Page 44 of My Secret Santa Daddies

Cold air greets us as soon as we open the door to the attic, our breaths turn into mist. I climb up first, navigating the half-broken ladder that creaks under my weight, then reach down to help Sierra up. The attic is dim with shadows casting long lines across the cluttered space, but there it is—a large, dusty box pushed into the far corner amid a bunch of other junk. I pull the string on the single bulb over my head. It flickers on.

“Jesus, this place needs to be cleaned out.”

“That’s it,” Sierra says, pointing to the box. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

“Good thing you’ve got me for the heavy lifting.”

“I’ll lock you up in here with all this old creepy furniture.”

“Go ahead and try.”

Together, we maneuver the box through the narrow attic opening, and once we get it to the living room, the contents don’t disappoint.

It’s not a full tree, but a nice-sized artificial one with a real wood trunk, still in pretty good condition, with plenty of ornaments and lights packed underneath. Sierra’s face lights up as she pulls out a few old, handmade decorations—things that have probably been in the lodge for decades.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a tree after all,” I say, nudging her shoulder.

“Jack’s going to be thrilled. Help me set it up.”

I haul the thing out of the box and get it upright, stringing the lights in silence together. There’s something easy about being with her like this—no tension, no awkward history hanging between us, just two people sharing a moment of normalcy. I glance at her as she hooks an ornament onto one of the branches, her face bathed in the glow of the lights.

“You know,” I say, breaking the quiet, “you’re not so bad at this whole Christmas thing.”

“Thanks, I try.”

As we finish hanging the last of the ornaments, Sierra reaches into the bottom of the box and pulls out something small and green. She stares at it for a moment, her expression shifting as she turns it over in her hands.

“Mistletoe,” she murmurs.

“Should we hang it?”

She hesitates, then shrugs. “I mean, I guess. It’s here…” Sierra’s voice trails off, almost like she’s unsure of herself, but she steps toward the doorway anyway, mistletoe in hand. I watch her move, the soft glow of the lights cast shadows across her face, her lips are pressed into that determined line I’ve seen too many times before.

“Let me grab the ladder,” I offer, already moving toward it. But she holds up a hand, stopping me.

“No need. I’ve got it.”

I hesitate, eyeing the flimsy ladder we’ve been using all week for everything else like the dumb men we are. “You sure? I don’t trust that thing. It’s old as hell.”

Sierra rolls her eyes but flashes me that same smirk, the one that says she’s going to do whatever she damn well pleases. “It’s just a doorway.”

“But the ceiling is twelve feet high. You nearly fell just hanging those lights earlier. Let me?—”

“Cody, I’m hanging a piece of mistletoe, not scaling a mountain.”

I clench my jaw, watching as she starts to climb, each creak of the wood making my heart race a little faster. I don’t want to hover, but I sure as hell don’t want to see her hit the floor, either.

“Yeah, well, humor me,” I mutter, stepping closer, keeping my hands ready in case that ladder gives way.

She’s already up there, standing on the top rung, stretching to hook the mistletoe on the beam above the doorway. Herfingers are nimble, and for a second, I think maybe she’ll get away with it, that she’ll manage this without any trouble.

But then it happens.

As soon as she starts to climb down, her foot slips, and the ladder shifts under her weight. She gasps, her arms flailing, and everything seems to slow down in a heartbeat of panic.

“Shit—Sierra!”

I don’t think—I just move. My arms shoot out, grabbing her just as her body tumbles toward me. Sierra lands against my chest, hard enough to knock the breath out of both of us.

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