Page 64 of Yuletide Acres

“A million more times,” I murmur as my head settles between her legs.

* * *

The fire has all but gone out by the time I stir from the cocoon of blankets. A glance at my phone tells me I’ve slept later than in the last five years.

I reach over, but Poppy is gone from our makeshift bed, and for a brief moment, I wonder if I dreamt the whole thing. It wouldn’t be the first time Poppy starred in my fantasies.

I pull on my jeans and shirt, running a hand over my scalp as I stifle a yawn. I need coffee, and then I need another round with my Sunshine Girl.

Another hundred rounds.

I follow the delicious scent wafting through the house and pause in the kitchen doorway. There, working intently at the island, are Poppy and Marissa. Marissa is elbows deep in dough, a stern expression on her face. Poppy is cooking up bacon, her hair pulled into a bun and looking even more delicious than the cinnamon rolls in the oven.

“What are you two doing?” I question, a smile breaking across my face.

“Daddy!” Marissa squeals, pulling her hands from the bowl and scrambling across the room into my arms.

I pick her up, planting a kiss on her nose. “Hey, Cupcake. Look at you, all sticky.”

“We’re making biscuits,” Marissa explains as I carry her back to the island. “Did you sleep good?”

“Well. And yes, I slept very well.” I wrap my free arm around Poppy’s waist, planting a kiss on her luscious and surprised mouth. “Good morning, Sunshine.”

“I’m Cupcake and she’s Sunshine,” my daughter proclaims, a grin lighting up her face.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, maintaining my grip on Poppy even though I feel her stiffening. This is all new for her, and I’m making her ride a bike without training wheels, but I know this woman. She’ll rise to any challenge. And kick its ass.

“Now that is a gorgeous photo.”

All three of us look to the doorway, my mother snapping off a few photos. “Good morning. Did everyone sleep well?”

“Define sleep,” I counter, earning a wide-eyed look of shock from Poppy.

“There’s coffee,” Poppy interrupts, handing my mother a mug. “I hope you don’t mind that I took over the kitchen. Marissa wanted cinnamon buns and bacon.”

“Dear, I told you last night that cooking is not my forte. Ask Dylan. I specialize in burning every category of food. I consider it a talent. These two do not share that sentiment.”

“I love you Grandma, but I don’t like your bacon.” Leave it to a six-year-old to speak her mind.

“Well, this bacon looks divine, and I’m a snagging a piece.” My mother snatches one off the plate, before helping to carry the food to the table. “Thank you, Poppy. This is a real treat. Dylan, perhaps you can entice her to stay on permanently.”

“I don’t know if the bacon is that good.” Poppy hands me a mug of coffee, but her smile is forced. Uncomfortable.

“The bacon is perfect. Like you.” I snuggle her to me, planting a kiss on her neck.

“Dylan, your family,” she protests.

“I’m just leaning in real close to let you know that there’s a mark on your neck, in full view of my family.”

I wish I could catch Poppy’s expression on tape. It’s priceless. She pulls her hair from the bun, pulling it over her shoulder as her face flames.

I offer her a wink before sitting down at the table.

Marissa hands me my mother’s phone, open to show one of the photos she just snapped. “See, Daddy? We look good together.”

“You two are adorable together,” Poppy observes, sitting across the table from me.

“I mean all three of us. Look, Poppy.” Marissa grabs the phone from my hands, showing Poppy the picture.

---