He shrugs, amused. “You ordered enough food to feed an army. They needed the extra time.”
“Oh hush,” I mutter, wiping beneath my eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve. We’re having a real dinner this year. No hospital food. No takeout. No—”
“Chaos,” he finishes for me. “I know.”
His expression softens. “That’s why I want today perfect for you. For us.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, filling every hollow space his tenderness always finds.
I turn toward the dresser, slipping out of my robe as I lay out my two choices, the soft cream sweater dress or the deep green velvet one he picked last month, the one that makes me feel like a fairy tale version of myself.
I can feel his eyes on me immediately.
Heat skates down my spine.
“Stop staring,” I say, trying and failing to keep my voice stern as I shimmy into one of the dresses.
“No,” he answers simply.
I glance over my shoulder.
He’s standing there still shirtless, arms crossed over his chest as he watches me like he’s cataloging every inch for later.
“You make it very hard to get dressed,” I mutter.
“That sounds like ayouproblem,” he says, strolling closer with that slow, sinful gait of his.
I raise a brow at him. “Aren’t you going to shower and get ready?”
He stops behind me, his hands brushing lightly over my hips, barely a touch, but enough to steal my breath.
His lips graze my ear.
“I will,” he murmurs. “After I finish admiring my wife.”
I roll my eyes, cheeks warming. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he counters, voice low, eyes locked on mine in the mirror above the dresser.
I smooth the dress over my body. Santo doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there clearly not in any hurry to put on actual clothes.
“You’restillstaring,” I whisper.
“And you’restillbeautiful,” he murmurs back, brushing a kiss against the top of my shoulder. “Go ahead, continue. I’ll shower in a minute.”
“So you say.”
“Mmm.” He smiles against my neck and my heart flutters for him like it always will.
Chapter 10
Sugar and Skin
The cream sweater dress might be a terrible idea.
I smooth my palms over the soft knit, staring at myself in the hallway mirror. Cozy, warm, pretty… and absolutely destined to be assaulted by icing the moment I start decorating cookies.
“Well,” I murmur, tugging the hem down, “at least it’s festive.”
