Page 44 of Daddy's Little Christmas

It was such a silly question, but something in me eased anyway. Choices. Safe ones.

“Frosting,” I said. “Feels… satisfying. You can see the progress right away.”

He chuckled. “Good answer.”

He handed me a piping bag, his fingers brushing mine. A spark snapped through the contact—small, sharp, entirely too noticeable.

“Steady pressure,” he said, voice dipping into that slow cadence that did dangerous things to my nervous system. “You don’t have to squeeze hard. Just enough to keep it moving.”

Heat fluttered low in my belly.

I focused on the roof, drawing a line of white frosting along the edge. The icing was sweeter than anything I’d eaten lately, thick and smooth, smelling faintly of vanilla. My hands had always been good with detail—keyboards, photography, the careful spreading of peanut butter to the edges of toast. The bag fit neatly in my grip, the motion settling into a quiet rhythm.

Graeme worked beside me, pressing gumdrop “bushes” into the frosting along the front path, his big hands surprisingly gentle with the tiny candies. We fell into an easy back-and-forth, not quite banter—the kind of conversation that stitched itself between shared work.

He asked about my favorite Christmas movie; I admitted, a little embarrassed, that it was the animated reindeer one with the claymation and the misfit toys.

“That one’s a classic,” he said. “Misfit toys, glowing noses, found families. Hard to argue with the formula.”

“You say that like you’ve known me longer than a handful of days,” I replied.

“Feels like longer,” he said, quiet enough that I wasn’t entirely sure I was meant to hear.

Someone across the room laughed loudly at a joke. A kid dropped a spoon and it clattered against linoleum. But I was too busy watching the way Graeme’s fingers pressed a red candy into the roofline, thumb smoothing the frosting around it like he was tucking it in.

“You’ve done this a lot,” I observed.

“Occupational hazard,” he said. “Christmas shop, small town. You end up overqualified in wreaths and gingerbread.”

“You like it?” I pressed a row of little sugar pearls along the roof edge.

“I like what it does to people,” he said. “They loosen up. Remember how to have fun. Even if it’s just for an hour.”

My chest did that weird twist again.

“Rudy,” he said gently.

I looked up.

“You’ve got a little frosting right here.” He gestured near my cheek.

“Oh.” I swiped at it with my fingertips, missing completely. “That figures.”

“Here,” he said.

He stepped closer, lifting his hand and waiting—giving me ample time to move if I wanted to. I didn’t.

His thumb brushed my cheek, careful and unhurried, wiping the smear away. His skin was rough in the best way, the pad of his thumb dragging lightly over sensitive skin.

My breath stalled.

He brought his thumb to his mouth, eyes still on mine.

Heat flared low and fast, a tight coil in my belly, radiating outward. My heart stumbled, then raced to catch up. The room seemed to tilt a degree toward him, the air between us thickening.

Graeme swallowed, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “There we go,” he murmured.

It had been months—long, lonely, confusing months—since Nate, since I’d let myself want anything more than numbness. My body had been a thing to ignore, to manage, to keep under control.