A Billionaire for Christmas

In other words, it’s incredible. And we don’t use it at all.

Instead, the real “primary” kitchen is the small and cozy set-up off the third floor open area, just a few short steps from the hall that leads to both the master bedroom and the room that the girls share. This kitchen was meant to be the finishing and serving area for caterers. But despite the limits on its intended use, it’s a fully functional kitchen, complete with a round table that is plenty large enough for a family of four. Five, counting Gregory, who’s been with Damien longer than I have. Officially, Gregory is a combination butler and valet. But he’s more like a house manager and, more recently, he’s added the job of nanny to his portfolio.

Sunshine scratches at the pantry door, and I hurry to catch up, then refill her kibble bowl. She sniffs it, then proceeds to twine through my legs until I’ve opened a can of wet food and put it down next to the apparently subpar dry choice.

Immediately, she ceases loving on me, and I’m released to turn to the second-most important task of the morning: coffee.

Finally set with a steaming cup of black coffee in my hand, I make my way to the girls’ room. Originally intended as a small guest suite, it is accessed from the hallway, and its longest wall abuts the master bedroom’s extremely huge walk-in closet, providing some privacy despite the close proximity.

I pause in the doorway, not terribly surprised when I see that the room’s only occupants are of the stuffed animal variety. I wonder if Damien has taken them down to the beach, or possibly to the tennis court so the girls can chase balls as he gets in a quick workout.

I consider getting my phone from the bedside table and simply calling him, but there’s something so wonderfully sweet about knowing that he’s with his daughters that I don’t want to interrupt.

Instead, I head to the stairs, intending to check the first floor playroom. If I don’t find them there, I’ll go out to the courts. If that doesn’t turn up a sign of my family, I’ll get my phone and map them. Maybe I’ll see that they’ve gone to Upper Crust, and will soon be returning with some sort of wonderfully delicious flaky pastry. A yummy Saturday breakfast before we head out to spend the day with family and friends.

A girl can hope.

But thoughts of melt-in-your mouth goodness are erased as I reach the first floor landing. I’m still yards away from the playroom’s entrance, but I can hear Lara’s high-pitched declaration clear enough, “More glitter, Daddy. Fairies need lots and lots and lots of glitter.”

“Me glitter!” Anne’s still baby-ish voice is surprisingly strong, and I smile as I pick up speed, my bare feet quiet on the cool tile floor.

I round the corner and pause in front of the open double doors of the huge bonus room that now serves as the girls’ playroom. Pure joy courses through me, so fresh and bold it’s a miracle the power of it doesn’t cause the three heads in the room to turn and look my direction.

As if to hold in my own delight, I press my hand over my mouth as I watch Damien, his dark head topped with a Santa hat, drizzle glue onto the single filmy wing I’d managed to construct for Lara.

I’m a lot of things, but crafty isn’t one of them. I’d intended to fight it out with the wire and material to make wing number two before adding the sparkles, but apparently a little girl with a daddy wrapped around her finger had other ideas.

I try to keep my lips pressed together, determined not to make a sound, but so full of joy that a bubble of delicious laughter manages to escape.

Anne squeals and scampers toward me, moving remarkably fast on her chubby toddler legs.

Lara, tall and wiry for her age, beams as she jumps up and down. “Daddy’s making my wings sparkle! Mama, come see, come see.”

“I do see,” I tell her, scooping up Anne and breathing in her baby-scent as Damien stands up then turns to look at me. His Santa hat sits at an angle on his raven-dark hair, and he holds his hands out to his sides, careful not to get glitter and glue on his favorite faded jeans.

I meet those amazing eyes, so uniquely his, and then I melt a little as his lips curve in that familiar, enigmatic grin. “Good morning, Ms. Fairchild,” he says.

“Mrs. Stark,” I counter, feeling the smile tug at my lips. I deposit Anne back on the ground and move toward him. A moment later, my arms are around his waist and my head is tilted back to look up him, so vibrant and perfect and mine.