Page 91 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“Oh no,” he deadpanned. “Manual labor. My one weakness.”

“And after that,” I added, ignoring the way my brain offered up images of exactly how I’d like him to work up a sweat, “I need to chop some wood. You could help.”

His eyes flicked to mine with quick interest. “You’re going to teach me how to be a rugged mountain man?”

“You’re in Vermont, not the Rockies,” I said. “But yes. I was thinking of adding ‘axe handling’ to your skill set.”

Color rose in his cheeks, slow and delicious. “That sounds… educational.”

I let myself grin. “I’ll make sure the lesson sticks.”

He rolled his eyes, but his toes curled against the cushion, betraying him. “Okay,” he said. “Snowman. Chopping wood. Whatever else you’ve got planned. I’m yours for the day.”

The part of me that had been chronically waiting for the other shoe to drop hummed at that. I tamped it down. One day at a time.

“Then finish your coffee,” I said, ruffling his hair. “We’ve got work to do.”

*****

Outside, the air hit us like a bright slap—cold enough to sting my cheeks but not so bitter it hurt to breathe. Rudy drew in a sharp breath, looking around like the world had changed overnight.

In a way, it had. The storm from two days ago had settled. The fresh dusting smoothed out our footprints from the day before, turning the backyard into a clean canvas.

“Okay,” I said, clapping my gloved hands together. “Rule one of snowman building: not all snow is created equal. You want packing snow. Wet enough to stick, not so powdery it falls apart.”

He bent down and scooped up a handful, testing it between his mittens. When he tried to pat it into a ball, it crumbled and fell apart in sad little clumps.

He looked up at me with an affronted expression. “It’s defective,” he accused.

I laughed. “That’s user error, not snow error. Try again.”

He scooped up more and tried to roll it, pushing it along the ground. It disintegrated immediately, leaving a thin streak like a failed frosting attempt. He groaned and straightened. “Okay, this is clearly a specialized skill set. I was not trained for this.”

“Come here,” I said, stepping closer. I wrapped my hands around his from behind and lowered us both toward the ground, my chest against his back. “Start with a small ball. Pack it tight between your palms first.”

He followed my guidance, letting me mold his hands. The ball held this time, marble-sized but solid.

“Now set it down,” I said. “And roll. Gentle pressure. You’re not plowing a field.”

“That means nothing to me,” he muttered, but there was a smile in it.

He pushed the ball forward. This time it picked up more snow, slowly growing as he rolled it in a wide circle. I stayed close, my hands on his hips, steering when he veered toward a patch of ice.

His laughter echoed across the yard when he nearly toppled and I steadied him. “Look, it’s working!” he said, delighted.

“You did it,” I said. “Basic snow physics conquered.”

We rolled three lopsided spheres under the pines, stacking them with more enthusiasm than symmetry. The snowman ended upa little crooked, head tipped to one side as if perpetually asking a question.

“He’s perfect,” Rudy declared.

“He’s ridiculous,” I said. “He’s going to fall over as soon as the temperature changes.”

Rudy brushed snow off his gloves and stepped back to admire our creation. “So what? He’s still ours.”

I snorted. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“It’s the right way,” he said firmly. “Not everything has to last to be worth making.” He tilted his head, studying the snowman, tongue peeking out in concentration. “We should name him.”