Page 37 of In Stockings
“Lyra.” I bend down and inspect her face. “So it is. I’d never have guessed.”
“Silly,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me through to the kitchen.
“Daddy’s making hot chocolate, and I’m writing Santa a note.” She inspects my outfit as I slip out of my coat and hang it on the back of a chair. “Were you working with Santa today?”
“You bet! There are tonnes of last-minute things to do before he sets off on his sleigh. We have to check his map, check if all the presents have labels,” I tick off each job on my fingers, “make sure we didn’t forget anyone. Can you imagine the trouble that would cause?”
Craig strolls over to the table with a tray of steamy mugs. His gaze flicks up and down my body, landing on my ears. “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Christmas wishes do come true,” Craig growls in my ear and squeezes my arse.
When I peer towards the table, I find Lyra eyeing us with interest.
“You don’t have to go back to the North Pole, you know?”
“Right,” I say, a little confused, taking the seat next to her and blowing across my hot chocolate.
“It must be very cold there. You should come live with us instead.”
Craig rests his hand on his shoulder. “Would you like that, pumpkin?”
“Yep,” she says simply.
“Maybe one day soon.”
“You can share my room. We could get bunk beds.”
“Or,” Craig says, sitting on the other side of the table. “She might want to sleep in my bed with Pops and Dada.”
I hold my breath, wondering how that idea will go down.
“Oh yeah, that could work too. You could take turns.” I meet Craig’s eyes, trying to suppress a giggle. Lyra taps my arms with her pencil. “Sharing's caring.”
“It is.”
“It’s very good to share.”
“I agree.”
“Come on, Lyra,” Craig says, “have you finished your note? We need to put it with your stocking.”
She nods and folds it in half, jumping down from her seat. We follow her into the living room, where Archie and Samson are hanging stockings in front of the fire. I count them. Five. Which means one is for me.
Lyra places her note on the mantelpiece, where a glass of milk and a carrot are already waiting.
“You forgot Santa’s snack,” I say and then take Lyra back to the kitchen to search for a suitable mince pie.
I have a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart as I watch her arrange the mince pie next to the carrot, then decide it should be next to the milk.
“Will Santa really come down the chimney?” she asks me.
“Of course.”
“He won’t get stuck?”
“If he does, then your daddies will be here to pull him out.”
