Page 7 of Merry Kissmas, My Billionaire

Rudy rolls her eyes. “We’re twelve not five.”

“We’ll be thirteen in January,” Juniper beamed. “Rudy loves to color.”

Rudy certainly looks the artistic type, maybe crafter, with her dyed hair, and edgier disposition. Juniper I’d peg for academic of the year.

“I draw,” Rudy corrects her. “I’m an artist.” She squares her shoulders and tilts her head so that her chin is much too high.

I struggle to think of something more suiting to an artist than a blank piece of paper and crayons. I have an idea but I want to satisfy both girls not just the broodier one. “And you Juniper? Are you an artist?”

“I’m the athlete.” She smirks, flexing. Her sweater is too thick for me to notice a change in the muscle tone of her arms.

“You’re the nerd. She adores reading,” Rudy snitches on her sister.

I know then what I can do to occupy them. I lead them from the dining room and off to the second floor where across from my office a different study is available. It’s a recreation room really, when I was younger tutors trained me outside of my private school lessons before boarding school.

Juniper gasps, sprinting to the wall purely build of books. While Rudy hides her excitement, edging over to the easel that hasn’t been used in years.

“Paints are probably dry,” I confess to Rudy, dusting off a canvas tucked in a corner behind an armchair.

“It’s okay, I prefer charcoal,” she already has pockets of it in her hands.

Does she always carry it or did she snatch it from a fireplace?

I turn to Juniper, who’s running fingers along spines, too timid to pluck one just yet. “Have your pick, there are some first editions in there, but you seem capable of handling them.” The encouraging words are enough for her to settle on a spine and pull it free.

The wind is knocked out of me as two bodies slam into me, hugging me from each hip. Rudy and Juniper squeeze tightly, charcoal smearing my shirt and a hardback corner digging into my kidney. I don’t mind it though. It’s quite nice. I sigh, recovering my breath, and wrap an arm around each preteen.

“Think nothing of it,” I respond to their whispering thanks. “Enjoy yourselves. I’m going to see if your mother needs any help.”

They squeeze and hold on a little longer before relinquishing me from their grateful grasp. Juniper settles into a large armchair, opening the book as Rudy sets herself up for charcoal mischief before the canvas.

Searching for Hope, it doesn’t surprise me to find her in the ballroom. I detest the place so, of course, the woman I want to be around is waltzing across the floor, holding a sugar plum fairy-like it’s her dance partner. Much to my chagrin, I cross the threshold and half expect to find the floor lava. But no agony hits me as I enter and make my way to the dancing pair.

“May I cut in?” I ask, holding my hand out to Hope as she finishes an elaborate twirl with her life-sized doll.

Hope flushes and smiles, glancing between me and the ballerina she grasps. “I suppose you might make a better partner,” she smirks. I can see where the twins get their quick wit.

Discarding the decor, I take her into my arms and though there’s no music, I don’t need it to lead her in a proper waltz around the room. Hope gasps in surprise, clutching my hand and side as she stumbles along with me. Unlike me, Hope did not have private dance lessons as a child. Still, as I lead her, she catches on and her stumbling turns to amiable efforts.

I bring her closer to me as we turn about the floor. I got a mere taste of what she might feel like with the ladder complaint earlier. Now, here in my arms, I am getting handfuls. My hand presses into her lower back, her chest touching mine.

Did Christmas come early? I don’t recall a wintery night ever being so wonderful. The family-like dinner, the energetic atmosphere from the youths, and Hope – dancing with me till she’s breathless and pink-cheeked.

I slow us down to a stop in the middle of the ballroom. I mimic her breathlessness, though mine stems from being in awe of her and less from the exercise of dancing. Studying her face her eyes follow the broad width of my shoulders to the open collar of my shirt and up my neck to my face. Her bright lively gaze lingers on my lips before tilting upward to stare at the ceiling.

No, not the ceiling, the chandelier. I follow and spot the tuft of greenery tied off with a golden bow to the very tip of the chandelier.

Mistletoe.

“I don’t remember putting that there.” Hope’s voice strains as she squirms in my hold.

“No?” And I didn’t even notice a single decoration in the room, my entire focus on Hope. I glance around the ballroom transformed from a barren place of distaste to a magical wonderland of similarity to a stage scene in theNutcracker. The ballerina doll she’d been dancing with makes sense now.

“No,” Hope breathes out the word.

“Traditions are important.” I lean down, inching closer to her beautifully plump sweet face.

“Old fashioned.” Her breath is a ghost on my lips before I close the gap between us.

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