Page 73 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“Then we should definitely do the dishes fast,” he said, standing and gathering our plates, shoulder bumping mine as he passed.“I have it on good authority that delaying Christmas presents is a crime in at least six countries.”

“Oh, is that so?” I asked, getting up to follow him to the sink.

He looked back at me over his shoulder, eyes warm, cheeks flushed from food and candlelight and maybe something more.

“Yeah,” he said. “And I really don’t want Christmas Eve with you to involve international charges.”

I laughed, the sound easing the last of the tightness in my chest.

We moved around each other in the small kitchen—washing, drying, bumping hips, sharing little touches and smiles that felt like promises. The simple domesticity of it settled over me like the softest blanket.

By the time we turned off the kitchen light and walked back into the living room, the only illumination came from the tree and the few candles I’d left burning.

Rudy looked at the couch, then at me.

“Presents?” he asked, voice a little breathless.

“Presents,” I agreed.

And as we crossed to the tree together, I knew that whatever came next tonight—soft or heated, little or grown—I wanted to meet all of it, all of him, with both hands open.

“Sit,” I said, nodding to the couch.

He settled, tucking one foot under him, watching me like he didn’t quite know what to expect but was determined to enjoy it anyway.

I cleared my throat. “Okay, ground rules.”

His mouth curved. “There are rules for presents now?”

“There are always rules,” I said, deadpan. “One: you’re allowed to like what you get. Two: you’re allowed not to. Three: absolutely no apologizing either way.”

He huffed a little laugh that sounded surprisingly close to a breath of relief. “Yes, sir.”

That word did something low in my stomach, but I only arched a brow. “Good. In that case…”

I reached under the tree for the first box. Small, square, wrapped in deep green with neat twine and a wooden snowflake tied on top.

“This one’s yours.” I held it out.

His fingers brushed mine when he took it. Warm. A little unsteady.

“You first?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “This one’s for little you. Grown-you gets something later.”

Color flushed high in his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. He tugged the twine loose carefully, like he was untying a memory instead of string, then peeled the paper back.

The lid lifted with a soft scrape.

He stared.

Inside, nestled in tissue, lay soft red cotton—folded small. A onesie, simple but thick and cozy, with tiny white snowflakes scattered across the fabric. Across the chest, stitched in white thread in the careful letters I’d practiced more times than I’d admit:

Christmas Angel.

I got another package from under the tree and handed it to him. With hands that trembled slightly, he took it from me and unwrapped it. The faint scent of cedar rose from the tissue paper inside.

Three ornaments rested there.