Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper, taking his hand in mine and pressing it over my belly.
Both of us feeling the little kick of the tiny life inside me.
“Our son,” I tell him, watching his eyes turn silver in the dim light of the porch.
His shoulders shake when he holds me closer to him, keeping his hand on mine.
On our baby.
“Oh, Holly… Why didn’t you say anything?” he finally asks, sniffing back his emotions while mine are streaming down my face.
But all of it good.
Both of us are happier than ever, and I’m relieved as hell that I don’t have to struggle for the right moment.
“I kinda thought you might’ve noticed,” I reply dryly, reminding him that all the new clothes I’ve been buying haven’t been just for fun.
“I feel so stupid,” Steve says to himself, shaking his head with a smile.
“I was just glad to see you looking healthier, eating better,” he explains.
“I never thought…,” he says, his voice catching in his throat before I put my fingers to his lips.
I finally feel it when I press our heads together in silence, just sitting on the semi-dark porch with nothing but the hum of a luxury car and crickets chirping.
The place I never knew and the one thing I was so sure I’d never have.
Home and a family.
Without even seeing it in the daylight, and after convincing Steve by showing him it’s perfectly safe for him to make love to me still, we both agree that this is it.
“I don’t think we need to hand the keys back after two weeks,” Steve remarks, rolling off me, clutching my hand to his lips.
“Or ever,” I pant. Moving his hand with mine to let him feel just one more time the most special gift we could ever give each other.
EPILOGUE
SOME TIME LATER
Steve
“I don’t care if you think you’ll look like Santa because you’re pregnant again or not,” I tell her hotly.
“I’m Dad, so I get to play Santa,” I repeat for the tenth time. “He’ll know it’s you anyway, and since when did Santa wear a double D bra and earrings for chrissakes?”
Holly smirks, then screws her face up. “So I’m Mrs. Claus. You can be Mr. Santa, or whatever you call it,” she reasons that, apart from it not mattering, our son Luke is only just over a year old.
“I don’t think he’s gonna mind, either way, honey. After putting Luke down for the night, I just thought to leave cookies and carrots out for the reindeer….”
I feel my head tilting, maybe like a second pregnancy has affected Holly in a way I can never understand.
She sighs patiently.
“… Then, after you’ve fed the reindeer, you can wish Mrs. Claus a Merry Christmas?” she says, stabbing out each word. Shifting her gaze down and bending her knees as she opens her legs and lifts her skirt past her knees, making me laugh instantly.
“Oooooohhhh. I get it now,” I groan, finally catching on.
“I think the Mr. and Mrs. Claus idea might work. Luke can make of it what he will, but I, on the other hand…,” I warn her in a cautionary tone, already feeling myself getting rock hard at the idea.
As if on cue, baby Luke starts to squawk. Both of us move by instinct to comfort him, forgetting all about our Santa suits.
Or so I’d thought.
Once Luke’s settled and fed, burped, and changed, I feel beat myself and have almost forgotten the idea until I reach our bedroom next to Luke’s.
It’s my Christmas Holly. She is wearing only the Santa cap and my Santa coat, which flows over her like a luxurious red velvet robe.
I feel myself swallow hard, easily agreeing with her suggestion to “Come and get it.”
But Luke, our son, seems to have other plans tonight.
Every time we think he’s down and settled, as soon as our bodies touch or our hands link, he’s bawling again.
“He must be cutting a tooth,” Holly decides.
“I’ll bring his crib in here. We can prop him up with us until he’s ready to get some rest,” I tell her, moving swiftly for my son’s things.
Feeling a love I’ve only matched with his mom, my wife. I feel both affection and concern for little Luke.
I know he’ll be fine. But seeing him cry, tonight of all nights doesn’t feel right.
But we’ve both learned quickly that parenting or marriage isn’t always perfect.
Although I reckon we come pretty damned close.
Once Luke can see Mom and Dad, Mr. and Mrs. Santa aren’t getting what they wanted for Christmas just yet, his whole mood lifts.
He bubbles and giggles, blows raspberries, and laughs like only an infant can.
When he does settle and we’re all ready for sleep, I switch out our light and gently lay my son in his crib by our bed.
A single moonbeam shining bright through the frost-lined window, like a spotlight from heaven.