Page 120 of Daddies' Holiday Toy

It looks like she’s been cooking for hours.

“You didn’t have to—” I start, but she cuts me off fast.

“I wanted to,” she says quickly, her hands wringing together. “Sit. Eat. We can talk after.”

Something about the way she says it makes it impossible to argue despite the desperation in me to do just that.

Reece and Jack both exchange looks before shrugging, so we do as we’re told.

Jack pulls out a chair for himself, Reece drops into the one across from him, and I take the last seat.

Holly moves around us, topping off water glasses before they’ve dropped an inch, setting a basket of warm rolls in the middle that she pops out of the oven right when the timer goes off.

When she finally sits, the tension has us all remaining quiet.

There’s no teasing, no casual flirting, no small talk about the weather or how her shop’s doing.

Not even peppered questions about how busy the streets around her bakery have been with the mess of holiday shoppers.

The room is filled with just the sounds of silverware scraping against plates and the faint hum of whatever Christmas playlist she’s got on in the background.

It almost feels like a holiday dinner except without any of the easy, relaxed cheer.

Halfway through my plate, Jack sets his fork down with a deliberate clink, drawing all our attention up from our plates.

“Holly. Please tell us what’s going on.”

She freezes mid-motion, the serving spoon in her hand hovering above the bowl of potatoes.

Her knuckles go white around the handle.

For a long second, she doesn’t look at any of us, just stares down at the table with her lips pressed together in a thin line.

When she finally looks up, her eyes are glassy.

27

HOLLY

I swear I’m going to do it tonight.

I’d told myself that three times tonight after finally leaving Mallory’s place and coming back to mine.

Hell, I even practiced in the mirror earlier after I’d sent the text, watching my reflection try on different versions of a calm even voice. Plastering on a steady smile.

Practicing the way I’d sit with my hands folded in my lap so they wouldn’t see them shake.

But now that they’re all here, I’m clamming up.

Three pairs of eyes on me after Jack asks what’s going on and all I can do is stare down at the table, willing myself to finally open my mouth andspeak.

Every carefully rehearsed sentence I’ve built crumbles to dust.

My pulse is climbing, crowding in my throat until there’s barely room to breathe around the lump that’s settled there, much less speak.

The words on my tongue dissolve like sugar in hot coffee, leaving nothing but the bitter dregs of fear.

So, I try for a back up. I smile instead.