I don’t know how much sleep we actually got, but I awake to the sound of carols blaring through the house, as loud as my father can crank the volume. I caress Rosie’s back and push myself closer to her so that I can get an arm around her, then tug the covers up around us.

I snort when my mother yells upstairs to “turn that racket down!” and to my surprise that’s what finally wakes Rosie.

“Mmmm. Merry Christmas,” she mumbles, rolling over and kissing me on the nose. She can always make me smile.

“There’s never been a merrier one.”

About to say something else, Rosie is cut off by the sound of the attic door opening. Mom.

“Angelo, I made breakfast and—” her eyes stop on Rosie for the briefest amount of time before a deep blush rises to her cheeks and she closes the door with a thud.

Now I let out a good belly laugh and when it has subsided, turn back to Rosie, who looks rather worried.

“I’ve told her all about you, every time I come home. She’s going to love you Rosie, just like I do.”