Chapter 22
[Lumi]
More tears prickle my eyes as Saint covers me. The weight of his body is heavy yet welcome after the profound moment we just experienced beneath my Christmas tree.
The tree is a little lopsided, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
With my palms pressed to his back, I keep him in place for as long as I can before I feel the familiar shift of his body. The desire not to crush me with his weight. I’m happy to bear the burden.
However, Saint rolls off me, falling to his back while I curl to my side to face him. He drapes his wrist against his forehead.
“That was . . .” He blows out a breath. “Magical.”
I chuckle at the term which falls nothing short of the truth. What happened was transcendent. Like angels singing on high. And elves really on a shelf. And believing in Santa Claus.
With that in mind, I trace his profile. Thick brows on a solid forehead. Strong nose. Perfectly puffed lips encircled by a delicious mix of silvery facial hair.
Could he be . . .
The thought seems ridiculous. I’m merely projecting a sexy Santa fantasy onto him. And yet, so many little clues suggest . . . maybe.
When his head sharply turns in my direction, I let out a little squeak at the sudden movement and disruption of my thoughts.
Slowly, he smiles, the curl of his mouth taking its time to reach a full grin. Then he laughs, jovial and light.
“God, Lumi. You are the best.” He rolls toward me, kissing me hard and fast, and nothing like the patience of our movements mere seconds ago. “Or should I say, such a good girl.”
His tone drops, and a shiver runs up my spine while my hip digs into the rug.
“And you’re a little bad.” For my heart.
However, my voice is playful, and I punctuate the flirt with a stroke of my finger down his nose.
“Oh.” I abruptly sit up and glance at the newly decorated Christmas tree. “I almost forgot I have something for you.”
His brows hitches as I press up with one arm. His gaze drags from my naked breasts to my face. “And you want to give it to me now?”
The curve of his mouth suggests he’s thinking something sexual, but I have an actual gift. With the explosion of Christmas in the room, because of the tree, it feels appropriate to give him this present now.
Hastily, I stand, pointing at him. “Don’t move.” I reach for his flannel shirt and shrug into it as I walk toward the staircase and race up them.
When I return to the living room, Saint has pulled on his boxer briefs, and I pout. “You moved.”
He looks up at me with innocent, yet dark, eyes. “I was getting cold without you.”
Folding down to crisscross my legs and sit beside him, I hold out the decorated box. It isn’t wrapped but the design on the box is festive.
“What’s this?” he smiles, while not perfectly curling his lips.
“A present. Of sorts.” I clarify. I don’t want to complicate things. I don’t have expectations of us exchanging gifts, especially as he won’t be here on Christmas day. Still, I offer him this.
“First gift,” I say, nodding toward it.
“First gift?”
“You know . . . Santa has a tradition. Who will receive the first gift?”
Saint stares at me, face blank, like he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“It’s from The Polar Express.” I tilt my head, like he should know the movie when the man doesn’t have any children. Or maybe he’s looking at me like he’s surprised I know of such a thing as a first gift.
“Anyway,” I dismissively wave my hand, explaining the details.
“In the story, Santa picks someone to receive the first gift. Danny loved the idea, and it became a tradition. Who would receive the first gift? Of course, it got a little out of hand as he’d try to pass off some handmade gift days before Christmas.
Then weeks before. In order to say he gave away the first gift. ”
The generosity of my son’s heart knows no bounds.
And still, Saint stares at me.
“So, you’re giving the first gift to me this year?” he asks, like he needs clarification.
“Yep.” I nod toward the box, suddenly feeling like I’ve made more out of this moment when I’d been determined not to complicate things. “Open it.”
Saint acts like a child eager to open a present. Wildly shaking the box as he wrestles the lid to remove it. He shoves aside the tissue paper like it offends him and stares down at the knitted mass inside the box.
Cautiously, he pulls one item up and out of the package, watching as it unfurls and gives away what it is.
“Socks.” His tone expresses his confusion.
“Woolen socks,” I state. “This weekend is the annual Woolen Sock race.” I shrug. “It’s a fun run around the Locke Reserve property. You can wear up to three pairs of socks, but the outer ones need to be handmade by yourself or someone in Hideaway Harbor.”
Saint continues to stare at the sock in his hand, made from varying shades of green yarn forming stripes around the ankle with a giant snowflake on the outer side of each.
“And you made these for me?” He sounds shocked. “In my favorite color.”
I shrug again. “I mean, I’m not an expert at knitting, but I’ve attended the local knitting night a time or two, and on the rare occasion I have downtime at the post off—”
I’m tackled to my back, while Saint fists the sock in his hand. Staring up at him over me, I blink a few times at the sudden shift in my position.
“You made these for me,” he repeats, his voice less credulous. More childlike with pleasure.
“They’re only socks,” I state, puzzled by both his expression and the shock in his voice. “The run is a tradition, and I thought it’d be fun to participate.”
“So, you made these for me,” he confirms one more time.
“I mean . . . you probably have tons of socks. Tons of woolen ones, living in North.” Wherever that vague city might be.
“But I don’t own a pair of socks, made for me, by Lumi.” He stares at me, willing me to understand something I don’t get at first. Then it hits me like a sleigh colliding with a roof.
Handmade. By Lumi. With love. Because any handmade gift takes time and love to make.
Saint’s mouth crashes with mine, kissing me deep and thoroughly before pulling back, reverently setting the sock in the box with the other one.
“Lumi Snowe, I’d be honored to attend the Woolen Sock race with you.
And wear the socks you made for me.” He presses kisses along my sternum and between my breasts, shoving aside the two halves of his flannel shirt that I wrapped around myself like a robe.
He continues kissing my belly until the expanse of his shoulders spread my legs.
And then we start another kind of race in which I’m definitely a winner.