Page 28 of Daddy Christmas

"All right," he said with a small nod, his voice steady. "It starts with the magic."

"Magic," I repeated flatly.

"Yes," he said, his lips curving into a faint smile. "The kind that’s been keeping the spirit of Christmas alive for centuries. It’s not just about gifts, Gemma. It’s about hope. Wonder. Connection. That’s what I protect. What I create."

"Create," I echoed, my throat tightening around the word.

"Every toy. Every wish list. Every moment of joy." His voice dipped lower, quieter, as if he were sharing a secret meant only for me. "It’s all part of what I do. And it’s more than any one person can handle alone."

"Which is where I come in?" I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "You."

"Why me?" The question slipped out before I could catch it, and I hated how small it sounded. How small I sounded.

"Because you feel it," he said, his gaze never leaving mine. "Even if you don’t realize it yet. You’ve always believed in something bigger, haven’t you? In magic. In miracles. In the idea that no matter how dark things get, there’s always a light waiting to guide you home."

"That’s . . ." I started, my throat suddenly dry again.

"True," he finished for me, his voice firm but gentle. "You don’t have to say it. I see it in you, Gemma. I’ve seen it since the moment we met."

Nicholas leaned forward, his green eyes locked on mine. The fireplace crackled behind him, a soft, warm punctuation to the silence stretching between us. I crossed my arms tighter over my chest, trying to keep steady. My heart wasn’t cooperating—it thudded like a drum line in my ears.

"You're serious," I said. It wasn’t a question, not really. But my voice wavered.

"As snow," he said, calm as ever. His lips curved, just slightly, like he knew something I didn’t.

"Okay, but what you're saying is... insane." I laughed, sharp and nervous. "You're Santa?Santa Claus?That’s—that’s ridiculous."

"Is it?" He tilted his head, studying me like there was an answer hidden somewhere in my face. "You loved 'The Polar Express,' didn’t you?"

"That doesn’t mean—" I started, then stopped. My mouth snapped shut. How did he know that? I hadn’t mentioned it. Ever. Not even when we’d been coloring earlier, not when I’d told him about my favorite Christmas memories—or lack thereof.

"How do you know about that?" My voice dropped, quieter now, unsure.

"Because I know you, Gemma." His words were soft, steady. "Not everything. Not yet. But enough."

The room felt smaller suddenly, like the air had thickened. I shifted, my knees brushing against the edge of the armchair. I wanted to argue, roll my eyes, tell him this whole thing sounded like some weird Hallmark fever dream. But his gaze held methere, pinned. There was no teasing in it, no smirk waiting to break the spell. Just quiet certainty.

"Look, I get it," I said, breaking eye contact and focusing on the mug of cocoa still sitting on the table. "This is some elaborate joke, right? You decorate your house like this, play into the whole Santa fantasy thing. It's cute, really. But—"

"Gemma." His voice cut through my rambling, low and firm. Not harsh, but enough to make me stop. "I don’t joke about this."

"Why not?" I shot back, daring to meet his eyes again. "Itisa joke. It has to be."

"Does it?" He leaned back now, his broad shoulders sinking into the couch like he had all the time in the world. "What if it isn’t?"

"Then prove it," I challenged before I could think better of it. My pulse jumped, but I kept my chin up, refusing to back down. "If you’re Santa, show me something. Something real."

His grin returned, slow and deliberate this time, like I’d just handed him exactly what he wanted. "You sure about that?"

"Yes," I said, though my voice came out thinner than I intended. "Prove it."

"Alright," he said simply. He stood, unfolding himself from the couch with that same quiet confidence that made my stomach flip. He reached out a hand. "Come with me."

I stared at his hand, hesitation pooling in my gut. But my curiosity burned hotter. Against my better judgment, I slipped my fingers into his. His palm was warm, grounding somehow, despite the absurdity of everything else.

"Where are we going?" I asked as he pulled me toward the foyer.

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