Page 17 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
Blake shrugged out of his jacket first, like he needed his hands free to deal with me. “Come here, Holly.”
I hesitated. It wasn’t a request, though. His tone made my feet move.
He was already unpacking things. The first bag overflowed with blankets, all different kinds. Fleece. The kind with stars printed on them. A thick, blue one that looked like it belonged on a cloud, a pink fuzzy one, and a sunshine yellow one. The next bag was full of socks, toasty and bright. One pair had little dogs on them. I blinked hard.
And then he opened the third bag, and there were clothes. Not expensive, not fancy. Just warm. Soft sweatpants, leggings in three different colors, long-sleeved t-shirts, a couple of sweaters that looked like they’d swallow me whole. Panties in sealed packs. A flannel nightgown with tiny red hearts. I felt my face go up in flames.
He didn’t even pause. Just kept unpacking, stacking everything in neat piles. “You needed clothes,” he said, like it was obvious. “Didn’t want you freezing in my old shirts.”
I couldn’t breathe. “You bought all this? For me?”
He nodded. Didn’t look up. “Yeah. Didn’t know your size, so I guessed. You can try them on, see what fits. I’ll return what doesn’t, or what you don’t like.” He paused as I pulled out a long sleeved tee- shirt with a kitten on it. The sort you’d buy a child.
There was a bag with slippers. Pink, fuzzy, with little bows. My heart twisted so hard I thought I’d break in half. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know how to accept this without crying.
He set the last bag down and glanced at me, eyes scanning my face. “You all right?”
I nodded, clutching the bunny that was definitely Banjo until my knuckles hurt. I couldn’t let go or I’d start shaking.
He picked up one of the blankets—a pale yellow one, soft as a dream—and handed it to me. “Here. This one’s supposed to be the warmest. Try it out.”
I reached for it, but my hands weren’t working right. He noticed. Of course he did. He held the blanket open, wide enough, and I stepped into the space before I could think about it. The fleece swallowed me whole, all the way to my ankles. It was like being wrapped in sunlight. I squeezed my eyes shut and nearly dropped the bunny.
He didn’t say anything, just waited. Let me have my minute.
When I could breathe again, I looked at the table. “That’s so much. I… I don’t need this much. You shouldn’t have.”
He just huffed, like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “It’s the basics, Holly. You didn’t have a coat. You didn’t even have slippers. You needed these.” He finally looked at me, and his eyes were almost annoyed. “There’s nothing here you don’t deserve.”
I felt the words hit. My ears rang. I wrapped the yellow blanket around my shoulders and held the bunny tighter, face hot, hoping he wouldn’t notice how close I was to crying. Blake started stacking things back in the bags, sorting them by type, lining up the socks and pajamas and the little packs of underwear. He worked like it was just another job site, efficient and focused, but I could tell he was watching me in the corner of his eye. Waiting to see if I’d panic. Or if I’d run.
I didn’t. I just stood there, toes curling in the soft new blanket, staring at the pile. When he finished, he nodded toward the guest room. “Go put everything away. Try stuff on if you want. If you need help with tags or anything, just holler.”
Words were too much right now, so I nodded. Biscuit wagged his tail, bumping my knee, and I turned and hurried down the hall, arms loaded. The room looked different instantly. Brighter. I spread the blankets across the bed, then sorted the clothes into a neat row on the chair. Everything was soft. Everything smelled clean. I changed into one of the new pairs of leggings and matching sweater, and it was so comfortable I could barely stand it.
I kept the blanket draped over my shoulders, like a cape. The bunny went on the pillow, ears up. I stroked his head, and for a second I let myself pretend he was mine. That I was allowed to want things.
After a few minutes, I went back into the kitchen. Blake was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee, scrolling on his phone. He looked up, and I caught the way his gaze swept the leggings and the sweater and the bunny I still clutched because I couldn't bear to leave him. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it.
“Those fit okay?”
I nodded. The words stuck, but I tried again. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”
He shrugged, but I could see the relief on his face. “Good.”
Glancing at the counter, there was a box of cookies I’d made, and beside it, a new bag of flour with the sticker still on. I felt the tiniest spark of pride, seeing the cookies right there, like a promise that I’d done something right. I didn’t know what to say. So I just sat at the table, blanket tight, and waited for him to tell me what came next.
Blake set a plate of the cookies in front of me, like he expected me to eat first. “You hungry?”
I was, but I didn’t want to look greedy. I hesitated, but he sent me a soft smile and started what looked like a stir fry. I wanted to help but I didn’t dare ask, so I just sat there and tried to dream up things I could do for Blake before he got sick of me
We watched a silly film about wedding dresses later but Blake didn’t seem to mind. “You settling in okay?”
“Mm-hm.” I hesitated, twisting the bunny’s ear between my fingers. “I’m sorry for before. With the toys. I didn’t mean to mess with your things.” He took a sip of his own cocoa before answering. I’d nearly inhaled mine. “What was she like?” I asked convinced he wanted to talk about her.
For a long time, he didn’t say anything. He just stared into his mug like he could see her there. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough around the edges. “She was a hurricane,” he said. “Loud. Bright. Scared of nothing." His eyes went distant for a second, then cleared. “She lived here about a year. My parents were her foster placement. She used to follow me around the yard like a shadow.”
“What happened?” I asked, though part of me already knew I shouldn’t.
