Page 62 of An Undisputed Christmas
Silver boxes with white satin ribbons were nestled againstothergifts that could only have come from Adrian—neon disasters.
A plate sat on the coffee table, accompanied by a glass of milk and a hastily scrawled note from Leo:"Dear Santa, Thank you for my family. The cookies are gingerbread. Love, Leo and Avery."
Next to it, a smaller plate held what Avery had insisted were "special cookies for the reindeer"—cookies shaped like carrots that she'd decorated with orange icing and green sprinkles.
"Alright," Adrian whispered, his voice barely above a breath as he gestured dramatically toward the cookie setup. "So who's actually doing the Santa thing? Because I vote not me. I'll eat all those cookies, and then Leo will wake up to find Santa has the self-control of a child.”
"Why are we whispering?" Connor asked in his normal voice.
"Because it's Christmas Eve magic, you absolute heathen," Adrian hissed, his eyes wide with horror. "You don't break Christmas Eve magic with your regular voice. There are rules. Ancient ones. Probably involving elves."
"That's not how?—"
"WHISPER," Adrian insisted, cutting him off with exaggerated urgency. "As I was saying, before Connor tried todestroyChristmas, I nominate Jax. It's his house."
I nearly choked on my laugh. "Absolutely not. Leo will recognize my handwriting when I sign Santa's thank-you note."
"You were planning to write a thank-you note?" Connor asked, and I could hear the amusement threading through his quiet tone.
"Of course I was going to write a thank you note," I replied, obviously. "What kind of Santa doesn't acknowledge good cookies? Leo put actual thought into the shapes. That deserves recognition."
"The kind of Santa that isn’t you?” Connor suggested dryly.
"Your cynicism is showing," I shot back. "This is about preserving childhood wonder, maintaining the magic, ensuring that two innocent children wake up tomorrow morning believing that?—"
"Boys."
All three of us turned toward the source, and there was Dad, standing in the doorway like he'd materialized from the shadows.
He was the picture of elegant relaxation in silk pajamas and a matching robe that draped his frame. Even at midnight on Christmas Eve, in sleepwear, the man managed to look like he'd stepped out of a photoshoot. Just like me.
His silver-streaked hair was perfectly tousled in that way that took actual effort to achieve, and his blue eyes glinted with amusement as he took in the sight of three burly men standing around a plate of cookies like conspirators planning a heist.
"Dad," I breathed, relief flooding through my voice like warm honey. "Perfect timing. We need someone to?—”
“Play Santa,” Adrian finished, pointing dramatically. "It has to be you. You're the only one with the proper..." He gestured vaguely at his entire existence.
"Gravitas," Connor supplied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Dad raised an eyebrow, a smile played at his lips. "Gravitas?"
"You know," Adrian continued, still maintaining his whisper for reasons known only to his chaotic mind, "the commanding presence. The distinguished silvered hair. The ability to write in that fancy script that looks like it came directly from the North Pole."
"Plus," I added, "Leo and Avery already think you're magical anyway. This just makes it official."
Dad stepped fully into the room, his expression shifting subtly as he looked around at the three of us—his biological son and the two strays he'd gathered up and claimed as his own over the years.
The firelight caught the silver in his hair and cast his elegant features in warm relief, but it was his eyes that held my attention. They'd gone soft with something that looked almost like wonder, as if he was seeing us for the first time all over again.
"You know," he said quietly, his voice carrying that slight rasp that came from expensive whiskey and late nights, "twenty-eight years ago, when I was holding a crying infant and wondering how the hell I was going to raise a son, I never imagined I'd be standing in a room on Christmas Eve with three overgrown men, arguing over who gets to eat cookies left for Santa."
"Disappointed?" Adrian asked, and for once, there wasn't any joke in his voice, just genuine vulnerability and the kind of fear that came from caring too much about the answer.
"Disappointed?" Dad repeated, then let out a soft laugh. "Son, this is the best Christmas Eve I've ever had. This is the best Christmas Eve I ever imagined having."
He moved toward the coffee table, picking up one of Leo's carefully arranged cookies—a perfect star with white icing, and took a bite.
"These are exceptional,” he said after swallowing, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Leo helped make them?”
