“I’m not going to cry. Goddamn it, I’m not going to ruin my makeup. I spent forever on my stupid makeup.”

“You look great.” He sat on the bench beside her. “You look amazing.”

“I’m not going to cry. I just need a minute to pull it back.” But she lost the battle on one single tear, then swiped it quickly away. “I didn’t know how much I wanted this, not until I opened that box. Maybe I didn’t let myself know, so I wouldn’t be crushed if you said no.”

Still battling tears, she took another slow breath. “I’d rather be pessimistic than disappointed, so I didn’t tell anybody how much I wanted this, not even Clare. Not even my dad. I told myself it was just business, just a proposal. But it’s a lot more to me. I can’t explain it to you right now. I can’t screw up my makeup, and I’m going to be really happy in a minute anyway.”

He took her hand, considered ways to flip the tears toward that happy. “What are you naming it?”

“MacT’s Restaurant and Tap Room.”

“I like it.”

“Me, too.”

“And what does the famous MacTavish Gut Feeling say about it?”

“That I’m going to rock it. Oh God, it’s going to be great. Oh God!” Laughing now, she threw her arms around him, then leaped up to bounce in those skinny, sexy boots. “Just you wait. I have to stop in downstairs, get a bottle of champagne. Two bottles.” She leaped into his arms when he rose. “Thank you.”

“It’s business.”

“Thanks are still appropriate.”

“You’re right.”

“And this is personal.” She pressed her lips to his, slid her fingers into his hair, swayed against him. “Thank you, so much.”

“You’re not going to thank my brothers like that, right?”

“Not exactly like that.” She laughed, hugged him again. “Neither of them was my first boyfriend.”

She broke away, grabbed for her overnight bag. “We’re going to be late now. You hate being late.”

“Tonight’s the exception.”

“Make another? Don’t get that look on your face when we go over into the wrapping area to get the presents. I know it’s disorganized and messy.”

“I’ll have no look.”

He took the overnight bag while she swung on a coat, a scarf, pulled on gloves. And he manfully restrained his expression when she led him into the room full of presents, bags, wrapping, tangled ribbon.

“All this?”

“Some’s for tonight, some’s for Dad’s, some for your mother’s. I like Christmas.”

“It shows.” He handed her back the overnight as it would be the lightest and easiest to carry. “Go ahead, get your champagne, I’ll start loading this.”

“Thanks.”

At least she’d stacked gifts into open cardboard boxes, he thought as he hefted the first of several. And because she’d left the room he let his eyes roll toward the ceiling.

“I heard that look!” she called out, and her laughter echoed back as she hurried down the stairwell.

*   *   *

From the time she’d walked into Clare’s with presents for the kids, the dogs, her friends—with bottles of champagne and one of the trays of lasagna she’d made during her mad—until the time when she crawled into her childhood bed, Avery found Christmas Eve absolutely perfect.

Since Clare had come back to Boonsboro, a young widow with two little boys and a baby growing inside her, Avery had spent a few hours of the night before Christmas with Clare and her children.

But this year, the house brimmed full with Montgomerys.

This year she’d watched little Murphy climb up Beckett’s leg, nimble as a monkey, while Beckett continued to talk football with Clare’s father.

And Owen patiently helping Harry build some complex battleship out of what looked like half a million Legos. Ryder challenging Liam to a PlayStation tournament while Dumbass and the two puppies milled around, wrestled, and surreptitiously begged for food.

She’d enjoyed listening to Justine and Clare’s mother talk about wedding plans. And she caught the twinkle in her father’s eyes when he looked at Justine—how had she ever missed it? Everything in her warmed at his big belly laugh when Murphy deserted Beckett to climb up the tree trunk of Willy B’s leg.

There was magic yet in the world, she’d thought, because she’d seen it in three young boys.

Still more magic, she decided now as she lay in bed watching the sun slowly tint the sky outside her window, when Owen had walked her out to her car. When he’d kissed her in the frosty air with the shimmer of lights, the smell of pine lingering.

A wonderful night. She closed her eyes to hold it to her one more moment. And a wonderful day ahead.

She slipped out of bed—quiet, quiet—pulled on thick socks, clipped her hair back. In the low light she pulled the bag out of her overnight before creeping out of the room.

