Page 64 of Daddy's Little Christmas

My phone buzzed against the table.

Daddy:How’s lunch, sweetheart?

My chest did that small, ridiculous flutter again.

Me:Mae is feeding me like she’s afraid I’ll blow away.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Daddy:Smart woman. You up for a book date later?

I stared at the screen for a second.

Me:A… book date?

Daddy:Walking. Browsing. No pressure. Meet me at my shop?

I swallowed, excitement blooming slow and warm.

Me:Yeah. I’d like that.

Holly & Pine smelled like evergreens and citrus when I stepped inside. Graeme was at the counter, sleeves rolled, focused on a customer I didn’t recognize. I wandered, pretending to look at ornaments while sneaking glances his way.

He wore a soft, deep green sweater that made the silver in his hair stand out more. Up close, his face didn’t match the gray at his temples at all—no deep lines, just faint creases at the cornersof his eyes. The kind you got from squinting into winter light. From smiling at people.

When the customer finally left, Graeme flipped the sign to Closed, turned the lock, and rested his hand there for a beat.

He turned back to me, something warm and deliberate in his eyes. He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, his hand lifting like he meant to cup my jaw—like he was about to ask permission.

I didn’t wait.

The rule surfaced clear and steady in my chest:say what you need.

“Kiss me,” I said.

The words came out softer than I’d planned, but they landed. I saw it in the way his breath hitched, the way his hand stilled for half a second before settling against my face.

“Yeah?” he murmured, low, checking even as his thumb brushed my cheek.

I nodded. “Please.”

The kiss landed slow—but it didn’t stay that way.

Heat unfurled low in my belly as his kiss deepened, sure and unhurried, like he was savoring the fact that I’d asked, like he had all the time in the world and meant to use it. His other hand slid to my waist, holding me close enough that I could feel how much he wanted me without a single word.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed against my lips, and I melted into him, fingers curling into his sweater, heart thudding hard and happy in my chest.

He kissed me again—slower this time, lingering—before resting his forehead against mine.

“Hi, angel,” he murmured.

Heat slid straight through me. “Hi,” I said, then quieter, “Daddy.”

“Ready for that book date?” he asked, voice low and warm.

I nodded, still catching my breath. “Very.”

He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, shrugged it on, and held the door for me like he always did, like it was instinct. He took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and led me back out into the daylight.