My heart did an odd little flip.

“Okay.”

He got out and came around to open my door again. When I swung my legs out, his hand came up automatically, palm up. I didn’t need the help—but I took it anyway.

His palm was warm, broad, calloused from years of working with trees and wire. Our fingers curled for a second longer than was strictly necessary. My pulse tripped, the world narrowing to that point of contact.

Then he let go, easy, like he wasn’t going to make a big deal out of anything I didn’t explicitly ask him to.

Somehow, that made it a bigger deal.

Inside, the center buzzed with pre-contest energy. Long tables lined the room, each one topped with a pre-built undecorated gingerbread house, bowls of frosting, and ridiculous amounts of candy: gumdrops, peppermint wheels, tiny chocolate chips, little sugar trees.

The air smelled like sugar and cinnamon and cocoa, layered over wood polish and wet wool. Bells jingled faintly from someone’s sweater. Christmas music played low from a speaker in the corner—old standards, not the loud pop remixes.

“Graeme!” Rosa’s voice carried from near the front.

She bustled over, apron already dusted with powdered sugar, dark hair clipped back with a holly barrette. “You made it. I thought you changed your mind and were sitting one out.”

Graeme smiled. “Never.”

Her gaze slid to me, brightening with recognition. “Rudy. Good to see you again, sweetheart. You ready for gingerbread chaos?”

I felt myself relax at the familiarity in her tone. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. “I make no promises about architectural design, though.”

She laughed, warm and delighted, and gave my arm a brief squeeze. “That’s what frosting is for. And insurance.”

“Extensive insurance,” Graeme added dryly.

Rosa grinned. “Exactly.” She waved us toward the tables. “Middle section’s still open. Go claim your territory before someone with competitive tendencies gets ideas.”

As we moved past her, Graeme leaned in, just enough that his shoulder brushed mine. His voice dropped, low and close, the warm timbre of it grazing my ear.

“She’s joking,” he murmured. “Mostly.”

The breath of his words followed the curve of my neck, soft and unhurried, and a shiver slid down my spine—slow, unmistakable, and entirely about him. About how close he was. About how aware I suddenly was of every inch of space he occupied beside me.

We were assigned a house near the middle—a square little thing with four walls and a sloped roof, waiting for personality. I ran my fingertips along the edge of the cardboard base, the smoothsurface grounding, even as my pulse stayed just a little faster than it should have been.

“So,” Graeme said, setting down his coat and rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were all solid muscle, flexing as he moved, and my attention snagged there before I could stop it. “You want to be on frosting duty or candy duty?”