Page 92 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“All right,” I said. “What’ve you got?”

“Mr. Wobbles,” he decided. “Patron saint of trying his best.”

Something in my chest did that painful, fond twist again. “Seems appropriate.”

Snowflakes clung to Rudy’s eyelashes and the knit of his hat. His cheeks were bright pink, his nose red, his breath coming in little white clouds. He looked… happy. Deep-down happy, not just holiday-sparkle happy. For a second it made the world feel sharper, like my eyes had just come into focus.

“You’ve got something on your face,” I said.

He swiped at his cheek with a mitten. “Did I get it?”

“Not even close.” I reached out and brushed away a flake near the corner of his mouth, letting my thumb linger. “There.”

He smiled up at me, and it was the easiest thing in the world to lean down and kiss him.

His lips were cold at first, then warming under mine. He rose onto his toes, arms looping around my neck. The snow muffled the world around us until it felt like we were standing in our own little snow globe, sealed off from everything except the sound of our breathing.

He broke the kiss with a soft laugh. “We’re going to freeze,” he said.

“You started it,” I said.

“You kissed me.”

“You looked kissable.”

He gave a tiny, pleased shrug. “Can’t argue with facts.”

*****

He was the one who suggested snow angels.

It happened after he slipped and landed on his ass for the second time, right next to the drift at the edge of the yard. He sprawled back in the snow with a theatrical groan and then, instead of getting up, he swept his arms and legs out wide.

“What are you doing?” I asked, hands on my hips.

“Conducting important scientific research,” he said, voice slightly muffled. “Also, I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve never made a snow angel?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Newsflash: foster homes with cold linoleum floors and drafty windows are not big on ‘fun winter activities.’” He looked up at the sky, moving his limbs with careful precision. “They were more about ‘don’t touch the thermostat or we’ll know.’”

The casual way he said it didn’t make it land any softer. I folded that anger away for later. This wasn’t the moment for it.

“Arms and legs,” I reminded him, keeping my tone easy. “All the way out, then back. Nice and even.”

He did it, movements growing more fluid. When he was done, he lay still for a second, breathing hard, eyes closed.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Cold,” he said. “And kind of perfect.”

On impulse, I dropped down beside him, the shock of the snow against my back making me hiss. “You’re not hogging all the angel glory,” I muttered.

His laugh bubbled out of him, bright and unguarded. “Look at you,” he said. “Big, tough Daddy in the snow.”

“Shut up and flap,” I said, but I was smiling.

We lay there, arms and legs sweeping rhythmically, the sky stretching overhead in a pale winter wash. For a moment, the only sounds were our clothes rustling and the hush of distant branches shedding snow.