Christmas With The Kings (Season Sisters Saga)

Chapter 1

Kinsley

It was officially December. The first, to be exact, and there was no excuse. Zip. Zero. Nikto. None. Not when I’d slipped out of Ivan’s bed at four am to spend the entire morning wrist-deep in butter, flour, and sugar.

The scent of orange zest, cardamom, and warm cinnamon filled the dining room like a promise. Was I living a fantasy filled with holiday delusions? Probably. But this moment was momentous. At least it was to me. Our first Christmas together.

I had tempered myself. Okay, maybe I hadn’t.

It was just a few snowflake-shaped pastries. Some cinnamon star cookies. Maybe I used the fancy China. And I might have custom-ordered a new apron. It was embroidered in gold script. “Sleigh All Day.” But that was hardly full-tilt holiday chaos. I was being very subtle. Very controlled.

This was a test. If anyone noticed, even so much as blinked at the pine-scented candles flickering on the overflow serving table, I’d know. They were in the spirit. Ready. Open to a little festive joy.

If not…well, I had backup plans. That included the twelve perfectly golden Danishes. There were six with raspberry jam, and six with lemon cream. They were fanned out on the tray like edible art.

The scones had risen like proud little mountains, my croissants had the correct number of layers (thank you very much), and the table was set.

December first. Game on.

I hummed Deck the Halls under my breath as I lined up the pastry tongs. The pastries were arranged with a proper dusting of powdered sugar. There was even a tiny holly sprig tucked next to the cinnamon butter.

Now all I needed was a little appreciation. A gasp. A “Kinsley, did you do all this?” Or even a “…why does this croissant taste like Christmas?”

I stepped back to survey my work. Elegant but cheerful. Warm, and not at all pushy. I was working on that. Somewhere along the way, the freedom of being accepted by these men had me blossoming.

On one hand, it was a good thing. But on the other—it had me walking a narrow line that I often crossed.

Mainly with Isabella. Although even Marcel was thankful for my pushiness with her.

I’d pushed so hard that I had Marcus drive me to the Caruso home twenty-four hours after we got home from the summerhouse.

Did I have two empty suitcases with me? Absolutely I did.

Did I do the pitch of a lifetime? You’d better believe it.

Ivan would have awarded me an Oscar, a Grammy and even a BAFTA.

I’d infused the right amount of drama and song to make an absolute fool of myself.

Poor Martina Caruso didn’t know what to do with me.

But Isabella filled both suitcases and allowed me to drag her home.

And now we were two peas in a pod. The guys just assumed it was part of my attachment issues.

Little did they know. But the past few months had been amazing.

We learned that while many things had changed, the deep bonds we held only grew.

And speaking of my most favorite person in all the world, she breezed into the dining room and stopped dead in her tracks. She paused long enough to glance at my apron, then blinked once and shook her head.

Cue the mind reading. If her thoughts were made manifest in bubbles over her head, they would have said. This is not going to end well. Prepare yourself for hurt feelings.

God bless her seasonal apathy. And God bless the way she tried to shield me from the sharp edges of reality, even now as only she could.

I didn’t need her to say it. The beauty from the pile of ashes of never being allowed to talk to one another when we were kids gave way to an ability to read one another like we shared the same brain.

A look or even a gesture was all it took sometimes. We’d perfected this technique a long time ago. Back when silence was survival and a pinky shake was our only form of comfort. Back when we took refuge in each other’s presence from across a cold, concrete room.

And today it was a simple look. A single blink. A tiny, brief twitch at the corner of her mouth. And I knew. She saw the effort I’d made. She knew I’d baked and staged and apron’d myself to death hoping someone would catch on. She also knew that none of them were going to say a damn thing.

Even so, she didn’t ruin it. She didn’t offer pity or point out that they wouldn’t notice the table or the cinnamon butter or the sprigs of holly I’d artfully placed on every napkin. She walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat as if we were in on something together. Which, I suppose, we were.

“You’re early,” I said, plating a cranberry twist and sliding it in front of her.

“Could smell the festivities upstairs.” She shrugged, but her lips twitched in what almost passed for a smile. “Felt aggressive. Came to investigate.”

“You’re welcome.” I poured her tea. “Tell me they’re going to notice this time.”

She didn’t answer. Just arched one brow. Exactly. That was my answer. I let out a small huff and pulled out the chair beside her, smoothing my apron down as I sat. The bells on the hem jingled. It was meant to be cute. But right now, it sounded like desperation.

“Izzy,” I murmured, lowering my voice like we were trading war secrets, “don’t ruin this for me.”

She didn’t look at me, but reached for a sugar cube and dropped it into her tea with surgical precision. “I’m not ruining anything. I’m just saying…don’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m not getting my hopes up,” I lied.

She gave me a look.

I glared. “Okay, maybe they’re slightly elevated. Just a little.”

Still no expression, she twirled the spoon in her cup. Another blink and that infamous silence.

“You said you didn’t even know if they liked Christmas,” I muttered, slouching in my seat. “They’re not going to hate it, are they?”

“They’re not going to notice it.”

My chest deflated a little. Not enough to stop me, of course, but enough to sting.

“I mean, seriously.” I gestured broadly to the table. “Do you know how long it takes to roll out puff pastry that thin? I made holly-shaped cutouts. That’s effort. That’s love.”

