Page 50 of Santa Daddy
She spread lace and satin over the marble like a general throwing down maps. Ivory silk. Champagne tulle. Beaded snowflake motifs that tossed light around the kitchen. One swatch had tiny gold bells embroidered into the hem.
“The venue is confirmed,” she went on, ignoring Dani’s growing horror. “Christmas Eve, St. Bartholomew’s. Midnight bells. Very classic. Very symbolic.”
The wordsChristmas Evelanded like another gunshot.
“The florist is on call. White roses, pine, winter berries. The caterer knows the menu. We do not have time for indecision.”
“The invitations,” she added, pulling a stack of thick cards from another bag, “are here.”
She fanned them out. Cream stock, gold edges. Our names intertwined in curling script, a small embossed bell at the top. Below:Christmas Eve Ceremony – St. Bartholomew’s – Midnight Mass & Marriage.
Dani’s eyes darted over the text. Her fingers clenched.
“You’ve already printed invites?” she demanded. “Without even asking if I?—”
Valentina smiled, all teeth. “Guests must be notified, dear. It is very rude to spring a wedding on people without warning.”
You abducted me from a tree lot and you’re worried about etiquette now?
Dani didn’t say it. Her face did.
“This is insane,” she choked out. “I haven’t agreed to anything, I haven’t said yes, and I haven’t even been properly proposed to.”
As if rings and roses changed the fact that she’d watched me put a man in the snow and still said yes with her body on my wall.
I stood and rounded the island, stepping into her space until I could feel the heat of her despite my suit and her borrowed clothes.
Her pulse thudded against the delicate column of her throat.
“Consider this your proposal,” I said, taking her chin between my thumb and finger. “Marry me, Dani.”
Not a question.
“How proposals usually work,” she breathed, “is there are flowers. And a ring. And some indication you actually want to marry me instead of just needing a convenient prop.”
“Who says I don’t want you?” I asked, letting my lips brush the edge of her ear.
She shivered.
Valentina, professional to the core, pretended not to notice the electricity arcing across her samples.
“Honeymoon destinations,” she announced, tapping at her tablet. “The Amalfi Coast. The Maldives. Aspen chalet with private slopes. Somewhere warm after Russian winter? Or more snow for your fairy tale?”
Dani jerked back from me like the word had burned her.
“Honeymoon?” she squeaked. “You’re planning a honeymoon?”
Her expression was priceless. Like someone had just told her she was being shipped to a monastery in Siberia.
“Only if you behave,” I said, voice flat.
The threat landed like it was meant to. She turned on her heel and stalked out, muttering about air and space and needing to think.
“Seventy-two hours,” I called after her. “Clock is ticking, kotyonok.”
Tick. Tock.
Valentina stayed another hour, talking fabric weights and seating charts and which elders would sit closest to the aisle. When she finally left, the penthouse was quiet again, except for the faint murmur of music drifting from the ceiling speakers—a soft instrumental version of “Silent Night,” all tinkling piano and strings.
