She winces as she walks away. It’s all I can do to shake my head at her.
Geez.
When she disappears into the crowd of city folk rushing around the last day before Christmas, the only thing I want to do is get home to my girls.
Like, now.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
CELESTE
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house... two impatient girls pace, waiting on one man. And he isn’t Santa Claus. The weather has settled in, making travel from Boston to Grafton slow and a little tricky.
We’ve had one sketchy phone call from Quin and a few text updates on his location in the last half of the day.
Now every minute feels like an hour.
“He’s going to be here soon, honey. I’m sure.”
Maise pouts as she paces. “Hurry up, Daddy. How can he miss Christmas?”
Her little huff makes me laugh.
I grab her and tickle the pout from her face. “He’ll be here soon, kiddo. Let’s make some hot cocoa to pass the time.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes, head tilting upward to the ceiling.
The house is cleaned from top to bottom. Apparently Maise and I both clean when we’re anxious. The tree glitters under the strings of lights and the fire crackles away, thanks to instructions from Maise after I forgot everything Quinton told me before he left.
We pad to the kitchen, and I pull out two mugs. My hand hovers for a third, but I don’t want to get her hopes up. I leave it there and put the kettle on.
Maise sinks onto a counter stool, planting her chin in her hands. “What if he doesn’t get back in time?”
“He will. Have a little faith.”
I give her my best smile, but her expression doesn’t change.Yeah, I don’t believe me, either.
The last time we waited for someone to come home on Christmas Eve, she didn’t. The gut-churning feeling that follows the dark memory burns something fierce behind my eyes.
Nope.
That is not what’s happening here.
“CC?”
“Yeah, baby?” I turn from the blank spot on the wall that has snagged my gaze.
“The kettle’s boiling.”
The squeal fades in and I shake the morbid thought and very real worry away, heading for the kettle.
“Right. Cocoa time.”
“Is that what happened to your mommy?”
How the . . .