She tiptoed down—right on the fourth step since it creaked in the middle—and into the living room with its big, sagging sofa, its big, brightly decorated tree, and its little brick fireplace with two stockings hung.

Hers bulged.

“How does he do that?” she muttered.

The stocking had been empty the night before. They’d gone up to bed at the same time, and she’d read for an hour to decompress from the evening.

She’d heard him snoring in the next room.

He managed it every year. No matter when she went to bed or how early she rose. He’d fill that stocking as he had every year of her life.

Shaking her head, she filled his with the silly gifts, his favorite candy, a Turn The Page gift certificate, and the annual lottery ticket, because you never knew.

She stepped back, smiling, hugged herself.

Just two stockings, she thought, but they were full, they were close, and they mattered.

In her thick socks and flannel pajamas, she went into the kitchen, one no bigger than the one in her apartment.

She’d learned to cook here, she remembered, on the old gas stove. Out of necessity at first. Willy B could do a great many things, and do them well. Cooking wasn’t on the list.

He’d tried, she remembered. So hard.

When her mother walked out, he’d tried so hard to bridge that gap, to keep his daughter level, happy, to make sure she knew how much he loved her.

He’d succeeded there, but in the kitchen? Burned pans, undercooked chicken, overcooked meat, singed vegetables—or vegetables cooked to mush.

She’d learned. And what she’d begun out of necessity became a kind of love. And maybe a little compensation, she thought now as she opened the refrigerator for eggs, milk, butter.

He’d done so much for her, been so much for her. Making a meal meant she could give something back. God knew he’d praised her early efforts to the skies.

She prepared to fix him Christmas breakfast, as she had every year since she’d been twelve.

By the time she had coffee brewed, bacon draining, the little round table in the dining room set, she heard his footsteps, and his booming Ho, ho, ho!

Every year, she thought with a grin. As dependable as the sunrise.

“Merry Christmas, my beautiful little girl.”

“Merry Christmas, my big, handsome father.” She rose to her toes to kiss him, burrowed into his bear hug.

Nobody, she thought, wallowing a little, but nobody gave hugs as wonderful as Willy B MacTavish.

He pecked a kiss on the top of her head. “I see Santa came, filled the stockings.”

“I saw that. He’s sneaky. Have some coffee. We’ve got OJ, fresh berries, bacon, and the griddle heating up for pancakes.”

“Nobody cooks like my girl.”

“Nobody eats like my dad.”

He slapped his hand on his belly. “Big space to fill.”

“That you are, Willy B. But you know, when a man has a girlfriend, he has to watch his figure.”

His ears went pink. “Oh now, Avery.”

Adoring him, she drilled him playfully in the belly, then sobered. “I’m happy for you, Daddy. For both of you, that you have each other. You know Tommy would be happy, too, that Justine has you, and you have her.”

“We’re just . . .”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is having each other. Drink your coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took the first sip. “Never tastes as good when I make it.”

“You’re kitchen challenged, Dad. It’s a curse.”

“It sure missed you. I like seeing you in here, baby. You were always a natural cook. And now you’re going to have two restaurants.”

“And a pub.”

“You’re a dynasty.”

She laughed as she ladled batter on the hot griddle. “A tiny one, but I’m pretty excited. It’ll be a while, but I need a while to finish planning it out.”

“Justine’s excited, too, and real pleased it’s you moving in there. She sets a lot of store by you.”

“As I do with her, with all of them. Wasn’t it great being at Clare’s last night?” Happy as Christmas morning, she flipped the pancakes. “Seeing everybody there, seeing how the kids are with Beckett, with all of them. All that noise and sweetness and . . . family.”

As she looked over at her father, her smile went wistful. “You wanted a big family.”

“I’ve got the best family any man could have, right here in the kitchen.”

“Me, too. But I wanted to say, I know you wanted lots of kids, and you’d have been great with a big family—just as great as you were with just me.”

“What do you want, baby?”

“It looks like I want two restaurants.”

Willy B cleared his throat. “And Owen.”

She flipped the pancakes onto a platter, glanced over her shoulder. As she suspected, her big guy blushed. “It looks like I want him, too. You’re all right with that?”