Page 9 of Daddy Christmas

"Okay, Gemma," I whispered to myself. "Just breathe."

But how was I meant to breathe when I was about to have a date with Santa? I didn’t even know his name yet. I guess I’d just call him Santa until he told me otherwise.

I glanced at the frosted window, catching my reflection. The emerald-green dress fit perfectly, snug around my waist before flowing softly to my knees. It made my eyes look brighter—orso I'd been told—and I’d paired it with simple black heels. My hair was loose, tumbling over my shoulders in waves I’d spent way too long perfecting. Did it look too much? Not enough? I smoothed the fabric down and adjusted the tiny gold chain around my neck.

In my other hand, I held Christmas—the stuffed kitten he’d given me. I wasn’t sure why I brought it. Maybe for comfort. Maybe for him. Either way, its soft fur brushed against my fingers as I clutched it tightly.

His voice played in my head again. Warm. Steady. Inviting. “Seven o’clock. Noel’s Haven. You’ll love it, I promise.”

I swallowed hard, nerves and excitement tangling together until I couldn’t tell which was winning. One more deep breath. Then I gripped the handle and pushed the door open.

The smell hit first. Sweet cinnamon, toasted nuts, something richer—maybe mulled wine? It was warm, like stepping into a hug. My heels clicked softly on the hardwood floor as I took it all in.

Snowflakes floated from the ceiling, faintly glowing before they disappeared just above everyone’s heads. They weren’t real, obviously, but the illusion was perfect. Having said that, I had no idea how the effect was achieved. Had to be . . . lasers? Tables were tucked into little corners surrounded by pine trees dressed up in glittering ornaments. Lanterns flickered on the walls, their light golden and soft.

I exhaled slowly, my grip on Christmas relaxing just a bit. It felt like walking into a storybook. Something about it wrapped around me, tugging at the part of me that still believed magic could be real. For a second, I forgot why I was nervous.

Then, I got a big reminder.

"Gemma," his voice cut through the soft hum of conversation around me. Deep, steady, unmistakable.

I froze for just a second, my fingers tightening on Christmas before I turned toward him. There he was, standing by a table near the fireplace. The firelight caught the edges of his figure—broad shoulders, strong jawline, that burgundy sweater hugging his chest in all the right ways. Not a Santa suit, but somehow still . . . festive. Like he carried Christmas with him no matter what he wore. Snowflakes were stitched into the fabric, subtle but glinting when the light hit them just right.

And his eyes. God, those eyes. Green, piercing, locked on me like I was the only person in the room.

"Hi," I managed, my voice coming out softer than I intended. My feet started moving before I could think too hard about it, carrying me toward him, toward the table where shadows danced against the walls and everything smelled like pine and warmth.

"Hi," he echoed, his smile spreading slow and sure, like he knew exactly how to put me at ease—and maybe how to make my knees just a little weak while he was at it. He stepped forward, pulling out the chair for me with a casual grace that felt both old-fashioned and entirely natural.

"You look stunning," he said as I slipped into the seat, his words landing somewhere between a compliment and something more intimate. His tone was warm, low, and it sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the snow outside.

"Thank you," I said, ducking my head slightly as heat rushed to my cheeks. I smoothed the skirt of my dress, suddenly hyper aware of every fold of fabric, the way it clung to my legs. "This place is crazy. I didn’t even know it existed."

He chuckled, the sound rich and easy, like he wasn't in any kind of hurry. "Not many people do. It's a bit of a hidden gem," he admitted, his hand brushing the back of my chair brieflybefore he took his own seat across from me. "I thought it might be the perfect spot for our dinner."

"Perfect" felt like an understatement. Everything about this place—the glow of the lanterns, the quiet crackle of the fire, the faint scent of cinnamon in the air—it was like stepping into another world. But it was him sitting in front of me, leaning just slightly forward, that made it feel so special. Like the rest of the room barely mattered.

The chair was plush beneath me, sinking just enough to feel indulgent, and the table in front of us looked like something out of a dream. Fine china bordered in gold, crystal glasses catching the light like tiny prisms. I reached for the edge of my napkin, smoothing it over my lap just to give my hands something to do.

The waiter appeared so quietly that I almost jumped when he spoke. "Welcome to Noel's Haven," he said, his voice smooth and warm, like it belonged to the place. He set two menus in front of us, red leather with gold lettering that caught the firelight. I ran my fingers over the embossed script without opening it right away, feeling the texture beneath my fingertips.

"Go on," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair but keeping his eyes on me. "You're going to love this."

"High expectations already." I flipped open the menu. My breath caught for a second as my eyes scanned the names."Starlight Soup"… "Winter’s Embrace Salad" . . . "North Pole Roast" . . .Everything sounded like it had been plucked straight from the pages of some magical holiday story. The descriptions were just as whimsical—"a symphony of roasted chestnuts and spiced cream" or "herbs kissed by frost"—like they were daring you not to imagine every bite.

"It all sounds so good!" I glanced at him over the top of the menu.

He leaned forward then, arms resting casually on the table, and nodded toward my menu. "May I recommend something?"

"Sure," I said, closing the menu without hesitation. "What should I get?"

"Enchanted Forest Mushroom Risotto," he said, the words rolling off his tongue like a secret he was letting me in on. "It’s one of my favorites."

"Risotto," I repeated, pretending to weigh my options. "Fancy."

"Trust me," he added, his eyebrow quirking slightly, a challenge hidden in his tone.

"All right." I smiled, setting the menu down. "I’ll trust your judgment."

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