Page 89 of Big Santa
Quick and soft. Nothing like last night and somehow just as dangerous.
“Merry Christmas, wife.”
Something in my chest goes warm. “Merry Christmas, husband.”
Five minutes turns into eleven because I have to run down the hallway to my bedroom and change, and Maverick apparently has to stand in his doorway watching me do it.
Dottie is already downstairs when we arrive. She takes one look at Maverick, and then at me. She smiles and then takes a very deliberate sip of coffee.
“Don’t,” Maverick says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to wish you a merry Christmas.”
“Do that.”
“Merry Christmas. My daughter will be here in about fifteen minutes to pick me up. Oh and Maverick?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“It’s about time you pulled your head out of you know where. You two belong together. Anyone can see that.”
Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her mug.
The old woman winks.
I nearly trip over a toy truck.
Thankfully, Shiloh doesn’t notice any of this.
He’s sitting cross-legged in front of the tree in Christmas pajamas, staring at the presents with the kind of vibrating intensity normally associated with unstable explosives.
“Now?” he asks with a wiggle of his legs.
Maverick sits on the couch. “Now.”
Shiloh dives in.
Christmas morning explodes. Paper everywhere. Ribbon everywhere. Boxes everywhere.
Somewhere in the middle, Dottie leaves to join her own family for the rest of the holidays.
Santa brought a remote-control truck, two dinosaurs, a set of magnetic building tiles, and something involving slime that I deeply regret suggesting.
Maverick gives me a look when Shiloh opens that one.
I shrug. “You married me.”
“I did.” He holds my gaze. “And I’d do it again.”
My stomach flips.
He says it so easy.
Shiloh opens the last present under the tree and immediately starts building what he claims is a dinosaur hospital out of magnetic squares.
