Chapter 24 Christmas Eve #2
Niamh crawls into Roman’s lap and he picks her up, cradling her in the nook of his arm and reminding me of my favorite ornament.
“Like this one year when I saw the cutest ornament in a store. It was a baby chipmunk sleeping under a blanket in a walnut shell. I begged my mom for it, but she said no, insisting we could make a better one ourselves.”
As Niamh’s eyes begin to droop sleepily, he rocks lightly back and forth and lowers his voice. “And did you?”
“Oh, you know it,” I say proudly. “The one in the store was all one piece of porcelain painted to look like different elements. We used a peach pit and made the little chipmunk out of clay and felt. I remember I even sewed together these tiny squares of fabric to make a quilt that you could actually use to tuck him in.”
“Is it on your tree? I’ll have to look for it next time.” I nod with a little embarrassed smile and he asks, “Where is it?”
“You have to really look for it. I always hang it nestled inside the canopy toward the trunk.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cozy and quiet so he can sleep,” I admit, knowing full well my reasoning was cute when I was eight but sounds crazy being a grown ass adult.
Roman laughs but not in a way that feels like he’s laughing at me. It makes me laugh too, quietly so as not to wake the real sleeping baby.
He shakes his head with a loose smile. “God, I lo—” he begins, and my heart stops. “Like you a whole lot, Serenity Calloway,” he finishes, still making my stomach somersault. My cheeks flush, and I wonder if he can tell in this light.
“I like you a whole lot, too . . .” I pause as Niamh stretches one arm in her sleep then whisper, “Mr. Ford.” Something about addressing him formally and whispered like that makes heat swirl in my core. He drags his teeth over his lip like he feels the same.
I take an exaggerated breath then, fighting a smirk, ask, “So, what were your Christmases like growing up?”
“Well, even though it felt like we went to church ten times in the week of Christmas, it was more about the food than ‘the reason for the season.’” He pauses, then chuckles.
“Actually, let me rephrase that. It was definitely, one hundred percent all about the food. Except for when it was about the family gossip, either someone having a baby, getting married, or buried. So, closer to ninety percent about the food.”
“Oh, yeah? What was on the menu?”
“Menus,” he corrects, emphasis on the plural.
“We’d spend the morning watching Mr. Bingle on TV and fighting over Grandma’s biscuits—my dad’s mom—then head down the bayou to spend the rest of the day and evening with my mom’s side.
And I guess there wasn’t any specific meal, just a constant cycle of cooking and eating between running around with all the cousins. ”
He smiles softly as if recalling all the memories and continues, “It was a lot of wild game, gumbo of course, if it wasn’t too hot. Oh, and oyster dressing. One year, I’m pretty sure that and dessert was all I ate.”
“That sounds amazing. And delicious,” I say as Harlow steals her daughter to put her to bed.
“It really was.” He sighs with a touch of nostalgia.
I know his parents passed in his thirties and most of his family dispersed after Katrina.
I’m about to ask him how often he goes back, if at all, when he continues, a fond lilt in his voice.
“And music. There was always music, whether we were singing songs as a family or playing Ella and Louis on vinyl.”
“They have a record player.” I jump up. “What are the chances they have some?”
“I think a better question would be what are the chances it works?” He chuckles and stands as I begin shuffling through their collection of records.
Incredibly, we’re in luck. I pull out Ella Fitzgerald’s Christmas album, and Roman sets it up on the player.
I feel like a big ol’ cinnamon roll again when it starts playing and the others start trickling in from the dining room.
Roman pulls me in to dance, swaying to the swinging beat. He hugs me tight to him with a wide palm on the small of my back, and I beam up at him and say, “Best Christmas ever.”
He gazes back, eyes soft and adoring, and repeats, “Best Christmas ever.”
I’m still on cloud nine later that night curled up in bed. I pull the heavy quilt up to my neck as Roman finishes getting ready. This old house is drafty and cold outside the main living areas.
I watch as he methodically ties his durag, rolling and tucking the tail, and realize I’ve never actually seen him put it on. He doesn’t always wear one at his place, and whenever he’s over at mine, he seems to magically wake up in one.
The care he takes immediately recalls the image of him fixing Niamh’s little bow earlier and my heart feels like it doubles in size all over again. I’m sure it’s written all over my face because when he slides under the covers next to me, he asks, “What’s on your mind, beautiful?”
On our sides, he tugs me closer, his hands spreading over my ass cheeks, and I hook my leg over his hip.
“Seeing you with Niamh makes me want to rethink not having kids,” I say, mostly joking. Then right on cue, a sharp wail sounds from down the hall. We both stifle our laughs. “Or not.”
He presses me harder against him, and I feel his cock thicken between us. I roll my hips in invitation, and he flips me onto my back and purrs, “But we can practice making one.”
1. Play "wishlist"—Alaina Castillo until end of chapter