“The green candies go in the front.”
I smile. “Oh. I see.”
Blue winks at me from the other side of the kitchen table. We’re building a gingerbread house—a huge one—completely from scratch. Blue and Lyric have been baking and gathering all the candies and other items for days. It’s our first family project and it’s had me silly with happiness. I’ve been slacking on my end of the project because I keep getting caught up in watching Blue and Lyric together. He’s so incredibly good with her. Sweet, nurturing, funny. I’ve never seen him look happier. He’s singing along with the Elvis Christmas album, and he looks hot as hell in a gray sweater that’s perfectly tight around his chest and shoulders, old worn jeans, and black fuzzy socks.
He leans across the table with a handful of candy canes in his hand and kisses me.
“What are you daydreaming about, beautiful?”
I beam at him as I make a candy walkway leading to the door of our gingerbread house. “You.”
“Mom!” Lyric teases. “Daydream about Blue later. We’re right in the middle of our house.”
Blue and I laugh at her. She loves to tease us about our public displays of affection and she pretends they bother her, but we both know that she actually thinks we’re cute. She’s at the cusp of starting to notice boys, so she notices anything romantic and lovey. Blue has set the bar high for any guy she might date when she’s older. Every Friday he brings each of us a bouquet of flowers, and once a month he surprises us with a random, but extremely thoughtful and unique gift. Not only does he make quality time for me, but also for Lyric. He spends hours talking to her, writing poetry with her, and playing guitar with her while she plays the harp. He even makes sure to spend time with Archie and Mickey by brushing them and playing with them. At least once a week the three of us take Mickey for a walk together.
“How are we going to eat this?” Lyric asks, standing back to admire the half-finished, three-story structure. We’re also decorating the inside so it looks more like an edible doll house than a gingerbread house. “It’s just too cool to eat. I want to save it.”
“Nah. It’ll get gross. I promise we’ll make one every year, okay?” Blue says. “There’re tons of different ones we can make.”
Excitement gleans in her eyes. We’ve never had a true Christmas tradition. I think Blue’s idea is perfect and something Lyric can enjoy with us as she gets older. Maybe even share with a younger sibling someday.
“This is the best Christmas of my life,” Blue murmurs into my neck.
“Mine too.” I turn my head and meet his lips for a soft, lingering kiss. It’s after midnight on Christmas Day and we’re snuggling on the couch at my house under a thick fleece blanket with a goofy reindeer picture on it. This is the first Christmas we’ve ever spent together and it’s been wonderful.
This morning we opened presents with Lyric, then Blue made us pancakes and waffles for breakfast, including a bone-shaped pancake for Mickey. Ditra and Billy joined us later to exchange gifts, and then we went to my parents’ house for dinner, at my mother’s insistence.
My mother has met Blue once before and admitted she liked him and thought he was beautiful and charming. Her words. I wasn’t thrilled with subjecting Blue to my father’s long-standing attitude on our first Christmas together, but Blue assured me he could handle my father acting like a jerk. Thankfully, my sisters and their husbands were super friendly over dinner. They fanned a little over Blue, which made me laugh, especially seeing my father’s facial expressions when it dawned on him that Blue actually is famous. My father didn’t talk much, but at least he wasn’t rude, so all in all it was a nice dinner.
Now we’re on the couch with the lights off, enjoying the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree in the corner and the fire flowing from the electric fireplace Blue installed last week. Blue gave me a special gift when we got home—a diamond tennis bracelet with a tiny red garnet ladybug charm. I told him I’m never going to take either of them—this one or the original he gave me years ago—off.
“This is what I’ve always wanted with you,” he whispers, moving the scoop neck of my sweater off my shoulder and planting kisses on the exposed skin. “Memories that don’t hurt.”
“I have lots of memories of you that don’t hurt.” I thread my fingers through his soft hair. “And we’re going to make lots more.”
“Can we start right now?”
He lifts me in his arms, carries me across the room, and gently sets me on the floor in front of the fireplace. I love the way he smiles when I pull him on top of me, and the way the fireplace makes him look like he’s radiating a halo.