For Santa.
I gasped awake, but the dream didn’t dissolve like smoke the way my memories usually did. It stayed in a high-definitionreplay of a moment I’d once lived. My hand flew to my mouth as I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
My dad was Santa Claus. Not “like” Santa Claus. Not “Santa-esque.” Not a festive researcher with unfortunate holiday enthusiasm.
Which made me... what? Some kind of Christmas princess? The heiress to a global breaking-and-entering operation?
The bed beside me was empty, the sheets still warm where Dane and Dash had been. Had they known all along? Of course they had. Everyone had known except me.
I’d spent over a decade of my life running from something I couldn’t even remember. Years thinking I was just a girl with seasonal depression and an inexplicable aversion to candy canes.
Why hadn’t they told me? Why make me feel crazy for years when all they had to say was, “Hey, honey, you’re kind of a big deal at the North Pole!”
The distant sound of laughter filtered through the door, along with the smell of cinnamon and the soft notes of music. I flopped back against the pillows, my chest heaving. I needed answers—real ones, not cryptic reindeer hints or more cookie-induced memory fragments.
After brushing my teeth and hair, I padded to where I’d stowed my suitcase. It was open on the floor but entirely empty. I looked around, my eyes landing on the dresser.
I marched over to it, where there was a matching set of red lace underwear and a bra, a pair of fleece-lined black leggings, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a cream-colored sweater with intricate snowflake patterns.
After looking in all the dresser drawers and the closet to confirm that none of my belongings were there, I snatched up the lace underwear, my eye twitching.
Had one of them picked this out? Had they all discussed my underwear preferences while I slept and conjured them with their magic? I could picture nine magical reindeer men gathered around the dining table:Today’s agenda: Neve’s panties.
I yanked on the clothes, my movements sharp with irritation. The outfit fit perfectly, and the sweater was the kind of cashmere that probably came from a magical goat that shit Skittles. The leggings hugged my curves like they’d been custom-made.
It only made me angrier.
I didn’t want their perfect magical clothes. I didn’t want to be part of a Christmas legacy. I wanted answers, and I wanted them without festive background music and cutesy North Pole nonsense.
The laughter downstairs grew louder and more animated. I squared my shoulders and headed for the door, my jaw set in a hard line.
I stormed down the polished wooden stairs, each step punctuating my fury. The staircase opened into a great room with a cathedral ceiling that could have housed a small herd of elephants, which, considering the size of the men currently occupying it, wasn’t far off.
Eight of the nine men were spread throughout the space in a scene so sickeningly festive it belonged on the front of a Hallmark card. The open-concept kitchen gleamed with copper pots hanging from a rack and a massive island where Kip and Cole rolled out dough for cinnamon rolls. Blitz stood at the stove, stirring something that sent clouds of spiced steam into the air.
My Christmas tree from my house in Palm Springs now stood proudly in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a panoramic view of the snow outside and the still-darkened sky. Don and Pierce were wrapping garland around anything they could, while Vix hung ornaments from a giant wreath above the fireplace.
Dane and Dash occupied part of the massive dining room table, where Dash operated a sewing machine with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before, while Dane hand-stitched a stocking with an ornate “N” across the top.
They were making me a Christmas stocking.
My heart did fifty million things all at once, and some of my anger disappeared. The sight of Dane’s careful stitching of myinitial sent electricity skittering across my skin, as unwelcome as it was undeniable.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and planted myself there, arms crossed, waiting for someone to notice me. The laughter, the Christmas music playing softly from hidden speakers, the domesticity of it all grated against my raw nerves like sandpaper.
Blitz spotted me first, his smile faltering slightly at my thunderous expression. “Morning, sunshine.”
All eyes swiveled to me, and their smiles dimmed as they registered my mood. My body suddenly felt tingly with unease. I didn’t enjoy seeing their joy dampened by my sourness.
I scanned the room again, noting the one missing presence. “Where’s Rudy?”
Dane set down his needlework. “Outside. He, uh… likes to run the perimeter in the mornings.”
“Of course he does.” I stepped further into the room, taking in the Christmas bomb that had exploded all over what must have been a perfectly nice living room before. “So, were any of you planning to tell me that my father is Santa Claus, or was I supposed to figure that out from the cookies and cryptic comments?”
The activity in the room stuttered to a halt. Pierce froze mid-garland hang. Kip’s rolling pin stilled. Dash’s foot lifted off the sewing machine pedal.
