Page 11 of Daddy Christmas

"Looks good, doesn’t it?" he said, his voice warm with amusement. He had that look again—the one that made it seem like watching me was its own kind of entertainment. "Just wait till you taste it."

I picked up my fork, hesitating for just a second before taking a bite. The first taste hit me like a slow bloom—earthy, rich, and perfectly balanced by whatever magic they’d worked into the truffle and cream. I didn’t even realize I’d closed my eyes until I heard him chuckle.

"That good, huh?"

"Better," I said, swallowing and going in for another bite. "It’s so . . . warm. Comforting. Like—" I stopped myself, suddenly aware of how much I’d started to ramble. But he didn’t press. He just nodded, that same soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he dug into his own plate.

We ate in quiet for a moment, the clinking of silverware and the low hum of distant conversations filling the space around us. The risotto felt like a hug in food form, each bite settling something deep inside me that I hadn’t realized was restless.

"Do you always eat like this?" I asked after a while, breaking the silence. My tone was teasing, but the question was genuine."Fancy restaurants, magical risotto . . . Is this just a normal Thursday for you?"

"Not exactly," he said, grinning. "But if I’m going to convince you Christmas isn’t so bad, I figured I should pull out all the stops." He leaned back slightly, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Is it working?"

"Maybe," I admitted, trying not to smile but failing. His grin widened, and I couldn’t help but feel lighter, like maybe tonight wasn’t just about proving something to me.

Our plates were nearly empty when he launched into a story about a disastrous tree-decorating contest he’d judged last year. "The winning team decided more tinsel meant more points," he explained, gesturing animatedly with his hands. "By the time they were done, you couldn’t even tell there was a tree under there. It looked like a giant disco ball!"

I laughed, covering my mouth with my hand to keep from choking on the sip of wine I’d just taken. "Did they actually win?"

"Of course," he said, feigning seriousness. "How could I not reward that level of commitment? They even threw glitter at the end for ‘dramatic effect.’" He shook his head, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "I’m still finding glitter in places I didn’t know existed."

Dessert arrived before I could think too much about it. Two small mince pies, delicate and dusted with powdered sugar, sat nestled beside a dollop of brandy cream. The scent hit me first—warm spices and buttery pastry—and I didn’t waste any time taking a bite.

"Okay, these might actually be better than the risotto," I said around my first mouthful. He raised an eyebrow, mock-offended.

"Better than the risotto? That’s a bold claim."

"Try it," I challenged, pointing my fork at him. "Then tell me I’m wrong."

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before nodding in reluctant agreement. "Alright, you win. These are dangerously good."

"See?" I said, licking a crumb from the corner of my lip. His gaze dropped to my mouth for the briefest moment, and my stomach flipped. It was subtle—so subtle I almost thought I imagined it—but his eyes lingered just long enough to send a flush of heat creeping up my neck.

"Careful," he said quietly, his voice dipping lower. "You’re going to make the chef’s ego unbearable."

"Good," I shot back, trying to ignore the way my pulse suddenly felt too loud in my ears. "He deserves it."

His laugh was soft, almost private, and it carried between us like a secret. I reached for another bite of pie, but my hand faltered when his knuckles brushed against mine on the table. It wasn’t intentional—just a casual movement as he reached for his drink—but the contact sent a spark skittering up my arm.

"Thank you," I said suddenly, surprising myself with the honesty in my voice. His brow furrowed slightly, his fork pausing mid-air. "For this. For everything tonight."

"Gemma," he said, setting his fork down entirely now. "You don’t have to thank me."

"Maybe not," I said softly, meeting his gaze. "But I want to."

It wasn’t the only thing I wanted.

The cold hit mefirst as we stepped out of the restaurant, crisp and sharp against my flushed cheeks. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, coating the sidewalks in a thin, untouched layer that shimmered like crushed diamonds under the streetlights. My heels crunched softly against it, the sound oddly satisfying in the quiet night.

"Wow," I breathed, hugging my coat tighter around myself. "It's like . . . magic."

"Like a scene from a movie," he said, his voice low and warm beside me. "Sometimes reality can be just as enchanting as fiction." He held out his arm.

I hesitated for half a second before slipping my hand through the crook of his elbow. The wool of his sweater was rough under my fingers, but his warmth seeped through, steady and solid. A small sigh escaped me, unbidden, as the tension I'd been carrying all evening began to unravel.

"Where are we going?" I asked, more curious than concerned.

"Just walking," he said easily, leading me down the snow-dusted street. "Thought you might enjoy it."

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