Wild Christmas (Wild Heart Mountain: Wild Rider’s MC #17)

6. Nate

6

NATE

B efore I open the door, I hear them singing. It’s some famous Christmas shit that gets blasted every year whenever you go into a grocery store or any shop, even at the damn gas station.

I turn around, wondering if I should go back to the clubhouse, but Luke is already retreating down the drive. There's nothing for it but to go into the cabin.

I punch in the code and push the door open. Alongside the music and way too loud bass, the sounds of laughter reach my ears.

I pad down the hallway and pause when I get to the living room. The blinds are drawn, and in the middle of the room is Dora's speaker shooting multicolored laser lights onto the white walls.

Hanging from the rafters are colorful streamers made out of pieces of crepe paper woven together. They should look scraggly and forlorn, but in the flashing lights they seem cheerful, and knowing that my girls made them gives them a festive rather than messy look.

The fake tree sits in the corner wrapped in tinsel so tight it's as if it's been done up in bubble wrap and ready to ship.

Green tinsel is draped over the fireplace, which I'll have to remove because that is clearly a fire hazard.

They haven't seen me yet, and I lean against the door frame and watch them.

Freya has her back to me and her head is tilted back as she belts out the lyrics to what is fast becoming my favorite Christmas song. The girls sing along with her, Dora shouting the words and Maisie trying to keep up, laughing when she doesn't know the words.

Maisie jumps on the spot, waving her arms about, which is her four-year-old best dance move, while Dora twirls and swirls, catching Freya's hand in hers as Freya spins her around.

My chest tightens as I watch them. This is what a happy home looks like. This is what a woman brings to a home, fun and laughter and chaos.

Is this what the girls would have had if their mother had lived? I shake the thought out of my head. There's no point in thinking about what might have been.

If their mother had lived, she would have taken them from me in the divorce settlement. I would have been restricted to only seeing my girls on weekends when I was on home leave, because I would probably still be in the military. The thought makes me shudder. Of course I would have preferred for Becky to have lived. No one would wish what happened on their worst enemy, let alone the mother of their children. But nonetheless, I’m grateful for how my life has turned out and that I get to see my girls every day.

The last nanny was nothing like Freya. When I told Freya she left because she didn't like me, that was only half true. The girls didn't like her. She was strict and made them cry. I'm strict and I make my girls cry sometimes when I tell them off, but that's a father's prerogative. There certainly wasn't any dancing and singing and jumping about the living room, with mesmerizing hips swaying the way Freya’s do.

The song changes and Freya spins around. She stops mid spin when she sees me. Her eyes go wide in the most adorable way. Her skin is flushed, her cheeks rosy, and her hair hangs loose and whips around her face. She lunges for the speaker and hits stop. The music continues coming out of her phone, a tinny sound, and she grabs that and turns it off too.

“Sorry, I didn't hear you come in.”

She looks anxious, and she must think I’m a real ogre if she's scared of playing a bit of music.

“It's fine.” I switch on the lamp by the door so I can fully assess what they've done to my living room.

Dora runs up to me. “Do you like it, Daddy? We made streamers and we hung tinsel. And we did the tree.”

Maisie scampers up to me and raises her arms, wanting to be picked up. She's always been clingy, but I don't mind. I scoop her up in my arms and bury my face in her neck, making her giggle as I kiss her .

“Which ones did you do, MayMay?” She twists in my arms, wanting to be put down. Then she tugs on my shirt and leads me over to a piece of cardboard that's by the Christmas tree.

Shapes are scribbled on the cardboard, and she points to it proudly. “A sign for Santa.”

I pick the cardboard up and nod at it seriously while she tells me all about the blobs of color which are reindeer that she's drawn. In Dora's childish scrawl is written: ‘Santa stop here.’

Freya comes over and crouches next to me. She bites her lower lip, an anxious look on her face. “Is this okay? Is it too much?” She gestures around the living room. “The girls made some reindeer they want to put on the wall, but I didn't know whether it was okay to use sticky tack on your walls.”

I’ve allowed sticky tack in the girls’ room to put their pictures up, but I don’t want it ruining the walls in the rest of the house. But when I look around at their happy faces, I wonder if I've been too strict. Walls can be painted over, but my girls will only be young once. “I've got some in my office. You can put some up, just not around the fireplace.”

The girls squeal with delight, and Dora runs off to get the sticky tack.

Maisie tugs at my hand, and I looked down at her wide eyes. “Can you dance with us, Daddy?”

“I don't dance, sweetie.”

Her face falls, but I haven't danced since I was an adolescent at the school dances. Dancing isn't my thing. Her bottom lip wobbles but my brave girl doesn't cry, even though her un-fun dad has disappointed her once again. “But you can put the music back on if you want to keep dancing. I’ll watch as I make dinner.”

Freya puts the music back on, this time turned down a few notches, and I head to the kitchen.

Dora comes back with the sticky tack, and soon my pristine white walls are decorated with kid’s Christmas art and more streamers.

The three of them start dancing again, and I do my dinner prep on the counter facing out so I can watch them.

But it's not my girls I'm watching. It's Freya. The way she moves to the music, the carefree way she sings along to the songs, her easy laugh, and the adoring way my girls look up at her.

This is what this cabin needs.

The thought hits me like a blow to the chest. I'm a grumpy bastard, I know that. I like things neat and clean and orderly. Freya brings fun and laughter and chaos. She makes the house into a home.

A few hours later the girls are tucked into bed after dinner, and I come into the kitchen to finish the washing up. Freya is in the living room crouched over a box and packing unused craft bits into it.

She stands up when she sees me. “Where do you keep the vacuum? I’ll run it around to get the tinsel.”

“The robovac will get it when it does its nightly rounds.” I indicate the robotic vacuum cleaner tucked under a side table.

“Okay.” She nods. “I’ve never seen one of those in action.”

“I’ll show you.”

I flick it on, and the robovac shoots out of its holding casing. It heads straight for Freya, and she jumps out of the way. In her hastiness she bumps into me, and I grab her elbow to steady her.

Her gaze flicks to mine, and her eyes go even wider. “It startled me.”

I should let her go, but I don’t. I hold onto her longer than necessary, because she feels too damn good. There’s a piece of green tinsel caught in her hair, and I brush it away with my fingers.

“Tinsel.” I hold it up and release her elbow. She steps back and carefully away from where the robovac’s running over the carpet.

My heart thunders in my chest. Having her this close makes my palms sweat, and I’m sure she must hear my heartbeat.

I’m rooted to the spot as she bends down to retrieve the craft box from the carpet and out of the way of the robovac.

“Thanks for today.” Freya plops the box of craft supplies on the table.

I pull myself together, ignoring the way she makes my pulse race. “The girls loved it. They like you.”

She smiles. “It’s what most people do, Nate, decorate the house for Christmas. ”

She’s teasing me, and I rub my chin where growth from the day has left a blunt stubble. “Yeah, I know.”

She puts the kettle on and makes a mug of the chamomile tea she likes. “You want a decaf?”

It’s been less than a week and Freya knows my routine. “Thanks.” She knows I’ll make a decaf coffee and disappear to my gaming room, where I’ll play online with a bunch of guys I’ve never met until I crawl to bed sometime after midnight.

But tonight I don’t feel the draw to the game like I usually do. Tonight I don’t want Freya to leave with her chamomile tea and disappear upstairs.

“Goodnight.” She takes her mug like she does every night and turns for the door.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” I blurt out.

Freya turns slowly, looking confused. “Together?”

My eyes dart to her lips, and I lick mine. “Yeah.”

She shrugs. “Okay.”