Page 60 of Daddy's Little Christmas

He snorted. “That’s because Cynthia’s been running things. I’m just the hired help today.” He tugged at the beard. “She sent me on a short break before the next mob of sugar-fueled children.”

That tracked. Cynthia Warren did nothing casually—especially not Christmas.

Tom followed my gaze without comment. His eyes settled on Rudy, bent over the writing table, shoulders drawn in with concentration.

“So,” he said mildly. “That must be him.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You really don’t ease into things, do you?”

“Small town,” Tom said. “Plus, I saw you two come in.” A pause. Then, gentler, “Hard not to notice.”

I glanced at him. “Notice what?”

“The way you were paying attention,” he said.

That landed closer to the truth than I’d expected.

“Who is he?” Tom asked, not nosy. Just curious.

“Rudy,” I said. Then, because Tom had always been able to read the pauses between my words, I added, “He’s visiting. Just for a couple of weeks.”

Tom nodded once. “Ah.”

“Yeah.”

He watched Rudy for another moment, expression thoughtful rather than amused. “He seems… like a good guy.”

“He is,” I said.

Tom’s mouth curved, not teasing this time. “You look good together.”

I scoffed. “You’re dressed as Santa.”

“And you’re not denying it,” he shot back. “Call it professional observation.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Rudy pause, chew lightly on his pen, then keep writing. Careful. Intent. Like the words mattered.

Tom bumped my shoulder with his own. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like something showed up when you weren’t expecting it.” He shrugged. “That’s all.”

Before I could answer, a burst of excited voices rose near the tree. Cynthia’s voice cut through the noise, bright and commanding, calling Santa back to duty.

Tom straightened, the sheriff disappearing smoothly into the role. He clapped my shoulder once, firm and familiar.

“Don’t talk yourself out of what’s in front of you, Whitlock,” he said. “That’s my only advice.”

Then he was gone—swallowed by red fabric, laughter, and kids clutching at his sleeves.

Rudy finished writing the letter not long after.

He folded the paper with care, sharper creases than necessary, then slid it through the slot. His hand stayed on the lid for a second longer than it needed to, palm flat against the worn oak, like he was checking that it would hold. When he turned back to me, his eyes were bright—not teary. Just open. Unguarded.

“That was brave,” I said, because it was the truest thing I had.

He nodded once, breathing out. “It felt… important.”