Chapter 25
Marigold
I shuffle into Eb’s enormous kitchen wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts—dark green and soft as a cloud, with the sleeves rolled up past my elbows.
It hangs past mid-thigh and smells like him.
Like warm forests and cinnamon and something just a little wild.
My bare feet make no sound against the tile floor as I pad across to his oversized stainless steel fridge and swing it open like I own the place.
Which maybe I do now?
That thought alone is enough to make my knees weak.
But right now, I’m on a mission.
Hot cocoa.
With extra marshmallows and maybe a pinch of sea salt—Eb’s pantry is stacked like a gourmet grocery, so I’m not holding back.
I find the cocoa mix in a brand new tin with a Badger on it and a note from his mother—how freaking cute is the fact his mom sends care packages—and I smile as I get to work heating milk on the stove.
There’s still a storm happening outside, the snow swirling past the big bay window like we’re living in a real-life snow globe, and I can’t help feeling like the world has paused just for us.
I finish stirring the milk and take a deep breath, reaching for the whipped cream when it hits me—not the milk. A vision.
Strong and clear and so warm it brings tears to my eyes.
It’s a future Christmas.
Next year or the one after that? I’m not sure.
Time is difficult to tell in visions.
I see the same big cookie tree twinkling in the background, the same glittering ornaments now joined by new ones—little iced hearts and snowflakes with names piped on them.
Eb is in the kitchen, arms wrapped around me from behind, and I’m—oh wow—I’m pregnant.
Very pregnant.
His big hand rests over both of mine atop my baby bump, while the other lifts a steaming mug to my lips.
I’m smiling. He’s smiling. And in the distance, I hear laughter.
More children?
A family.
Ours.
The vision fades like melting sugar, and when I blink, I realize I’m crying softly into my cocoa.
“You okay, Honey?” Eb’s voice rumbles behind me, gravelly with sleep and sin, and I turn.
He’s leaning in the doorway shirtless, hair tousled, pajama pants riding dangerously low.
His eyes widen when he sees my face.
“Marigold?”
I set the mug down and cross to him, throwing my arms around his neck.
“I saw it,” I whisper, voice thick with emotion. “Our life. A future Christmas. There’s a baby, Eb. More than one maybe. And the tree, the snow, even more ornaments. I think we’re gonna have kids—our kids. And a life together.”
“Of course we are, Honey. You’re my everything.”
He pulls me close, burying his face in my neck.
“It was perfect,” I whisper.
“It’s already perfect. But that future you saw is ours. I love you so fucking much,” he murmurs against my skin. “Your vision is everything I want, Honey. You. Ours. And a lifetime of holidays and Christmases together.”
Before I can respond, a loud poof sounds from the foyer.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Greetings,” comes a cheerful voice.
We both turn as Uncle Uzzi materializes in a swirl of peppermint mist and tinsel, dressed in a white brocade smoking jacket and holding a sprig of enchanted mistletoe like a wand.
“I hope I’m not interrupting—well, of course I am, but it’s for a good cause!”
Eb growls faintly, tightening his hold on me.
“What is it, Uncle Uzzi?” I ask, laughing despite myself as he swans into the kitchen like a peppermint-scented storm cloud in head-to-toe winter white velvet.
His cheeks are rosy.
His eyes are twinkling.
There’s a dusting of powdered sugar in his hair and glitter on his beard that I highly suspect is magical.
Or at least, magically applied.
“Just a little holiday matchmaking news to deliver,” he beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s about to burst into carols.
“Uh oh,” I whisper.
He practically vibrates with glee.
“Bobby and Emery ran away during my gala and eloped!”
“WHAT?!” Eb and I shout in unison like a pair of possessed Christmas gnomes.
Uzzi chuckles, reaching casually over to pluck a cookie off the counter.
“Vegas. Magical Elvis. A legally binding spell performed at the Chapel of Eternal Mistletoe. I might have nudged things along with a bit of enchanted eggnog, or maybe it was the mistletoe? Of course! It’s always the mistletoe.”
He pauses dramatically.
“Love is in the air, after all.”
Eb groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Why does this sound like the setup to a Christmas horror story?”
“But wait,” Uzzi says, licking frosting from his thumb like he didn’t just drop a reindeer-sized bomb on us, “there’s been a slight hiccup.”
He holds out his enchanted cell phone, which sparkles with rhinestones and jingles when it moves, and presses play on a video.
I take one look and slap a hand over my mouth.
“Oh. My. God.”
The video shows Bobby on the Vegas Strip in nothing but a strategically-placed Santa hat, doing what can only be described as a jazz-hands version of the worm, right before being tackled by a very irate security guard.
“Bobby?!” Eb screeches, grabbing the phone. “What the actual fuck is he doing outside in December dressed like a budget stripper Santa?!”
“He is very committed to theme,” Uzzi says thoughtfully. “It’s admirable, really.”
“Wow, yeah,” I mumble, trying not to snort cocoa up my nose. “You two are definitely brothers.”
Eb is still glued to the screen, horrified.
“Oh, shit! Emery just bonked a cop on the head with a stocking!”
“A stocking?!” I blink at Uncle Uzzi.
“Yes—well, to be fair it was a Christmas stocking filled with several pounds of rock candy,” Uncle Uzzi admits, not looking remotely ashamed.
“I better call the family lawyer,” Eb grumbles, already pulling out his phone.
While he dials, I turn to the magical mischief-maker in our midst.
“Uncle Uzzi, were you behind any of this?” I ask, not even pretending to scold.
“I am only guilty of bringing mates together. Naked shenanigans in Vegas are not my purview.”
He winks.
“What? I was merely assisting fate. Just as I did with you two.”
I shake my head at him.
“You’re incorrigible.”
Eb finishes his call and mutters something about tracking spells and Vegas bail limits before catching my eye and grinning.
“You definitely had us pegged, Uncle Uzzi,” he says, sliding an arm around my waist. “Speaking of which, I plan to give Date to Mate a glowing review.”
Uzzi perks up like a sugar plum on espresso.
“Oh? So you’re ready to admit the app works?”
“Yep. Like a charm. Marigold is all mine,” Eb growls, tugging me close. “No enchanted mistletoe required.”
“Oh, I shall look forward to reading it, old boy,” Uzzi says, somehow now holding a second cookie.
Where are they coming from? And why isn’t he sharing?
“Oh,” he adds, very casually. “And I expect an invitation to the baby shower. And Christmas dinner. And maybe your anniversary party?”
“Of course!” I chirp before Eb can even open his mouth.
Eb stares at me.
“You’re really gonna keep encouraging him, aren’t you?”
“You hush. He gave me you, didn’t he?”
Uncle Uzzi beams like a matchmaking yenta who just won the lottery.
“Yes, well, Date to Mate isn’t just an app to me, my dears. Its users are all family. Matchmaking is in my blood, my magic. It’s what I live for.”
He says it with so much conviction, so much warmth and sparkle and sheer Uncle Uzziness, I almost tear up.
As the snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the world in soft white, and cocoa steams gently in our mugs, I curl into Eb’s side, surrounded by twinkle lights and love and magical mayhem, and let myself believe in this life.
This home.
This beginning.
Because whether it started with a magical app, a cursed cookie, or a semi-nude relative arrested in Las Vegas, this is ours.
And it’s perfect.