Chapter 11 #3
"Dad!" Jovie called from where she was elbow-deep in gingerbread construction, dusted with powdered sugar. "Thank god you're here. I have a very important job for you."
"At your service, sweetheart," he replied with a theatrical bow that made Leo and Avery giggle.
I watched as he made his way around the kitchen, greeting everyone with that perfect balance of warmth and respect.
"Alright," Jovie announced with barely contained glee, "we have a very special Christmas Eve tradition that requires your expertise."
"Oh no," Dad drawled suspiciously. "What are you plotting?"
"Gingerbread houses!” she announced, gesturing to the gingerbread village components spread across the dining room table. "Leo and Avery specifically requested that Grandpa Wade be the chief architect."
The look on Dad's face was half resignation, half amusement as he took in the spread of icing, gumdrops, and gingerbread pieces awaiting his attention.
"You want me," he said slowly, “the man who built all your billion-dollar lifestyles, to construct a house made of cookies?"
"YES!" Leo and Avery answered in unison.
"It's tradition,” Jovie added innocently.
Adrian was practically crying with laughter. "Oh my god, this is happening. Wade Easton, reduced to gingerbread architecture. I'm recording this."
"You absolutely are not," Dad replied with dignity, though I caught the hint of a smile. "Fine. But I want it on record that I expect this gingerbread house to be structurally sound and up to code."
"Of course," Jovie promised. "We wouldn't expect anything less."
"Thomas is bringing in the presents," Dad announced as he shed his Rolex and rolled up his sleeves like he was preparing for battle. "I may have gone slightly overboard this year, but Christmas only comes once."
"Define 'slightly overboard,'" Adrian said suspiciously.
Dad's grin turned distinctly mischievous. "Let's just say I had to upgrade to the larger SUV. Twice."
Right on cue, the front door opened again, and Thomas appeared carrying what looked like the first of many professionally wrapped packages.
The man had been with our family for twenty years, and nothing fazed him anymore, not even his boss wearing a Santa hat while discussing gingerbread construction techniques.
"Mr. Easton," Thomas greeted with perfect dignity, "where would you like these placed?"
"Under the tree, as always. And take the rest of the holiday off. Spend it with your family."
"Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas."
I watched the steady parade of presents being deposited under our already well-loaded tree, noting how Leo and Avery's eyes grew progressively wider with each addition.
Dad had clearly taken his role as grandfather very seriously.
"Grandpa," Leo said quietly, tugging on Dad's sweater. "Did you really bring presents for everyone?"
"Of course I did," Dad replied, kneeling to Leo's level. "Christmas is about taking care of the people you love, remember? And I love all of you very much."
The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. For all his reputation and complicated relationships, Dad had always understood what family meant.
"Now then," he straightened up and surveyed our organized Christmas chaos, "shall we build this gingerbread masterpiece? I have very high standards for cookie architecture."
As Dad shepherded the kids toward the dining room table covered in gingerbread supplies, Leo chattering excitedly about proper icing application while Avery insisted everything needed to be "extra sparkly," I felt Estelle slip beside me.
"This is perfect," she hummed, watching as Dad patiently helped Leo measure gingerbread walls while wearing his slightly askew Santa hat. "All of it. I never imagined Christmas could feel like this."
I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing a few kisses against her hair. Even I never imagined how perfect this would be.
The morning continued around us, Dad's laughter mixing with the kids' excited chatter, Christmas music filling every corner, the smells of our feast perfuming the air, and our entire chosen family gathered under one roof in various states of festivity.
This was what I'd been fighting for all these years without even realizing it.
Not the championship belts, the money, or the recognition, but this—family, tradition, the knowledge that I could provide safety and joy for the people who mattered most.
Christmas Eve at the Easton house was shaping up to be everything I'd hoped for and more.
The house had finally settled into that perfect Christmas Eve quiet, a hushed stillness that felt heavy with magic and possibility, where even the ocean waves seemed to whisper more softly against the shore.
Leo and Avery had been tucked into bed an hour ago, their excited whispers finally giving way to sleep after we'd read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas twice, sung three different versions of Silent Night, and promised no fewer than seven times that Santa would definitely, absolutely find them at my high security beachhouse.
