Page 24 of War

Eventually, Josie pulls back, her eyes full of wonder. “What are you doing here?”

The smile that spreads across Ava’s face isn’t one I’m familiar with. It’s soft and pure and genuine. “It’s Christmas. Where else would I be than with my girl?”

For the first time since the day we met, I feel myself relax around Ava. She gets it. All that matters is Josie, and if she’s what Josie needs, then somehow, some way, I’ll make this work.

TEN

AVA

“Where’s the good whiskey?”Chandler Warren booms from where he’s inspecting the liquor cabinet.

For probably the fifth time tonight, I assess War, dissecting his reaction. This kinship I feel with him came out of nowhere, and it’s freaking me out. Kind of like the warmth that seeps through me when I watch him squeeze Brayden’s shoulder as he gets up from the table and heads in his father’s direction.

I recognized Brayden immediately. He was the boy playing hockey at the YMCA charity event last week. The one War hefted onto his shoulder after he scored a goal. I’ve seen him at several other events since I started working at Langfield Corp, though I can’t remember War being at a single one of them. What the heck? I’ve been thrown for a loop, but I can’t just come out and ask why he’s here—without his own family—or how they know one another.

Maria headed out to be with her family shortly after we arrived. Her kids are home from college, and since the Bolts have a few days off, she’s spending the holidays with them. I’m relieved that she gets the time away, but at the same time, I’m desperate to ask her all the questions that are swirling in my mind.

Questions like why is War adopting Josie? What happened to her mother? And when did the man across the table become this person?This good guy, this perfect parent? Because the War I know is the antithesis of those traits.

Brayden pushes his shaggy dark brown hockey hair out of his face as he hands Scarlett a crayon. I’m almost positive he’s not Tyler’s biological son. I’d know if he was, right? It would be public information. Sara and Hannah would definitely know. So would the guys. Even though the two don’t share DNA, they share so many traits. Brayden’s eyes are almost the same striking blue as Tyler’s, and though his face isn’t covered in a day-old scruff, he has a similar bone structure. Strong cheekbones, narrow face, lips that pout all on their own. He’ll be a heartbreaker one day, just like the man beside him.

The little girl on his lap has her tongue peeking out of her mouth, totally focused as she scribbles all over the Santa picture Josie plopped in front of her when she started to fuss as we cleared the table.

Josie’s incredibly good with her little sister. Patient, loving, and attentive. Not that I’d expect anything less. The only thing Josie has ever wanted was a family, so witnessing these interactions warms me in a way I can’t explain.

“Can we play Go Fish?” Josie appears at the table, already holding a deck of cards and scanning the group expectantly.

“I would,” Bray replies, nodding at the little girl in his lap. “But she’ll probably steal the cards from me.”

With a laugh, I scoop her up. “I can balance her and play with my other hand. Deal the cards, love bug.”

Grinning wide, she rounds the table, dealing out cards to each person. When she gets to Xander, she pauses, her expression turning cautious. “Do you want to play?”

He nods. “Sure. Deal me in. I’ll grab a drink, then be back to play.” He stands and presses a kiss to my forehead.

I suck in a breath, hoping Josie didn’t see. I don’t typically shy away from public displays of affection, and the way Xander offers it freely is one of the things I love most about him. But War’s words when we arrived have been playing on repeat in my mind all night. We aren’t married. I’m not Josie’s aunt, and I don’t want her to get her hopes up that I will be one day. Though that wouldn’t be terrible. Even if I can’t be her mom, I’ll take any position in her life.

Fortunately, Josie is busy dealing and doesn’t notice. But Brayden does. His blue eyes are piercing as he assesses me. It’s uncanny, how similar the expression is to War’s. I give him a smile, doing my best not to squirm under his scrutiny. Rather than return the expression, he lowers his focus to his cards.

Before I can overthink the interaction, a chubby hand grasps my face. “Mama,” Scarlett murmurs.

My heart skips, and heat creeps up my cheeks. With a shake of my head, I huff out a breath. “She probably calls everyone that, huh?”

Josie giggles, her face lit up as brightly as the lights on the tree. “Nope. I’m sissy, Brayden is Bray and Maria is MiMi.”

With a long breath out, I kiss the top of the little girl’s head. “Aren’t you a little love.”

I don’t ask what she calls War. It’s better that I don’t know. If she calls him Daddy in my presence, I’ll probably turn as red as the suit the creepy dancing Santa is wearing. It’s the only ridiculous decoration. Every other piece is tasteful and festive. It’s unnerving how warm and welcoming his house is. How comfortable I feel in it.

I should be uncomfortable. I should be staring at the door, ready to run. Instead, I don’t want the evening to end. And I’m wishing I could wake up here in the morning and watch the kids light up as they open their gifts. Though I despise War more often than not, after seeing him in dad mode tonight, I have a feeling he’s gone over the top as Santa.

And I don’t know how I feel about that.

“You’re good with her.” Dory returns from the kitchen, a glass of wine in her hand. There’s not a strand of gray in her hair, nor a wrinkle on her face. She’s the opposite of my mother, who never had the time or money to focus on how she was aging, let alone the interest. The only thing my mother has going for her is her red hair. Red often doesn’t go gray, and my mother’s hasn’t. Dory’s long blond hair is curled into loose waves, and her hands glitter with diamonds. Her necklace sparkles just as brightly in contrast to the burgundy sweater set it’s settled on. She’s as beautiful as she is kind. Xander is fortunate to have such a close relationship with his parents. In the last several months, we’ve had dinner with them weekly, meaning I’ve had theopportunity to spend time with both his mother and his stepfather, and I’ve come to treasure my relationship with her.

“She’s sweet.” I give the little girl on my lap a squeeze.

With her hand wrapped around a crayon, she practically murders the image in front of her, covering it in slashes of red.

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