Christmas carols played softly, barely audibleover the delighted squeals coming from the living room where the kids were having a battle with their early presents beneath our twelve-foot tree.
It was covered in a mix of elegant gold and silver ornaments alongside handmade decorations the kids had crafted, with presents spilling out from underneath in perfectly wrapped piles.
In the kitchen, Estelle, Jovie, and Isla had transformed the massive marble island into Christmas Central. They wore matching red aprons over their festive clothing and were working much harder than I’d like.
Every surface was covered with Christmas: more cooling racks of cookies, a massive glazed ham studded with cloves, and an explosion of different dishes.
"Princess, you sure you don't want help with that twenty-pound beast?" I called out, adjusting my own Santa hat as Estelle wrestled with the turkey that was almost as big as she was.
"I've got it!" she replied, though her Santa hat had shifted askew and there was flour streaked across her apron. "Just need to get this monster seasoned up.”
She was wearing a knitted sweater and a short skirt with stockings—pure temptation for my eternally hard dick.
Jovie moved between them like Christmas herself in her red dress and matching Santa hat, hands covered in flour.
"Dad better get here soon," she called over her shoulder. "Someone needs to help with the gingerbread house, and we all know I'm architecturally challenged."
From the living room came Leo and Avery's delighted battle cries. Leo, sporting a Santa sweater and hat that kept slipping over his eyes, was having a standoff between his dinosaur army and Avery's sparkly unicorn cavalry.
Avery, dressed in a pink tutu over red tights and her own glittery Santa hat, provided enthusiastic sound effects for both sides.
"The T. rex is gonna eat your unicorn!" Leo announced dramatically, making roaring sounds.
"No way! Princess Sparkle has magic powers!" Avery shot back, waving her unicorn in the air. "She's gonna make him fall asleep with rainbowglitter!"
I had to grin at that. Leave it to a five-year-old to find the advantage of weaponized sparkles.
Near the kitchen island, Sierra was engaged in what appeared to be a surveillance operation. She wore a sage dress, complete with a pointy elf hat, and her eyes were laser-focused on Toffee as the cat prowled the perimeter of the cooking area with obvious criminal intent.
"Connor," she whispered urgently, tugging on his red shirt, "he's eyeing the turkey again. I think he's planning a heist."
Connor, looking surprisingly festive, was taking Sierra's cat-monitoring duties with complete seriousness. "I see him. You want a diversion?"
"Yes, but be subtle. He's smart—if he figures out we're onto him, he'll just wait until we're distracted."
I watched as Connor Graves himself began to redirect Toffee’s attention using a feather toy shaped like a candy cane. Only Sierra could turn the Killer into a festive cat whisperer.
The newest addition to our chaos was Crew, Isla's now nineteen-year-old brother, who'd shown up this morning glowing with excitement.
He was practically vibrating as he helped arrange a colorful fruit tray, his face lit up like he was living his best life. He wore a green sweater that showed off the muscle he'd gained from training, and his Santa hat sat at a perfectly jaunty angle.
"Crew," Isla called from where she was arranging Christmas cookies, "want to help with the mashed potatoes?"
“Yes, ma’am!” he replied immediately, swaggering over with energy that came from being around his heroes. He’d filled out significantly since Adrian had started training him in his home gym—broader shoulders, muscular arms, moving with new confidence.
"Adrian's been teaching me about fight nutrition," Crew was saying to Isla as he washed his hands. "Did you know the glycemic index of?—"
"Nerd alert!" Adrian called out from where he was arranging a cheeseboard shaped like a Christmas tree.
He wore the most ridiculous Christmas sweater I'd ever seen—bright red with a giantsequined Santa face and bells that jingled every time he moved. His Santa hat had battery fucking LED lights that blinked in rhythm with the carols.
Crew flipped him off behind his back.
Adrian appeared beside me, carrying what looked like his fourth cup of coffee, topped with enough whipped cream and cinnamon to count as a dessert.
“Daddy Easton’s cutting it close," he observed, checking his watch. "Didn't he say 10:30?”
I glanced at the time—10:28. Wade Easton had many qualities, but lateness wasn't one of them. The man ran his life punctually, mainly because he expected the world to operate on his timeline.
