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𝗚𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗽𝘆 𝗟𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗺𝗮𝘀 by Marika Ray releases in FOUR DAYS in Kindle Unlimited!
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“Five goooolden rings!”
I’d ignored the first four days of this Christmas song, but Imogen was not going to let me sink back into dreamland. I groaned and tried to pull the covers over my head. Eight-year-olds shouldn’t have lungs like that of a full-grown opera singer.
Little hands grabbed at the covers and began to tickle under my chin when I wouldn’t let go. “Dad, come on! You know I’ll only sing louder. It’s Christmas break!”
I huffed out a breath and flopped back the covers to see my daughter’s eager face staring down at me. Her blue eyes could melt the icicles around my heart with a single glance. I wasn’t normally this much of a scrooge—okay, I was, but not about Christmas. I usually loved Christmas. It was just that this Christmas was not particularly merry or bright.
“Which means you should be sleeping in, not terrorizing your father!”
Imogen scrambled to her stocking feet and began to jump on my bed in the most annoying fashion possible. A headache was already brewing and I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet today.
“Farmor said you’d want to be up early to greet our new guest.”
“Agh, don’t remind me,” I groaned, pushing back the covers like I was getting up. Instead I lunged for her and tackled her to the bed to return the tickling favor. When she finally screamed stop, I let go of her and stood up, stretching out my back and bending my left knee a few times to loosen it up. The body didn’t move like it used to, especially not on a cold winter morning.
“Let’s go help get the place ready. I’m sure this famous couple will be an absolute delight.” I was being sarcastic, as usual. Imogen was used to my grumpy sarcasm. It rarely phased her, as evidenced by her continued smile, showing off her two crooked front teeth and a dark hole next to them that would hopefully one day hold an adult tooth.
“I think it's an actor and a singer. And I’m sure they’ll be lovely. At least that’s what farmor said.”
I snorted and reached for clean jeans in the dresser on the opposite wall. Imogen’s grandmother thought everyone was lovely. I should know. She frequently declared I was lovely and I was the grumpiest son of a bitch in the state of Idaho.
“Get out of here so I can get dressed.” I tilted my head toward the door, and even though she groaned out a complaint, Imogen crawled off my bed.
“I’ve seen you in your tighty-whities before. I don’t get what’s the big deal,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“You’re eight now. That’s the big deal. And I don’t wear tighty-whities,” I groused.
Imogen’s tinkling laugh echoed down the hallway after she left the room but also left the door wide open. I couldn’t help the smile that took over my face. The kid had me wrapped around her tiny finger, but I couldn’t let her know it. Otherwise the teen years would be an absolute nightmare.
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