Jake

Kaitlyn might not believe in Christmas miracles, but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to play the role of her Ghost of Christmas Present this year. Because the Kaitlyn I remember would’ve been dragging me down to the skating rink before we ever had the chance to stop for hot chocolate.

She also would’ve pulled me into a store, found us a storage closet, and asked if she could play with my candy cane.

Which is not the reason I’m insisting on taking her out onto the ice.

Nope. This one’s all for her.

Call it reciprocation for her being my inspiration since Zoe came into my life.

Which was one more sign I never should’ve married Octavia, but that’s also something I’ve come to terms with the last five years.

“When did you become such a jolly elf?” Kaitlyn asks as we take the ice.

“When Zoe was born.” I take her hand—to keep her close, I tell myself, but it’s so fucking good to be holding her hand, I don’t honestly care what my excuse is. “Took one look at that little girl, and I knew I wanted her to believe in magic.”

That earns me a small smile. “I can’t decide if she’s a handful or totally awesome.”

“Both.”

The smile’s growing. “She knew Santa had to be a woman?”

“My mother’s influence.”

“Really?”

“The divorce helped her embrace her inner strength. She’s made it her mission to empower Zoe.” I grin back at Kaitlyn’s laugh, which I totally get. Eight years ago, I wouldn’t have expected my mother to be the best influence on my daughter either. “Have to rein her in on occasion, but for the most part, Mom’s been a good role model for her.”

“Zoe’s mother…?”

“Every other weekend and a couple weeks a year. We’re all good with the arrangement.”

She doesn’t say anything as she pulls me into a curve.

“Zoe wasn’t planned,” I say, “but she’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”

She opens her mouth, but before she can talk, a massive dude—and I’m taking massive—speeds past her, blowing her hair into her mouth and causing her to stumble.

“Hey!” I turn abruptly to catch his attention, because this dumbass is going to hurt someone, and he’s lucky it wasn’t Kaitlyn.

The guy spins on a dime and looks back at me, and I almost trip myself. “Holy fuck,” I mutter.

“Ohmygod,” Kaitlyn gasps. “Are you the Brute or the Force?”

“Go on and guess, sweetheart.” He grins a big, wide grin and jerks his head at me. “This doofus bothering you?”

Before I can process that one of the Berger twins, the biggest hockey players in the NHL, is offering to defend Kaitlyn’s honor, the second twin slams into him. Identical blue eyes nod at me. He grunts and they both take off on their skates again.

“You can’t play soccer at Rockefeller Plaza with a frozen turkey, you nimrods.” A woman speeds after them, going almost as fast, and that’s when I notice the Butterball.

“Ohmygod,” Kaitlyn whispers again. “My brothers are going to be so pissed they missed this.”

We angle toward the edge of the rink, because the Berger twins are using their skates to kick a frozen turkey over the ice. There’s a dark-haired guy with a chin dimples aiming his phone at the whole thing while the woman—a pixie in comparison—continues to chase the massive hockey players.

“Clear the goal,” the first twin bellows.

Skaters under the tree scatter.

“They really are this crazy,” I say.

Kaitlyn’s laughing as the second twin intercepts the turkey and heads our way again. Almost all the skaters are hovering at the edges like us. Kaitlyn pulls her phone out and snaps a few pictures.

Her cheeks are tinged with pink, her hazel eyes twinkling, those lush lips spread in the smile that used to make my heart stop.

Still does, if I’m being honest.

We dodge out of the way as the second twin stops inches from where we were standing. He lifts the frozen turkey—has to be a twenty-five-pound bird if it’s an ounce, but it looks like a quarter-pounder in his meaty paws—and howls at the Christmas tree, which is apparently the sign that the game’s over.

He turns to Kaitlyn and offers the turkey. “For nice girl,” he grunts.

She blinks at him, takes the turkey, and oofs. I steady her before her feet slip out from beneath her.

The other twin skids to a stop, whips out a marker, and signs the bird. Then he points the marker at me. “Don’t fuck with her, asshole.”

The two of them race across the rink and step off before the cops who’ve noticed their antics can catch up. Kaitlyn and I look at each other.

“You know them?” I ask.

“No. You?”

“Nuh-uh.”

We stare at each other a beat longer, then we both crack up.

“C’mon,” I say as I take the turkey from her. “Let’s go find a home for the Berger Bird so it doesn’t spoil before Christmas.”

“I can’t cook that. Zeus Berger signed it.”

I squint at the signature. “How can you tell it was Zeus?”

“He has the bigger vocabulary.”

Kaitlyn knows hockey.

One more thing that’s changed. And one more thing that’s a turn-on.

Didn’t see that coming.

But I like it.

She eyes the Butterball again. “Can I confess something?”

“Absolutely.”

“That bird might be the best Christmas present I’ve gotten in years.”

I tuck an arm around her as we step off the rink. If a frozen turkey signed by a meathead hockey player is the best present she’s gotten in years, I have some work to do.