I manage a weak laugh. “Merry Christmas, Edgar.”
He snorts. “Merry Christmas, Mr.Beaumont.”
The line clicks dead. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the dark screen of my phone. Outside, snow drifts past the window like ash. Somewhere in the house, the faint notes ofWhite Christmashum through the walls—Willow’s playlist.
I close my eyes, rub the space between my brows. Fourteen billion dollars, stolen by a man who’d once been a kid left on the street because of my family’s greed. There’s a bitter poetry in that—an inheritance of guilt I didn’t ask for but can’t deny.
I push away from the desk and stand, my shoulders heavy, but lighter in some way I can’t quite name.
When I turn toward the doorway, she’s already there.
Willow leans against the frame, wearing one of my sweaters that slips off one shoulder, the hem barely brushing her thighs. Her hair falls in soft waves, and there’s a mischievous spark in her eyes that always undoes me.
She twirls a small sprig of mistletoe between her fingers. “Long call?”
“Too long,” I murmur, crossing the room.
She grins and lifts the mistletoe just above my head, then slides onto my lap as I sink back into the chair. Her legs curl around me, warm and effortless. The faint scent of cinnamon and something sweeter clings to her skin.
Her voice drops to a teasing whisper. “So, Mr. Beaumont… have you been naughty or nice this year?”
I cup her face, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. The weight of the phone call fades beneath the gravity of her nearness, the only truth I’ve ever needed.
“I’m always naughty around you,” I murmur, and kiss her.
Her breath catches as our mouths meet—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. She fists the front of my shirt, pulling me closer until the world narrows to her warmth, her taste of cocoaand wine. My hand finds her hair, sliding through it as she sighs against my lips, that small sound breaking me open.
When we part, her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, mistletoe still trembling above us.
19
WILLOW
“Santa won’t comeif you’re awake,” I whisper, tucking Elise’s blanket up to her chin. Her eyes—wide, caramel-colored, and far too knowing for a four-year-old—peek up at me through lashes that flutter like she’s pretending to be sleepy.
“That’s not true,” Rose announces from the other side of the room, where her own blanket has become a fort. “I stayed up last year, remember? I saw Daddy carrying the presents in the middle of the night.”
I turn my head slowly toward her, narrowing my eyes in mock accusation. “And that,” I murmur, lowering my voice like I’m telling a grave secret, “is why your presents weredelayed.”
Rose gasps, her mouth falling open. “Nooo.”
“Yes,” I say solemnly, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Santa had to go deliver to all the other well-behaved children first, and when he came back, you were finally asleep.”
Elise giggles, hiding her smile under the blanket. Rose crosses her arms, but the corners of her lips twitch, and I know I’ve won—for now. She’s too smart for her own good.
“Go to sleep,” I say softly, leaning down to kiss each of them. Elise first, her skin warm and milk-sweet, then Rose, whoimmediately wipes her cheek dramatically and whispers, “Ew, mom kisses.”
“You love my kisses,” I whisper back, grinning.
She hides her face, still smiling, and I linger there for a moment—just watching them breathe, listening to the faint wind rattling the windows. The tree lights downstairs flicker faintly up the stairwell. I rub my hand through my hair, my hand brushing against the almost gone bruise throbbing faintly at my temple. And when I move my wrist, the bandage catches against the sleeve of my sweater—a reminder of how easily peace can tear.
I pull the door almost shut, leaving it cracked just enough for the hall light to spill in, and make my way down the hall.
The faint laughter from downstairs makes me pause on the landing. I can picture them all there without even looking—Damien with his sleeves rolled up, dusting powdered sugar across the hardwood to make “Santa footprints.” Cast probably bossing everyone around, insisting that the angles of the cookie bites look realistic, while Vincent rolls his eyes and pours whiskey into his cocoa.
Christmas magic, Beaumont-Sterling-Castillo style and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
For a second, I almost want to go down there, to see them all smiling again. But the weight in my pocket reminds me I can’t, because despite me being seven weeks late now I still don’t know until I see it for real.