The girls had followed shortly after, exhausted from a full day of cooking, laughing, and wrangling two sugar-high children.
Now it was just us three men, standing in the living room that looked like something a master set designer had crafted for the perfect Christmas movie.
Beneath the tree, presents spilled out in colorful abundance. Boxes wrapped in colorful paper with gold ribbon sat alongside packages tied with emerald bows.
Silver boxes with white satin ribbons were nestled against other gifts that could only have come from Adrian—neon disasters.
A plate sat on the coffee table, accompanied by a glass of milk and a hastily scrawled note from Leo: "Dear Santa, Thank you for my family. The cookies are gingerbread. Love, Leo and Avery."
Next to it, a smaller plate held what Avery had insisted were "special cookies for the reindeer"—cookies shaped like carrots that she'd decorated with orange icing and green sprinkles.
"Alright," Adrian whispered, his voice barely above a breath as he gestured dramatically toward the cookie setup. "So who's actually doing the Santa thing? Because I vote not me. I'll eat all those cookies, and then Leo will wake up to find Santa has the self-control of a child.”
"Why are we whispering?" Connor asked in his normal voice.
"Because it's Christmas Eve magic, you absolute heathen," Adrian hissed, his eyes wide with horror. "You don't break Christmas Eve magic with your regular voice. There are rules. Ancient ones. Probably involving elves."
"That's not how—"
"WHISPER," Adrian insisted, cutting him off with exaggerated urgency. "As I was saying, before Connor tried to destroy Christmas, I nominate Jax. It's his house."
I nearly choked on my laugh. "Absolutely not. Leo will recognize my handwriting when I sign Santa's thank-you note."
"You were planning to write a thank-you note?" Connor asked, and I could hear the amusement threading through his quiet tone.
"Of course I was going to write a thank you note," I replied, obviously. "What kind of Santa doesn't acknowledge good cookies? Leo put actual thought into the shapes. That deserves recognition."
"The kind of Santa that isn’t you?” Connor suggested dryly.
"Your cynicism is showing," I shot back. "This is about preserving childhood wonder, maintaining the magic, ensuring that two innocent children wake up tomorrow morning believing that—"
"Boys."
All three of us turned toward the source, and there was Dad, standing in the doorway like he'd materialized from the shadows.
He was the picture of elegant relaxation in silk pajamas and a matching robe that draped his frame. Even at midnight on Christmas Eve, in sleepwear, the man managed to look like he'd stepped out of a photoshoot. Just like me.
His silver-streaked hair was perfectly tousled in that way that took actual effort to achieve, and his blue eyes glinted with amusement as he took in the sight of three burly men standing around a plate of cookies like conspirators planning a heist.
"Dad," I breathed, relief flooding through my voice like warm honey. "Perfect timing. We need someone to—”
“Play Santa,” Adrian finished, pointing dramatically. "It has to be you. You're the only one with the proper..." He gestured vaguely at his entire existence.
"Gravitas," Connor supplied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Dad raised an eyebrow, a smile played at his lips. "Gravitas?"
"You know," Adrian continued, still maintaining his whisper for reasons known only to his chaotic mind, "the commanding presence. The distinguished silvered hair. The ability to write in that fancy script that looks like it came directly from the North Pole."
"Plus," I added, "Leo and Avery already think you're magical anyway. This just makes it official."
Dad stepped fully into the room, his expression shifting subtly as he looked around at the three of us—his biological son and the two strays he'd gathered up and claimed as his own over the years.
The firelight caught the silver in his hair and cast his elegant features in warm relief, but it was his eyes that held my attention. They'd gone soft with something that looked almost like wonder, as if he was seeing us for the first time all over again.
"You know," he said quietly, his voice carrying that slight rasp that came from expensive whiskey and late nights, "twenty-eight years ago, when I was holding a crying infant and wondering how the hell I was going to raise a son, I never imagined I'd be standing in a room on Christmas Eve with three overgrown men, arguing over who gets to eat cookies left for Santa. "
"Disappointed?" Adrian asked, and for once, there wasn't any joke in his voice, just genuine vulnerability and the kind of fear that came from caring too much about the answer.
"Disappointed?" Dad repeated, then let out a soft laugh. "Son, this is the best Christmas Eve I've ever had. This is the best Christmas Eve I ever imagined having."