Page 5 of Wild Christmas
Her eyes go wide in surprise, but she doesn’t push the issue.
“So you don’t put up any other Christmas decorations? No tinsel, no streamers, no wreath on the door?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Freya puts her hands on her hips and stares at me. “I love Christmas.” She smiles, and her face lights up. “I was thinking I could make some streamers with the girls, hang some tinsel, make a signpost for Santa…”
The girls have gone quiet but Freya bubbles along like a stream, moving around the room no doubt imagining where she’d put all these messy decorations.
“You must have stockings to hang over the fireplace?”
The girls shake their heads and Freya turns on me, and I suddenly feel like the worst dad in the world.
“You don’t decorate for Christmas?” She’s genuinely stunned, and I feel like the grinch who stole Christmas.
“It’s messy,” I say lamely.
“You have two little girls; it’s supposed to be messy.”
The girls look at me carefully, no doubt seeing my defenses waver. “Can we decorate this year, Daddy?” Dora clutches my knee, and her eyes are wide are pleading.
“I’ll keep it neat,” says Freya quickly. “No glitter, and we’ll take it all down afterwards.”
“The day after Christmas,” I say firmly.
“On the sixth of January, as is tradition,” Freya says with her hands on her hips.
She’s negotiating with me over Christmas decorations. I like it.
“January first. That’s my final offer.”
“Fine.” She smiles, and I’m glad I’m letting her decorate just to see that smile. The girls jump up and down in excitement and start babbling about every way they’re going to turn my neat living area into a winter wonderland.
I’ve heard enough. I need to drop this PC off with a client, and I’ll work at the club for the rest of the afternoon.
I leave them to their planning, but all I can think about is the glimpse I got of Freya’s tanned stomach when her sweater rode up and what it would feel like to run my hands over her skin.
3
FREYA
Istack the last of the dishes in the dishwasher, add some dishwashing detergent, and turn it on. Upstairs the sounds of the girls laughing reach my ears, making me smile.
Nate may be a grumpy ass during the day, but he’s a softie when it comes to his girls. He insists on doing the bedtime routine with them, bathing them and reading to them. I imagine them now tucked up in bed either side of the big man while he reads them a story.
I leave the pots and pans on the kitchen side. I don’t mind doing the washing up. It’s not in my job description, but Nate’s cooked for me every night so it only seems fair. But after that first night, he asked me not to do the washing up because I didn’t do it properly. I’ve never been critiqued on my washing up before, but if he wants me to leave him the dishes, I’m not going to complain.
I fill the kettle with water and lean against thecounter as I wait for it to boil. It’s gone quiet upstairs, and I imagine Nate kissing the girls goodnight and pulling blankets over them.
I pour myself a mug of chamomile tea to take up to my room. But instead of heading up straight away, I linger for a few minutes scrolling through my phone.
Soon I hear Nate padding down the stairs. He comes into the kitchen, and my heart flutters in my chest. His hair is ruffled and his expression soft, as it always is after he’s spent time with the girls. He wears a green hoodie that accentuates the color of his eyes and makes it hard to look away.
“Is it okay if I do some baking?”
Nate looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “What, tonight?”
“Tomorrow. I thought I could make gingerbread cookies with Maisie and decorate them when Dora gets home from school.”