“That’s borderline manic,” she replied. “Even for you.”

“You wound me.”

“I’m trying to prepare you.”

And she was. In her own way. Thing was, she didn’t do soft comfort. She did reality checks laced with sarcasm, and that was her version of love. Her way of saying, I see you. I know this matters to you. But brace for impact.

“I’m fine,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “I’m not doing this for a reaction. I’m doing it because I love Christmas. And breakfast. And the idea of us being normal, functional people.”

Once more, a perfectly manicured brow lifted. I waved it off. She took another sip of tea and, mercifully, said nothing. I mentally prepped some potential opening lines to get the conversation rolling.

It was time after all. My men were no longer wayward bachelors wandering adrift in a sea of nothingness. They were mine now. And we were a family.

Which meant they needed to act like it. Part of that included embracing the damned holidays. All of them. Thanksgiving had been a disaster.

And yes, I was fully aware my guys were British, so they wouldn’t celebrate, but it was the concept, not the original fiasco of a holiday, anyway. It was about being thankful for all that we had. And we had so much to celebrate.

Not to mention, Christmas was my most favorite holiday.

It was the ribbons and bows. Enormous trees and sparkly decorations.

A few gifts underneath. Homemade ones were the best. Oh, and Bing Crosby crooning from every room.

Maybe even some Michael Bublé. Snuggles by the fireplace and Christmas movies.

And the best part—matching pajamas. Now all I needed…was the family. And as if summoned by the ghost of Christmas sass, I heard the sound of masculine grumbling and the distinctive thump of Ivan’s boots in the hall.

“—swear to God, I’m going to chain her to the damn bed—”

“I much prefer satin to chains, my beloved,” I exclaimed, rising and turning to the door with a smile.

I stepped over and wrapped my arms around him. He leaned down to kiss me. His sleeves were rolled up, showcasing all the prominent veins I loved to trace. A silly vision of him wielding an axe popped into my head, and the fantasy took shape.

The whole family traipsing through the South London Christmas Tree Farm scoping out the perfect tree. Him chopping it down. A present, if you will. Yes, I’d done my research. And if they didn’t have one there we liked, there were a few other places on the list we could check out.

“Hand her over—your time is up,” Alek huffed as he barrelled through the door. He yanked me into his chest and nuzzled my neck. “Fuck, you smell amazing, sweetness.”

He looked so good this morning. Beard trimmed, looking as if he’d walked out of a catalog and directly into my butter-coated heart. Nikolai trailed after him, bright-eyed, hair still damp from a shower. He stopped at the threshold, sniffed once and then his eyes found mine.

He smiled. My stomach did a little hopeful flip. He reached for me. Alek heaved and reluctantly let me go.

“It smells incredible in here,” Alek said.

Not festive. Not Christmasy. Not oh my God, are those snowflakes shaped like pinwheels?

Just incredible.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide the hitch in my voice.

Behind him, Sebastian wandered in, rubbing the back of his neck, blinking like the lights were too bright. His gaze swept the room lazily. He yawned. “Is that…apple?”

“Guess again,” I muttered under my breath.

Pasha was next, already halfway through a rant before his foot even crossed the threshold. “I get that, Hannah, but I made these plans weeks ago. You said you had practice—oh. Scones. My favorite. You outdid yourself this morning, Mouse.” He grabbed one and bit into and then rolled his eyes.

I didn’t even want to know what was being said on the other end by Hannah. I still hadn’t managed to make any headway with her. She hated me. And he’d used my nickname, so I was 100 percent sure she was talking shit about me again.

Marcel popped in, swiped a croissant, and walked back out with his phone to his ear. Damn it. It was probably the hospital. That would mean he wouldn’t be here to notice. And let’s be real, if anyone was going to notice it, it would be him.

I stared at them. All of them. Eating. Talking.

Smiling. Not noticing a single damn thing.

All that greeted me was silence. No mention of the cinnamon-sugar Christmas trees.

No comments about the fancy plates. Not even a quip about the snowflake doilies I’d fought off two elderly women to snag at a holiday market.

Not even a goddamn word about the candles.

I poured myself a cup of tea and cleared my throat. “It’s December first.”

Nothing. Bash reached for another Danish. Alek asked Nik to pass the sugar. I looked at Isabella. She met my eyes with all the warmth of a woman in a hostage situation.

I clinked my spoon against my cup. “You know what that means, right?”

“You’re ovulating?” Alek asked.

It took everything in me not to roll my eyes, but getting my ass spanked this early was not on the agenda. I closed them. Inhaled. Counted to three.

“No, I’m not. I made a themed breakfast,” I said forcing my tone to remain respectful. “Because it’s December first.”

The room quieted for half a second as I took my seat next to Isabella.

Then Alek said, “Is that why there is cinnamon in the butter?”

Yes, old man. That is exactly why. Was he really that obtuse?

And then, the moment passed. I felt a soft hand brush against mine under the table. The barest shift of skin against skin. A shared pulse. A silent I told you so, with a side of I’ve got you, anyway.

I didn’t look at her—couldn’t. I reached for the scones, trying to hold it together. After several deep breaths, I resigned myself to letting them be ungrateful as they ate the beautifully-spiced breakfast I’d spent hours on.

Operation: Jingle And Slay was only just beginning. I would Christmas-ify them if it killed me. Subtly, of course. That was the name of the game.