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The ice, that was still firmly in place and just as frightening as ever. He masked it better now. Sometimes he’d go a whole day without the steel coldness of his eyes flashing.
“Do you want to help with dinner?” I asked.
He looked up, taking his glasses off. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
I nodded and padded down the hall to the kitchen. There was a radio in the corner we only ever used on holidays. I turned the knob and Tchaikovsky’sThe Nutrackerfilled the kitchen with familiar melodies. Heart pattering and eyes damp, I began taking all the vegetables out of the fridge.
This was perfect.
Lucien appeared a moment later. He made it even more perfect by doing a terrible job at helping. His hands were occupied around my waist and his mouth was glued to my neck. Kissing me, nibbling my earlobe.
He knew just how to make me fold.
“Wait for tonight,” I said firmly.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too, but you still have to wait for sex,” I said quietly, handing him a knife. “Now, peel carrots.”
We were done with meal prep by the time the boys got in. They were all in a better mood, chattering loudly as they kicked off their snowy boots and hung up their coats.
“I’m hungry,” Ettore said, yanking open the fridge.
“Can I have a sandwich?” Hugo asked.
“It’s almost dinner time,” Marco announced, always the responsible one.
“So? I can fit a sandwich and dinner, dumbass.”
“I can fit this boot up—”
“Marco!” I said, sending him a warning look.
Hugo dove at him and they crashed on the floor, kicking and punching at each other. Unfazed, Lucien grabbed them both by the backs of their shirts and deposited them in the hall to figure it out on their own. He shut the door, smoothed back his hair, and returned to washing the dishes.
“Can we eat, mom?” Atlas begged quietly.
I kissed his head. “Of course. Run upstairs and wash your hands and put on some dry clothes. Dinner will be ready when you get back down.”
Lucien and I set the table and brought the food out. Everything was ready when the boys returned, their differences settled and their hands cleaned. They all knew better than to act up at the dinner table. Lucien was strict about their table manners.
They took their seats after I sat. Lucien glanced over the table with an approving glance and took his place at the head.
“Thanks for dinner, mom,” said Marco.
“You’re welcome,” I said, glad he was in a better mood. “Now, let’s eat.”
It was one of the best Christmas Eve dinners we’d ever had. The chicken in thick, creamy sauce, roasted vegetables, and mashed potatoes kept the boys happy and quiet. When everyone had eaten their fill, Marco and I cleared the plates and brought out the wine and dessert.
“Are you happy, baby?” Lucien asked in quiet French.
“I’m more than happy,” I replied. My French was a little clunky, but it had improved a lot over the years.
“Dad, we don’t know what you’re saying,” Hugo said.
“Good,” said Lucien, switching to English. “Actually, Marco does.”
“Really?” I turned to my eldest son.
