Eight
742 Words
Lisa
“I hate Christmas.”
Zara’s words make my head snap.
We’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom. She says it so casually I almost miss it. My hand hovers over the bin of craft supplies I dragged up for her.
Silence stretches between us. She’s not giving me anything else.
“Well, I’m gonna try to change that. Fair warning.”
She doesn’t respond. Big gray eyes on me. I pull out construction paper and start folding it into a card.
“Not like forcing you to love it or anything,” I say. “But maybe we can find one thing about Christmas that doesn’t suck. Deal?”
She considers it, then quietly: “Okay.”
It’s not much. But it’s something.
“All right,” I announce, pulling out a fresh sheet of red paper. “First mission, write a letter to Santa.”
Zara’s head snaps up. “Why?”
“Because that’s what kids do at Christmas. You tell Santa what you want, and if you’ve been good, he brings it.”
She stares at me. “Santa’s not real.”
“Who told you that?”
“Grandma.”
Oh.
“Okay. So maybe Santa’s not real. But writing a letter is fun. You tell someone—real or imaginary—what you want.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah, well. I’m weird. And you’re stuck with me.”
I hand her a pencil. She takes it but doesn’t write. She stares at the blank page. I start mine:
Dear Santa, please send me a vacation, a winning lottery ticket, and the ability to make a six-year-old smile without breaking my own heart. Thanks.
After a few minutes, she starts writing.
Next, Christmas cards. I frame it as something fun instead of mandatory cheer. Whatever the reason, she gets into it.
We spread out on the floor of the upstairs sitting room, massive windows overlooking the snow-covered lawn. Stamps, stickers, markers everywhere.
“Who should we make cards for?” I ask.
“Mrs. Chen.”
“Good choice.”
Zara nods, drawing something that could be a cat—or a very abstract Christmas tree. Hard to tell.
“What about your dad?”
She pauses, then nods. Omarion doesn’t seem sentimental, but maybe that’s exactly why he needs one.
Cards done, glitter everywhere. Hers: THANK YOU FOR COOKIES. His: simple tree and star. I help her spell Happy Holidays when a prickling awareness crawls up my neck.
Omarion is at the doorway. Watching. Specifically, at my hips.
I’m kneeling on the floor, bent slightly forward to help Zara with her card, and the angle means my shirt has ridden up a little, enough that there’s a sliver of skin visible between the hem and the waistband of my jeans.
He doesn’t look away.
My face heats. What the hell is wrong with this man?
I straighten, tugging my shirt down. His eyes flick up.
Zara holds up her card. “Papa, look. I made this for you.”
His attention shifts. He kneels, thumb brushing the crayon tree. “This is really good, baby.”
She beams.
I stay on the floor, heart pounding, trying not to think about the way his eyes lingered on my skin. I fail spectacularly.
That flutter low in my stomach. That heat. Not embarrassment. Something else.
What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with him?
This man is my employer. Grieving his wife. And here he is, watching me. Not subtle. Not accidental.
I need out. Before I do something stupid.
“I’m gonna grab some water,” I announce, standing.
Halfway to the kitchen, my phone buzzes.
Text. From him.
I want you in my bed tonight.
I stop walking.
Like it’s a fact. Like I’m supposed to show up after Zara goes to sleep and let him do whatever he’s thinking.
Does he think I’m easy? That I’ll say yes because I have to?
Mom’s voice: They’ll always want something. And think you owe it.
I want to march back and tell him exactly where to shove his bed, his money, his stare.
But I don’t.
I’m not my mother. I survived debt collectors, three jobs, and the worst year of my life to let some billionaire with a god complex turn me into her.
I delete the text and pocket the phone.
No. I won’t fall for you, Omarion Montgomery.
- Writer
