Page 70 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I’d asked him two nights ago, trying to sound casual and failing completely, "If you’re not sick of me by then… would you want to spend Christmas Eve here? Just us. Dinner. A movie. Presents, if you like that sort of thing."

He’d flushed, smile bright and a little disbelieving.

"You want to spend it with me?"

"I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend it with," I’d said, and meant every word. And handed him a spare key.

Now he was really here.

I stepped out of the truck. The cold bit my cheeks, but my chest felt warm in that way I was still getting used to—like someone had lit a candle in the center of me and forgotten to blow it out.

By the time I reached the porch, Rudy had opened the door.

“Hi,” he said, breath puffing in the chill between us.

The word was simple, but his eyes were shining, smile soft and nervous and hopeful all at once. He’d worn a deep green sweater that made his hair look richer, his skin warmer.

“Hi,” I answered, suddenly aware of every one of my forty-five years and none of them at the same time. “You beat me here.”

“I, um… left a little early.” His fingers curled around the strap of his bag. “Didn’t want to risk the roads getting bad.”

I leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to his mouth—nothing urgent, just a hello that saidI’m glad you’re herein a language that didn’t need words.

He softened against me on a small inhale.

“You smell so good, sweetheart,” I murmured.

Rudy ducked his head, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks.” He stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come in before your nose freezes.”

I laughed under my breath and stepped inside.

Warmth wrapped around me as I stepped inside—the quiet kind that came from radiators humming low and an oven working steadily. Pine from the tree mixed with the buttery scent of roasting potatoes and herbs. I’d done some prep before work that morning—potatoes chopped and tossed with olive oil, thyme, and a little rosemary, chicken resting in a lemon-and-garlic marinade—but I’d saved the rest on purpose.

Cooking alone was fine. Cooking with someone you cared about was… better.

“Forgot to tell you the other night how much I like your tree,” Rudy said. It was a small two-seater, worn in the way of furniture that had actually been used, not staged.

“Quiet and slightly lopsided?” I asked.

““Very… you,” he said, and my chest gave a foolish little thud. “Comfortable. Solid. And the lights are pretty.” His gaze drifted over the room. “Can I help?” he asked, turning back to me. “With dinner, I mean. I know you said you had most of it under control, but… I like being useful.”

“You’re always useful,” I said.

Color rose in his cheeks. “Graeme.”

“It’s true.” I jerked my chin toward the kitchen. “Come on. You can be in charge of the important things.”

He followed me in, socks whispering over the wood floor.

The kitchen wasn’t fancy, but it was mine—solid counters, old but well cared for cabinets, a window over the sink looking out at the snowy backyard. The oven light glowed, reflecting off the glass dish where the potatoes were already crisping at the edges.

“Okay,” I said, opening the fridge and pulling out the marinated chicken. “Job one: tell me if this smells like something you’d be willing to eat.”

I peeled back the plastic wrap and held the dish toward him.

He leaned in, eyes closing briefly as he inhaled. “That smells amazing,” he said, voice gone soft. “Like… cozy. If cozy had a food group.”

“Good.” I set it on the counter. “You can help me get it into the pan. And then you’re in charge of stirring the green beans so they don’t revolt.”