Page 10 of Daddy Christmas

"Smart choice," he replied, grinning as he signaled to the waiter.

When the menus disappeared, I reached for the delicate glass in front of me. Mulled wine. The rim sparkled with sugar, and the cinnamon scent hit me before I even took a sip. The first taste was warm, sweet, with just enough spice to make my lips tingle. I let the heat spread through me, melting away the edge of nerves that had been buzzing since I walked in.

"Good?" he asked, watching me closely.

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Really good."

His grin softened into something quieter, his eyes catching mine and holding them. He lifted his own glass, taking a slow sip before speaking again. "So, Gemma," he started, his voice lower now, more intentional. "Tell me, what’s your favorite thing about Christmas?"

I froze, glass halfway to my mouth. For a second, I didn’t know how to answer. My brain scrambled, searching for something easy to say, something light, but nothing came. I set the glass down slowly, tracing my finger along the sugared rim.

"Honestly?" My voice was softer than I meant it to be. I glanced up at him, then back down, focusing on the patternsin the tablecloth instead of his face. "I’ve never been a fan of Christmas."

His brows lifted, but he didn’t interrupt. Just waited, like he knew there was more.

"It’s always been . . ." I exhaled, swirling the wine in my glass. The motion gave me something to do while I found the words. "It’s always been a difficult time for me." I felt the weight of those words settle between us, heavier than I wanted them to be.

I chanced a glance at him. His expression hadn’t changed much, but there was something in his eyes now—a kind of quiet intensity, like he was seeing past what I’d said, waiting for the rest of it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to ask or not.

"That’s fair," he said finally, his voice calm, steady. "Not everyone has positive memories associated with it." He paused, tipping his head slightly. "But . . . maybe that can change."

"Maybe," I said, though my voice barely carried across the table. I sipped my wine again, hoping the warmth would fill the hollow ache sitting heavy in my chest.

His brows furrowed, and that flicker of concern in his green eyes caught me off guard. "You might not want to talk about it,” he said. “But If you’d like, I’m willing to listen. For as long as you like."

I shifted in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the kitten stuffed toy resting on my lap. My fingers brushed over its soft fur, grounding myself, debating how much to let him see.

“I—I don’t even know your name.”

“You do.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to keep calling you Santa.”

“Call me Nicholas.”

“Nicholas? As in Saint Nick?”

“As in Nicholas.” His eyes twinkled as he smiled.

It wasn’t easy—letting someone in never was—but there was something about Nicholas that made me feel . . . safe. Like maybe, if I opened up, he’d handle whatever came out with care.

"Okay . . . N-Nicholas," I started, my voice catching. A deep breath steadied me. "I didn’t have the best childhood." My gaze dropped to the table, tracing the delicate gold filigree on the menu’s edge. It was easier to focus on that than on his face. "I moved around a lot. Foster homes mostly. Never stayed anywhere long enough to feel like I belonged."

His silence wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It just . . . was. Like he knew I needed the space to keep going.

"The holidays were the worst," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone else had their families, their traditions. I had nothing. Except for the constant reminder of everything I didn’t have." The words tumbled out before I could stop them, raw and unpolished. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to press on. "So, I guess I started hating it. Christmas, I mean. It just felt easier that way."

The weight of what I’d said hung in the air between us. For a second, I regretted saying anything at all. But then his hand found mine, warm and steady, covering it completely. His touch was gentle, not demanding, just there. Present.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," he said, his tone sincere. Not pitying, not hollow—just real. He gave my hand a light squeeze, his thumb brushing softly over my knuckles. "No one should have to feel that way about such a beautiful time of year."

I swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting behind my eyes. I hadn’t expected him to say that. To listen without judgment. To not flinch at the sharp edges of my truth. My gaze dropped to our hands, his strong and sure, dwarfing mine in a way that felt oddly comforting. "It’s just . . ." My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, trying again. "It’s hard to see the magic when you’ve never experienced it."

"Then perhaps," he said, leaning forward slightly, his green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch, "it’s time you did."

The plates were set down with a quiet clink, and I couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped me. The risotto was a work of art. The bowl looked like it had been plucked from some enchanted woodland: tiny edible flowers framed the creamy rice, while thinly shaved herbs curled like miniature ferns. Even the mushrooms were arranged like little trees, dusted with something golden that sparkled under the light.

"Wow," I said softly, leaning in to take it all in. It was almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

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