“He deserves a daughter,” I whisper, another tear slipping free. “Someone withhisheart. Someone he can spoil and protect and… soften for.”
I sniff, wiping my cheek with the sleeve of my sweater leaving behind the mark of my blush.
“I’ll make sure she knows you,” I promise softly. “Everything about you. Everything he loved. Everything I read in your journals… thank you for leaving those.”
The shower upstairs clicks off.
Santo’s footsteps thud.
I inhale slowly and tiptoe to place a gentle touch on the edge of the frame, the mother-in-law I never got a chance to know, and I whisper:
“Merry Christmas, Lucia.”
The room feels warmer as I step away.
Like she whispered it back.
I slip into the kitchen and breathe in the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and ginger; yesterday’s baking still clinging to the air like a hug.
Time to decorate.
I open the container of royal icing Santo bought in absurd bulk, separating it into little bowls. A few drops of red. A swirl of green. Pure white for the base. And gold, my favorite, for the delicate details.
Santo says gingerbread cookies shouldn’t have personalities.
Which is exactly why I give every single one a ridiculous amount of personality.
The cooled gingerbread men, women, and tiny houses line the marble counter in neat rows. My army of sugar children.
They stare at me with gumdrop eyes, ready for their cruel fates.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, smiling as I load a piping bag. “Who needs thirty gingerbread people?”
But I know why.
Some are for the guards staying on the estate.
Some for Luna when she comes over later.
Some because my hands needed to stay busy while my heart tries to catch up with my life.
I’m concentrating on giving one gingerbread man a tiny red jacket when everything in me shifts.
He’s here.
Santo never makes noise unless he wants to. But I feel him—always, like the air thickens around me, like my heartbeat syncs to his footsteps before he even reaches me.
“That one looks like Angelo,” he murmurs against my ear, stealing a gumdrop right off the tray.
I jump, then laugh. “It does not.”
“It does.” His arm slides around my waist, pulling me back into him. He’s warm, freshly showered, smelling like cedar and spice. “Angry little eyebrows. Smug stance.”
“I heard you talking,” he adds, suspicious but amused. “Was it to the gingerbread?”
“Mhm.” I fib immediately, leaning into him. “They needed encouragement.”
His lips brush my neck, slow and soft and devastating. “Did they?”
