Page 40 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
I saw Holly’s jaw drop just before Duke came up behind her, towering, broad, but relaxed. “Blake, Holly, come in.” He stepped aside, ushering us into the warmth. Inside, the place smelled like cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee. There were toys around, but not everywhere. Just little touches—a bear on the sofa, a coloring book on the table, a wooden puzzle half-finished beside a mug of cocoa.
Gemma waved us to the living room. “I made snacks. You can sit here with me.” She flopped cross-legged onto the rug, not a care in the world, then looked at Holly. “Do you want a blanket? I have more. Cocoa or juice?”
Holly’s eyes went wide, but not scared. More like she didn’t know what to do with being asked.
Duke and I grabbed coffee and Duke nodded to the kitchen table, far away enough to give them the illusion of privacy, but close enough so I could watch Holly in case she got overwhelmed. Duke handed me a colorful beaker of juice, and I knew it was for Holly. “Holly, there’s some juice here if you’re thirsty.” Holly gazed at me in shock, but was distracted when Gemma pulled a tray of cookies closer and patted the floor beside her. I beat a retreat to the kitchen with Duke. Biscuit curled up at her feet on guard duty, tail thumping once, then going still.
Holly
I perched on the edge of the rug, knees drawn up under my chin, trying not to stare. The onesie Gemma wore was adorable. It had tiny cartoon sheep all over it, and Gemma’s hair was in plaits with pink bands. She looked happy. Not embarrassed orhiding, just herself. I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone look like that.
She grinned and patted the space beside her. “You can sit here, if you want. It’s softer.” She had a bear tucked under one arm and three cookies lined up in a row, like she was deciding which to eat next.
I sat, careful not to spill the juice Blake had put in my hand. It was sweet and cold, and the cup was pink with glitter stuck to the side. I stared at it, turning it over, then tried to hold it the way Gemma did.
She must’ve noticed, because she smiled again. “It’s easier if you use both hands.”
I did, and it was better. “Thank you,” I whispered. My voice sounded weird. Small.
Gemma nodded, then took a bite of her cookie. She chewed, thinking, then tilted her head. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want. Sometimes it’s nice just to be quiet.”
I nodded. Biscuit flopped down beside us, chin on my foot. I stroked his fur. I could feel the heat of the fire behind me, and the coffee smell drifted from the kitchen where Blake and Duke were talking. It was peaceful.
Gemma finished her cookie and licked the crumbs from her fingers. “Do you like cookies? Or maybe you like coloring better?” She pushed a coloring book closer. It was already half-finished, pretty, neat, with bright colors inside the lines.
I stared at the page, heart thumping. “I like coloring. But I’m not good at it.”
She giggled. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be good. You just have to like it.” She picked up a green sparkly crayon and offered it to me. “Here. This one’s my favorite.”
I took it, fingers shaking, and tried to color a patch of grass on the page. Gemma watched, then smiled, like it was the best thing she’d ever seen.
We sat like that a while. She colored and I colored, and Biscuit sighed in his sleep, and the men’s voices rumbled softly from the other room.
After a bit, Gemma asked, “You know what I do for work?”
I shook my head.
She grinned. “I’m a lawyer. I work in court all day, in suits and heels and stuffy shirts. Sometimes I have to talk in front of a judge for hours.”
I blinked. She was so Little right now, I couldn’t picture her in a suit. “You… You can be both?”
Her smile went soft. “Oh, yes. That’s the best part. You get to be whatever you need. Sometimes I’m big, and sometimes, when it’s safe, I’m Little. It took me forever to figure that out.” Gemma smiled, soft and sad. “I thought I had to pick. Either be good at my job, or be this.” She plucked at her onesie, then glanced at me with a kind of hope that seemed too bright for the room. “But it’s not true. You get to have both. You get to have everything you need, if you let yourself.”
That made my eyes sting. I looked down at the coloring page, but the green crayon blurred. I tried to imagine being brave enough to want anything. I’d barely learned how to not be afraid.
Gemma nudged the coloring book closer. “You ever wear pajamas in the daytime?”
I shook my head. I didn’t even own pajamas before. My mother said they made you lazy. I had a scratchy nightdress I hated.
She grinned, big and warm. “Well, you should. You should have a pair with kittens on, or rainbows, or whatever makes you happy. I promise, the world won’t end if you try.”
I wanted to tell her it was impossible. That I’d tried so hard to be normal, to be grown-up, and I’d failed. But the words wouldn’t come. I just traced the edge of the paper, wishing I could disappear into the bright colors.
Gemma must’ve understood, because she didn’t push. She just started coloring again, humming under her breath. It was gentle. Silly. It made me feel less alone. Even Biscuit seemed calmer, his head heavy on my ankle like a weighted blanket.
After a while, I whispered, “How did you know you were allowed to be like this?”
Gemma looked up, eyes bright. “I met Duke.” The words came out dreamy, but real. “He saw me. All of me. And he never made me feel stupid for needing comfort, or wanting to play, or being soft.” She hugged the bear to her chest. “He says I’m brave for letting myself be Little. Not broken. Not childish. Just me.” She hesitated. "I think he thought everything in his life would always be hard and that's why he needed soft."
