Page 2 of Christmas With The Kings
I glared. “Okay, maybe they’re slightly elevated. Just a little.”
Still no expression, she twirled the spoon in her cup. Another blink and that infamous silence.
“You said you didn’t even know if they liked Christmas,” I muttered, slouching in my seat. “They’re not going to hate it, are they?”
“They’re not going to notice it.”
My chest deflated a little. Not enough to stop me, of course, but enough to sting.
“I mean, seriously.” I gestured broadly to the table. “Do you know how long it takes to roll out puff pastry that thin? I made holly-shaped cutouts. That’s effort. That’s love.”
“That’s borderline manic,” she replied. “Even for you.”
“You wound me.”
“I’m trying to prepare you.”
And she was. In her own way. Thing was, she didn’t do soft comfort. She did reality checks laced with sarcasm, and that was her version of love. Her way of saying, I see you. I know this matters to you. But brace for impact.
“I’m fine,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “I’m not doing this for a reaction. I’m doing it because I love Christmas. And breakfast. And the idea of us being normal, functional people.”
Once more, a perfectly manicured brow lifted. I waved it off. She took another sip of tea and, mercifully, said nothing. I mentally prepped some potential opening lines to get the conversation rolling.
It was time after all. My men were no longer wayward bachelors wandering adrift in a sea of nothingness. They were mine now. And we were a family.
Which meant they needed to act like it. Part of that included embracing the damned holidays. All of them. Thanksgiving had been a disaster.
And yes, I was fully aware my guys were British, so they wouldn’t celebrate, but it was the concept, not the original fiasco of a holiday, anyway. It was about being thankful for all that we had. And we had so much to celebrate.
Not to mention, Christmas was my most favorite holiday. It was the ribbons and bows. Enormous trees and sparkly decorations. A few gifts underneath. Homemade ones were the best. Oh, and Bing Crosby crooning from every room. Maybe even some Michael Bublé. Snuggles by the fireplace and Christmas movies.
And the best part—matching pajamas. Now all I needed…was the family. And as if summoned by the ghost of Christmas sass, I heard the sound of masculine grumbling and the distinctive thump of Ivan’s boots in the hall.
“—swear to God, I’m going to chain her to the damn bed—”
“I much prefer satin to chains, my beloved,” I exclaimed, rising and turning to the door with a smile.
I stepped over and wrapped my arms around him. He leaned down to kiss me. His sleeves were rolled up, showcasing all the prominent veins I loved to trace. A silly vision of him wielding an axe popped into my head, and the fantasy took shape.
The whole family traipsing through the South London Christmas Tree Farm scoping out the perfect tree. Him chopping it down. A present, if you will. Yes, I’d done my research. And if they didn’t have one there we liked, there were a few other places on the list we could check out.
“Hand her over—your time is up,” Alek huffed as he barrelled through the door. He yanked me into his chest and nuzzled my neck. “Fuck, you smell amazing, sweetness.”
He looked so good this morning. Beard trimmed, looking as if he’d walked out of a catalog and directly into my butter-coated heart. Nikolai trailed after him, bright-eyed, hair still damp from a shower. He stopped at the threshold, sniffed once and then his eyes found mine.
He smiled. My stomach did a little hopeful flip. He reached for me. Alek heaved and reluctantly let me go.
“It smells incredible in here,” Alek said.
Not festive. Not Christmasy.Not oh my God, are those snowflakes shaped like pinwheels?
Just incredible.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide the hitch in my voice.
Behind him, Sebastian wandered in, rubbing the back of his neck, blinking like the lights were too bright. His gaze swept the room lazily. He yawned. “Is that…apple?”
“Guess again,” I muttered under my breath.
