He opens his mouth.
"No," I warn, pointing a finger. "Don't you dare."
He grins—a wicked, dimpled thing that belongs completely to his father—and chucks the ornament across the room.
It bounces off the stone fireplace.
"Score!" Gabriel shouts from the hallway, diving to catch our daughter before she can scale the baby gate on her way into the kitchen to harass the caterers.
"Don't encourage him!"
Bending down to pick up the ornament makes me wince. My lower back throbs in protest. Being pregnant with baby number three while chasing twin toddlers is an extreme sport, and I’m way too big for this shit.
Gabriel scoops Rumi up off the floor. She squeals, kicking her legs, her dark curls bouncing. If Rowan is destruction, his other half is chaos incarnate, stubborn as a mule, and currently trying to eat the tinsel she managed to rip off the bottom branches of the tree.
Yeah, it was one hell of a surprise that second ultrasound when we found out we were having twins.
"Got her," Gabriel says, tossing Rumi over his shoulder. She giggles, pounding on his back. He walks over, offering a hand to help me straighten up. "Leave the mess. I'll get it."
"Your son is a vandal," I tell him, leaning into his side. "He has no respect for my vision of the perfect Christmas."
"Baby, we have twin terrors. Christmas was never going to be perfect," Gabriel says with a laugh, kissing the top of my head.
Somehow I know next Christmas is going to be even more wild with the new baby added into the mix.
A glance around the room reveals just how much life has changed.
Two years ago, on our first Christmas, this house felt empty and still.
Now?
A disaster zone of happiness covers every surface.
High-contrast board books sit piled on the custom Italian leather ottoman, and a stuffed dragon has been shoved between the cushions of the sofa. The Christmas tree in the corner looks like it lost a fight. The bottom half is completely bare, stripped of anything breakable, but that didn't stop my son. He just dragged a dining chair over to reach the ones near the top.
The house is loud now. Messy.
Perfect.
"Guests will be here in twenty minutes," I say, smoothing my hands over the velvet of my maternity dress. It’s deep emerald green, a nod to the night everything started. "And I think I’ve got applesauce stuck in my hair."
"You look beautiful," Gabriel says. His hand settles on the high curve of my stomach right as the baby pushes out. I swear this baby already recognizes his or her father because the second he touches my belly, the baby reacts. Every. Single. Time. "Go sit. I’ll wrangle the monsters."
"You’re a monster, too," I remind him.
"Yeah. But I'm the biggest one, so I win."
The party’s fully underway by seven.
It’s become our tradition. The annual Hollis Christmas Eve party. But unlike the stuffy, pretentious galas at the country club, this one is for us. For our people.
Harper arrives first, looking like a runway model in a silver jumpsuit that’s just soher. She breezes in, shaking snow off her coat, and locates the champagne without hesitation.
"Don't look at me like that," she says, pointing a flute at my belly. "I’m drinking for two since you can't."
"You're a giver," I say dryly. "How's the new guy?"
Harper’s smirk turns secretive. "He's complicated. You know I like a project."
