“Merry Christmas.” My voice comes out sleep-scratchy. I’m wearing one of Leo’s t-shirts and nothing underneath, and the cotton brushes my thighs as I cross the kitchen tiles on bare feet. The floor is cold, and I curl my toes against it, which is not exactly the sexy entrance I was going for.
Dane’s eyes track me, unhurried, and I’m starting to understand this might be the way he does everything. “Merry Christmas, Alice.”
Something in his voice makes warmth bloom low in my belly, and I have to look away. Leo hooks an arm around my waist as I pass the stove and pulls me in, pressing a kiss to my temple. The scent of oranges from his skin mixes with bacon grease and coffee, and I breathe him in, my hands flat against his bare chest. I could stay in his arms for hours, but the rumble in my stomach tells me I’ve got other priorities.
“Hungry?” he asks, his accent thicker in the morning.
“Starving.”
“Good. Sit down and let us feed you.”
He says it like a command wrapped in kindness, and my body tingles. I take the stool next to Dane, and he slides a mug of coffee toward me without being asked. Black, two sugars. Did Leo tell him how I take it?
I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip, watching them prepare breakfast. Leo plates the bacon while Dane spoons oatmeal into three bowls and arranges the sliced strawberries on top in a pretty design. Once he adds blueberries and a drizzle of honey, he places the first bowl in front of me. After watching the care he took dishing up the bowls, there’s no way I’m going to decline it now.
Leo starts another verse, this one about putting the sailor in the longboat, and Dane shakes his head without looking up. “Your pitch is criminal,” he says.
“My pitch is festive.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I laugh into my coffee, and Leo points the tongs at me. “Don’t encourage him, lass. He’s been judging my singing since university.”
“Someone had to,” Dane says, and the corners of his mouth twitch.
We eat together at the island, knees bumping, Leo’s hand drifting to my thigh between bites. The bacon is perfectly crisp, and Dane’s oatmeal is the best I’ve ever had. I’m not sure if thefood is really this good, or if I worked up an appetite last night. I might just be happy, so everything seems wonderful.
They’re both in good moods, and breakfast is fun. Leo reaches across me to steal a blueberry from Dane’s bowl, and Dane catches his wrist without looking. They bicker about the sea shanties with the comfort of decades between them. They both keep filling my coffee without my asking.
I haven’t had a Christmas morning like this since my parents’ last Christmas, when I’d watched my dad burn the pancakes while my mom laughed so hard she cried. That was three months before the accident. After that, Christmases were at my aunt’s apartment with takeout and the TV on too loud, and eventually, it was me alone in my apartment with snacks and whatever holiday movie looked interesting to stream.
My throat gets tight, and I stare down at my oatmeal, blinking hard.Don’t. Not right now.
A warm hand covers mine. Leo’s thumb strokes across my knuckles slowly, not saying anything. He doesn’t have to. I turn my hand over and lace my fingers through his, squeezing, and the tightness in my throat eases enough for me to breathe.
Dane sets a glass of water beside my coffee without a word. He doesn’t even look at me when he does it, and that’s somehow the kindest thing anyone has done for me in a long time.
I drink the water, and I’m fine.
After breakfast, Leo insists I sit on the living room couch while he and Dane clean the kitchen. I try to ignore the request and get a firm“Sit!”from both of them at the same time, which sends me straight to the couch.
The living room is warm, and one of them started a fire already. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, colored lights blinking through their slow rotation. The star casts tiny prisms across the ceiling, and pine mixes with cedar from the fireplace. My chest does a weird fluttery thing that I’m choosing to ignore.
Once the kitchen is clean, Leo drops onto the couch beside me, one arm stretching along the back behind my shoulders. Dane sits gracefully in the armchair. He looks comfortable here and doesn’t act like a visitor. It’s obvious he visits often.
“Dane has a gift for you, lass.” Leo nods at Dane.
Dane reaches down beside the armchair and produces a package wrapped in brown paper, with simple, careful creases. He holds it out to me without ceremony.
Inside is a Mary Oliver poetry book. The cover is beautiful, and when I open it, I find a note written in neat, angular handwriting on the first page: “For the mornings when you need inspiration. —D”
I run my thumb over the ink. I don’t know who Mary Oliver is, but the fact he put thought into the gift warms me. This man I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours bought me poetry for Christmas.
“Thank you,” I say. “This is really thoughtful.”
“You’re welcome.” He says it simply, but his dark eyes hold mine, and I can tell the poetry means something to him. I make a promise to myself to read it and see why he chose this gift for me.
Leo squeezes my shoulder and stands. “Alright, lass. Come with me.”
