Page 155 of His Surrender

DEAN

By 5:30, the apartment smells like garlic, butter, and the sauce I have been stirring for the better part of an hour.

Liana sits in her highchair near the kitchen island, kicking one socked foot against the tray.

Christmas music plays quietly through the speakers, almost lost beneath the steady hum of the city beyond the windows and the occasional babble coming from my daughter.

The entire afternoon has been calm.

Aubrey left shortly after lunch with a handwritten list folded into the pocket of her coat and the determined expression of someone who planned to finish every bit of her Christmas shopping in one day.

I offered to send a car with her, but she just rolled her eyes. I offered to go with her, and she reminded me that half the gifts were for me, my father, or Liana.

Then she kissed me in the middle of the kitchen and promised she would be home before dinner.

I glance at the clock above the oven—5:32.

Dinner is not until six, which means she is not late—not even close.

I know that.

Still, my hand reaches for my phone, where it rests beside the cutting board.

No new messages. I set it back down.

Liana smacks both palms against the tray, sending one of her toys tumbling to the floor.

“Was that necessary?” I ask.

She grins at me with two tiny teeth showing to let me know that it apparently was.

I pick up the toy and toss it onto the tray before crouching beside her chair. “Your nanny is a bad influence.”

Liana squeals.

“She encourages chaos … and spending.”

That earns me an excited kick.

I shake my head as I stand. “You two are going to bankrupt me.”

The absurdity of the statement makes me smile. Aubrey could probably spend every waking hour shopping for the rest of her life and never make a meaningful dent in my bank account. The only thing she has bought for herself since moving into my apartment is a sweater she found on sale. Most of the bags she carries home are filled with things for Liana.

A dress she was certain my daughter needed or a book with textured pages.

Tiny socks with a reindeer stitched across the toes.

The thought of Aubrey holding each item up and imagining Liana wearing or using it sends warmth through my chest.

I check the sauce again, lower the heat, and carry Liana into the living room.

She settles against my chest with one hand fisted in my shirt, content to watch the lights from the Christmas tree blink on and off. Aubrey decorated it last weekend. Before her, I had seen buying a Christmas tree as a waste of time and energy.

Now there are mismatched ornaments, a crooked ribbon winding through the branches, and a stuffed angel at the top that leans so far to one side that it looks intoxicated.

I told Aubrey we should fix it. She told me it had character.

She won … she usually does.