Page 23 of My Secret Santa Daddies

“Can I sit with you?”

I look up to see a little boy standing by the table, holding a plate of cookies in one hand and a cup of punch in the other. His dark hair is a bit messy, and his big, wide eyes are full of curiosity. I smile, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.

“Of course. Seat’s open.”

He hops up into the chair, carefully setting his plate on the table before digging into his cookie with the focus only a kid can have. For a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, sharing our cookies and punch, the buzz of the diner fades into the background.

“So, do you like Christmas cookies?” I ask.

The boy nods enthusiastically, his mouth full of crumbs. “Yeah! These are my favorite. My dad said we could have as many as we wanted tonight.”

“Your dad sounds like a cool guy.”

“He is, and I love everything about Christmas and all the magic.”

“The magic?”

“Santa!” he squeals.

I smile, but my heart aches at the innocence in his voice. “Oh, of course! How could I forget?”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I heard he might be here tonight.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.” Hank Garrison usually dressed up after the drawing for the kids.

“It’s a secret,” he says.

“What do you want him to bring you this year?”

He pauses, thinking it over. “I want a new bike—a red one with streamers and everything!”

“Well, have you been good this year?”

He nods, cramming another cookie into his mouth.

“Then I’m sure Santa might be able to find you that red bike. As long as your name is on his list.”

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Sierra. How about you?”

“Jack.”

And just like that, everything inside me stops.

The name hits me like a brick, and my stomach drops as I take a closer look at him. The messy dark hair, the eyes. The resemblance is undeniable, but it’s the name that pulls me back—back to when he was just a baby, back to a time before everything went wrong.

Griffin’s son.

I feel the air around me shift, suddenly heavier, and the flood of memories hits me all at once. I remember when Griffin brought Jack to visit the hospital after Anna died, how he held that tiny baby with such care, such love. How fragile Jack had seemed back then, so small in Griffin’s strong arms. And now, here he is—older—sitting across from me like none of the pain and loss had ever touched him.

The little boy who was supposed to grow up with Anna as his mom, the life that was ripped away before it even had a chance to fully form.

I glance around the diner, my heart racing as I realize Griffin must be here, somewhere. My fingers grip the edge of the table, steadying myself as I try to keep it together. I had come here tonight thinking I could handle it—thinking I could face the past. I was wrong.

Jack takes a sip of his punch, glancing up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “You’re nice,” he says, his voice sweet and genuine. “I like sitting with you.”

I swallow against the lump forming in my throat, nodding as I force another smile. “I like sitting with you too, Jack.”

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