Epilogue
Tessa
The massive diamond on my left hand caught the firelight as I adjusted the red velvet bow on our Christmas tree.
Six carats of pure sparkle that still made me catch my breath every time the light hit it right. Mrs. Tessa Wynn-Cross—the name still felt foreign and wonderful on my tongue after eight months of marriage.
Our new house in Lincoln Park was everything I'd never dared to dream of—soaring ceilings, a gourmet kitchen I was still learning to use, and windows that overlooked a private garden now dusted with fresh snow.
But the best part was the soft sounds drifting from the nursery upstairs—Lucian's low voice singing Christmas carols to our son.
Alastair had arrived exactly four weeks early, screaming his way into the world with his father's pale gray eyes and what the nurses called "impressive lung capacity".
At six months old, he was already showing signs of the Cross stubborn streak, refusing to sleep anywhere but in his daddy's arms.
"There we go, little man," I heard Lucian murmur from the baby monitor. "Santa's coming early tomorrow, so you need your beauty sleep."
I smiled as his footsteps creaked down the hall. A few minutes later, he appeared at the top of our open staircase, having shed his sweater for a simple white T-shirt that showed off the muscles rippling beneath.
Even at forty-nine, he was devastatingly handsome—more so now that the constant stress lines had smoothed from around his eyes.
"Finally down?" I asked as he descended the stairs.
"Out cold. Though I suspect that won't last long once your mother arrives with her collection of noisemaking toys." He moved to our wine cabinet and selected a bottle of Bordeaux, pouring two glasses before settling beside me on our oversized sectional.
"Here," he said, handing me the wine before lifting my feet into his lap. His strong hands began kneading my arches, and I groaned with pleasure.
"You're going to spoil me rotten," I murmured, sinking deeper into the plush cushions.
"That's the plan, Mrs. Cross." His thumbs worked magic on my tired feet as his eyes danced with mischief. "Santa comes early in the morning, so you should rest."
I took a sip of wine and gestured toward the mistletoe hanging from the mantel. "Santa should be careful not to get too close to that mistletoe when Grandma gets here. She might interrupt any potential shenanigans."
Lucian's hands stilled on my feet, his gaze following mine to the innocent sprig of greenery. "Are you suggesting Santa has been naughty this year?"
"I'm suggesting Santa's wife might end up on the naughty list if she's not careful." I set down my wine glass and shifted closer to him on the couch. "Especially if Santa keeps looking at her with those bedroom eyes."
He chuckled, abandoning my feet to pull me fully against his chest. "Speaking of Christmas gifts," he murmured against my ear, "I've been thinking about next year's present for Alastair."
"Oh?" I turned in his arms, noting the heat building in his pale eyes. "And what might that be?"
"A sibling." His hands found the hem of my sweater, fingers tracing patterns on the bare skin of my waist. "I think he'd look adorable as a big brother, don't you?"
My breath caught as his touch grew bolder, traveling upward with obvious intent. "Lucian Cross, are you trying to seduce me on Christmas Eve?"
"Is it working?" He nipped at my earlobe, and I melted against him completely.
"Maybe," I gasped as his mouth found the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. "But what if my mother—"
"She's not supposed to be here for another hour." His hands made quick work of my sweater, tossing it aside as his lips blazed a trail down my throat. "Plenty of time to be very, very naughty."
I was about to surrender completely to his ministrations when the doorbell rang, ruining the mood.
We froze, staring at each other with wide eyes and swollen lips.
"That can't be—" I started.
"Ho-ho-ho!" My mother's voice carried through the door, followed by Frank's distinctive laugh. "Surprise!"
Lucian dropped his forehead against mine with a groan. "Your mother has terrible timing."
I scrambled to find my sweater while he adjusted his T-shirt and ran his hands through his thoroughly mussed hair. "She always arrives early when she's excited," I whispered, pulling the soft cashmere over my head. "I should've warned you."
The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time.
"Coming, Mom!" I called out, doing a final check of my appearance in the hall mirror. Lucian appeared behind me, straightening his shirt and giving me a rueful smile that made my heart flutter.
I opened the door to find my mother practically vibrating with excitement, her arms loaded with shopping bags and wrapped presents.
Frank stood behind her, shaking snow from his coat and grinning at our obvious dishevelment.
"Merry Christmas, darlings!" Mom pushed past me into the foyer, Frank following with an apologetic shrug. "I hope you don't mind us being early—Frank wanted to miss the traffic, and I was too excited to wait any longer to see my grandbaby!"
She paused in the middle of depositing her bags, taking in our flushed faces and rumpled clothes with the shrewd eyes that had always seen too much.
"Oh, my," she said with a knowing smirk. "Did we interrupt something?"
"Nothing at all," I said quickly, but Lucian stepped forward with that confident smile that had first caught my attention two years ago.
"Just discussing Christmas morning logistics," he said smoothly, slipping his arm around my waist. "But we're thrilled you're here. Both of you."
Frank clapped Lucian on the shoulder with genuine warmth. "Good to see you, Son. How's fatherhood treating you?"
"Better than I ever imagined." Lucian's expression softened as baby sounds drifted from the monitor. "Though I have a feeling someone heard Grandma's voice."
As if summoned, Alastair's cries filled the house, wide awake and ready for attention.
"I'll get him," I said, but Mom was already heading for the stairs.
"Nonsense! Grandma duties call." She disappeared upstairs, her delighted cooing soon replacing Alastair's cries.
Frank settled into our living room, admiring our Christmas tree and accepting the wine Lucian offered.
Within minutes, Mom reappeared with a perfectly content Alastair in her arms, both of them beaming.
"Look how big he's gotten!" she exclaimed, settling into the rocking chair we'd positioned near the fireplace. "And those eyes—he's going to be a heartbreaker, just like his daddy."
I caught Lucian's amused expression and felt my heart swell with contentment.
This—our house filled with family, our son gurgling happily in his grandmother's arms, the man I loved more than breathing standing beside me—this was everything I'd never known I wanted.
Lucian's hand found mine, his thumb brushing over my wedding rings as we watched our perfectly imperfect family settle in for Christmas Eve.
The naughty list would have to wait, but honestly, I couldn't imagine anywhere I'd rather be.
"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Cross," he whispered against my ear.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Cross," I whispered back, squeezing his hand as snow continued to fall outside our windows.
We had everything we'd ever dreamed of and more than we'd ever dared to hope for.