Page 98 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I gathered my coat, suddenly nervous. “Do I look okay? For—um—meeting Cynthia?”

Graeme slid a hand along my back. “Rudy. You could walk in wearing pajamas and she’d still pull you into a hug.”

He hesitated, then added, softer, “But you look perfect.”

My face flushed hot. I pretended to adjust my scarf so he wouldn’t see how hard the words hit me.

Outside, snow drifted in lazy flakes, the kind that didn’t fall so much as float. The drive across town took ten minutes—timeless in winter quiet.

Tom and Cynthia’s house glowed warm yellow through the windows. A wreath made of pine cones and dried oranges hung on the door. Someone had shoveled the walkway but not salted it, so it glittered like crushed diamonds.

Graeme knocked twice, his gloved knuckles tapping a rhythm that seemed familiar to the house itself. Before he could lower his hand, the door flew open.

“About time!” Cynthia said, pulling Graeme in by the shoulders. She kissed his cheek, then beamed at me—warm, bright, and absolutely genuine. “And you must be Rudy.”

Before I could get a word out, she wrapped me in a hug—tight in that motherly way that made something deep in me wobble. I smelled vanilla, wool, and the faintest trace of perfume that reminded me of Christmas cookies.

“Come in, sweetheart,” she said, guiding both of us inside. “Shoes anywhere. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Graeme stayed beside me as we stepped into the entryway—his palm brushing the small of my back in a quiet reassurance that steadied my breath.

The house glowed. Soft yellow lamps. Pine garland draped over doorways. A tree in the corner covered in ribbon and ornaments clearly made over many years—a timeline in glitter and glue.

“Smells amazing,” Graeme said.

Cynthia laughed. “Tom insisted on making his mother’s holiday roast. Don’t let him fool you—he only cooks twice a year, and this is one of them.”

The scent made my chest loosen—sage, butter, something warm and herby.Homewas what it smelled like.

We rounded the corner into the kitchen and Tom looked up from basting the roast, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder.

For a second, my brain had to catch up.

This was Santa, minus the costume. The same laugh, the same solid presence—just stripped down to flannel, forearms dusted with flour, silver threaded through his dark hair instead of tucked under a hat.

“Whitlock,” he said, grin breaking wide as he crossed the room and pulled Graeme into a one-armed hug that landed solid and familiar.

“Anniversary duty suits you,” Graeme said easily.

Tom snorted. “You should see me on actual vacation.”

Then he turned to me, expression softening. “Good to see you again, Rudy,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder like we’d already established the rules of contact. “Nice to finally meet without the fake beard between us.”

I smiled, the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding easing out of me. “Honestly? You were a very convincing Santa.”

“Best compliment I’ve had all season,” he said warmly.

He stepped back toward the counter, picked up the baster again like this was all perfectly ordinary—Santa, sheriff, host, friend—and somehow that made it feel even more so.

Cynthia shepherded us toward the living room, where a handful of people had already gathered. Graeme moved through them with easy familiarity—handshakes, shoulder squeezes, quiet hellos. I got introduced without ceremony, like it was already assumed I belonged there.

Conversation flowed. Someone handed me spiced cider. Graeme stayed close—not hovering, just present, like an anchor in the room.

When Cynthia called everyone to sit, the lights dimmed slightly and Tom cleared his throat, holding up his glass.

“All right, listen,” he said, cheeks turning a charming shade of embarrassed pink, “I’m terrible at speeches, but it’s been—what, Cyn? Eighteen years?”

“Eighteen wonderful years,” she said, squeezing his hand.