Page 5 of Daddy Christmas

"I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. We’ve never met before, have we?" The corners of his mouth curved up just slightly, enough to make my pulse stutter. He extended a hand, gloved and open, waiting.

My feet stayed planted, nerves buzzing down to my toes. I wasn’t sure why this felt so big. Whyhefelt so big. But the way the air around him seemed to hum, warm and alive, made it impossible to ignore. Slowly, I reached out, slipping my hand into his.

“No. We’ve never met. Pleased to meet you.”

The leather of his glove was smooth and cool against my skin, but his grip was firm, grounding. He gave the faintest squeeze, just enough to say,I’ve got you. My chest tightened as I took another step forward, then another. Each one felt like crossing some invisible line I hadn’t noticed until now.

"Would you like to sit?" he asked, patting his knee with a broad hand. His tone was calm, easy, but there was something beneath it. Something that made my stomach flip.

I stopped short, blinking up at him. Sit? On him? My breath hitched, caught somewhere between my throat and my ribs. He was still watching me, patient but expectant, his hand resting where he'd patted.

"Uh . . ." My voice cracked embarrassingly, and I cleared my throat. "On . . . your lap?"

"Of course!" He didn’t miss a beat, didn’t even flinch. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it should’ve been, but nothing about this felt normal. My head spun, heart racing as I tried to decide what the hell I was supposed to do.

"Unless you'd rather not," he added, tilting his head just slightly. There was a softness to his words, an understandingthat somehow made everything worse. Because now it was my choice.

I swallowed hard. This was ridiculous. Sitting on Santa’s lap was practically a childhood rite of passage, right? Except this wasn’tthatSanta, and I wasn’t a kid anymore. Not by a long shot.

"Okay," I heard myself say, barely above a whisper. My legs moved without permission, carrying me closer until I was standing between his knees. I hesitated for half a second before lowering myself onto his lap.

His arm came around me immediately, steadying me. Warmth radiated through the thick velvet of his suit, and I found myself leaning into it almost instinctively. His chest was solid beneath me, the strength of him impossible to ignore.

"That’s better," he murmured, his voice a quiet rumble against my ear. His arm settled around my waist, firm but gentle, holding me like I belonged there. Like I wasn’t just some stranger who’d wandered into his world.

I sat stiffly at first, unsure of what to do with my hands, my body, myeverything. But then his thumb brushed small circles against my side, his touch light enough to be reassuring without overstepping. My shoulders relaxed, melting into him despite myself.

"See? Not so bad," he said softly, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone.

"No. Not so bad," I muttered before I could stop myself. My face flared hot again, but he only chuckled—a low, rich sound that sent goosebumps skittering down my arms.

His voice broke through the haze of warmth that had settled over me. “So, Little One, Tell me, what do you wish for this Christmas?”

The question caught me off guard. My head tilted slightly as I looked up at him, his green eyes so steady on mine it was like hecould see right through me. There were a million things I could have said—a new job, a weekend away, someone to split rent with. But none of it felt right. Not here. Not now.

“I . . .” My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my sleeve, and I tried not to squirm under his gaze. “I don’t know.”

One of his dark brows arched, but he didn’t press me. I let out a shaky laugh, more nervous than amused, and shrugged. “Maybe just . . . a bit of happiness?” The words sounded small, almost silly, and I immediately regretted saying them. My eyes darted down to the buttons of his suit, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

But then he smiled. A soft, knowing smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I think we can arrange that,” he said, his voice low and gentle.

For some reason, the way he said it made me believe him. Like he could snap his fingers and make every bad thing in my life disappear. For a moment, the knot in my chest loosened, and I felt myself relax against him just a little more.

“What makes you happy, Gemma?” he asked, his tone curious now, like he genuinely wanted to know. His thumb brushed another slow circle against my side, steady and soothing.

I hesitated, unsure where to start. “Books,” I said finally. “I love books. I always have.” The confession came easier than I’d expected. “When I was a kid, they were kind of . . . my escape. You know, when things got tough.” I glanced up at him, half expecting to see boredom or disinterest, but his expression stayed open, encouraging.

“What kind of books?” he prompted, leaning back just slightly so I could see him better. His arm stayed around me, though, holding me close.

“Stories about magic,” I admitted, my voice quiet. “Adventures, far-off places. Anything that felt bigger than the world I was in.”

He nodded, like he understood, and something about that made me keep going. Before I knew it, I was telling him about the time I’d hidden in the school library for an entire afternoon, devouringThe Polar Expressbecause the thought of believing in something—anything—had felt so important back then. His laughter rumbled beneath me when I told him how the librarian had caught me and let me take the book home anyway.

The sound of his laugh warmed something deep inside me, and I found myself smiling, too. It felt . . . easy, somehow. Like I wasn’t trying so hard to keep my walls up.

“And now?” he asked after a moment. “What makes you happy these days?”

The question gave me pause. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, realizing I didn’t have an answer. “Honestly? I don’t know,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

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