And Henry designed and built most of it himself.
Lilliana insists on using a carrot for Bernard the snowman's nose and rocks for his eyes, and when she's busy arranging his stick arms, Henry moves closer to me.
"About last night—" he starts quietly.
"Are you regretting it?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"God, no." He sounds almost offended by the question. "I'm regretting that we got interrupted. I'm regretting that I didn'tget to finish what I started." His voice is low and rough. "And tonight, after Lilliana's asleep, you're coming back to my bed."
It's not a question. It's a statement, and the command in his voice makes me clench with need.
"Yes, sir," I say, and his eyes go dark.
"Maren."
"Maren, Daddy, look!" Lilliana's waving us over to admire Bernard.
We spend the rest of the morning building and playing in the snow, and I try very hard not to stare at the way Henry's jeans hug his ass or how his forearms flex when he lifts Lilliana onto his shoulders.
I fail spectacularly.
When he catches me looking, his mouth curves into a slow smile that promises trouble.
The afternoon blurs by in a haze of domestic bliss and sexual tension so thick I could cut it with a knife. We decorate gingerbread houses—well, Lilliana decorates hers while Henry and I mostly just eat the candy and try not to stare at each other. We watchElfcurled up on the couch with Lilliana between us, and every time Henry's hand strays close to mine on the back of the couch, my heart races.
This is torture. Sweet, wonderful torture.
Around five, we make dinner together—grilled cheese and tomato soup because it's Lilliana's favorite and easy. Then we let her stay up late to watchThe Polar Express, and by the time it's over, she's struggling to keep her eyes open.
"Bedtime, baby girl," Henry says gently.
"But I want to wait up for Santa," she protests through a yawn.
"Santa won't come if you're awake," I remind her. "That's the rule."
She pouts but lets Henry carry her to bed. I clean up the living room, trying to calm my racing heart. He'll come back in a few minutes, and we'll be alone, and I have no idea what happens next.
But when he returns, he looks conflicted.
"She wants you to read to her," he says. "If you don't mind."
"Of course not."
I find Lilliana already tucked in, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit. Her room is decorated with fairy lights and drawings she's made, and my heart squeezes at how much I love this kid.
"Will you readThe Night Before Christmas?" she asks, holding up the book.
"I'd love to."
I settle on the edge of her bed and read, doing all the voices, watching her eyes get heavier and heavier. By the time I finish, she's almost asleep.
"Maren?" she murmurs.
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"I'm glad you're here for Christmas. It's better with you."
My throat goes tight. "I'm glad I'm here too."
