Page 77 of Santa's Girl
Wearing nothing but one of my old flannel shirts — the red and black one, soft from a hundred washes. It hung halfway down her thighs, the collar wide enough to slip off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck and that skin I’d memorized in the dark last night.
She didn’t see me yet. She was too busy flipping bacon with one hand, pouring coffee with the other, hips swaying gently to the music in her head like it was just another morning.
Like she belonged here.
Like this wasours.
And I just stood there.
Staring.
Swallowed the lump in my throat so hard it hurt.
Because Lord help me... I felt something I hadn’t let myself feel in years.
Not since my mom.
Not since my brother.
Not since grief hollowed me out and I’d resigned myself to a life of leather, engines, and sleeping with one eye open.
I felt… hope.
That maybe,just maybe, I didn’t have to be alone forever.
That after everything He’d taken, maybe God finally gave something back.
Someone to love.
Someone to stay.
Someone standing barefoot in my kitchen, humming Christmas songs, smelling like sex, woodsmoke, and the rest of my life.
She didn’t hear me at first.
Too busy humming, hips swaying, barefoot on my kitchen floor like she’d always been there. Like she was made for this space.
Forme.
I walked up slow, silent until I was close enough to smell her — that soft mix of my flannel and her skin, warm and sweet and addicting.
I leaned in, pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. Her skin was warm from the stove, goosebumps rising under my lips.
She giggled, didn’t turn. Just wiggled the spatula and said, “Careful, tough guy. The bacon’ll burn.”
I slid both arms around her waist, pulling her back against me. My mouth grazed her ear, voice low.
“Baby… I’m the one burning.”
She let out a soft sound — half laugh, half gasp — and I didn’t wait.
I took the spatula from her hand, hit the burner off with one quick twist, and turned her in my arms.
“Back to bed,” I said, already walking her backwards, her fingers curling into my shirt. “I’ll make you real breakfast after.”
Her smile? All heat.
And when I lifted her off the floor, she didn’t argue.
