A Billionaire for Christmas

Jamie holds up her hands in self-defense. “Wasn’t saying a word.”

“Me, neither. Maybe Damien will pick up a cooking tip.”

I glance at Syl, who widens her eyes. “Don’t look at me. My man doesn’t need any slack.” She leans back, snuggling against the man in question. “There aren’t too many unexpected crises in the world of architecture. If Jackson says he’s taking a day off, he usually takes a day off. And I reap the benefit.” As if in illustration, she leans forward, snags a margarita, and sighs.

“Show off,” Jamie and I say simultaneously, then laugh.

We’re still giggly when Damien comes out, his hands in his pockets, his expression tight.

I stand immediately. “Damien? What’s wrong?”

“Is it Ryan?” Jamie asks, and he shakes his head, distracted, his eyes locked firmly on me.

“Frank called,” he says. “He’s not going to make it here by Christmas Eve.”Chapter FiveI know I shouldn’t let it, but the news that Frank isn’t going to make it home erases some of the sunshine from the day. I work hard to keep a happy face for the kids, but I can’t hide the truth from Damien. And though he says nothing more about it during the brunch, whenever I need him, he’s right there, ready to catch me if I fall.

“I’m okay,” I whisper before we follow the girls into the limo. “Just disappointed.”

“I know,” he says, and from the intensity with which he looks at me, I’m certain that he really does know all of it. I’m disappointed, yes. But it’s a disappointment laced with lost years and missed opportunities. Of holidays with my cold, harsh mother, who made the season about dressing up and looking festive rather than actually enjoying each other.

Yes, I have wonderful memories of me and my sister managing to sneak in holiday movies and cartoons. But those memories are bittersweet. Ashley’s gone now, but my father has magically returned. And in a strange way he has filled a bit of the hole in my heart left by my sister’s suicide. And that makes it all the more important that he’s here to share his first Christmas with his family.

I know my feelings are legitimate. But I also know I’m overreacting. That the maelstrom in my gut is the product of the heightened emotions of the holidays getting the better of me. But I’d so longed for him to be with us. To move forward through the years with us, sharing the holidays and watching his grandchildren grow up. And I’d wanted to start all of that right now.

“He’d be here if he could,” Damien says, squeezing my hand as we sit together on the limo’s far back bench.

“I know.” I lean against him, safe in his arm around my shoulders. “It’s silly, but I had a picture in my head of what this Christmas would be. I’d already come to terms with him being away instead of playing Santa. But to miss the recital and the party and Christmas morning?”

I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. But I’m not nonchalant, and Damien knows it. I’m hugely disappointed. And on top of that, I’m a little annoyed. Because why did he talk to Damien and not me?

Answer? Because he damn well knew I’d be disappointed and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. So he punted and talked to Damien instead of his daughter.

But Frank’s instinct to evade or bolt when there’s hard emotional stuff is the same instinct that pushed him away from me before—his fear that he wouldn’t make a good dad—and I’d thought we’d gotten past that.

I’m frustrated, but I’m trying to be understanding instead of angry. Still, I can’t help but fear that this accidental physical separation is going to grow into a deliberate emotional one.

Damien understands all of that, I’m sure. Just as he understands that the first step to fixing it all is having Frank here in LA.

And the real hell of the situation for my husband? None of it is something that he can fix. And I know that his inability to make my father magically appear is as frustrating for him as the overall situation is for me.

A few feet in front of us, Moira steps into the limo, pausing long enough to say something to the kids, all four of whom are strapped in near the front. Then she ducks her head and scooches her way toward us.

“Jamie told me that Frank isn’t going to make it here for the gala or your party. Will he make it for Christmas?”

I look at Damien, who shakes his head. “It’s not looking good.”

“What happened?”

“Airline strike,” Damien says. “He could rent a car—or buy one, God knows I’ll reimburse him—but even that wouldn’t get him here in time. He’s all the way south, and it’s a forty-four hour drive.”