Page 14 of Daddies' Holiday Toy

Somehow, I doubt it.

I hope she’s happy at least.

“Jack,” Liam says, snapping me out of it. “You alive in there?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I shake myself out of my memories.

But even as Reece launches into his plans for bringing his state-of-the-art camping gear and Liam laughs, my mind keeps drifting.

Carson. Margaret. The little girl.

That cabin had seen its share of history.

Good memoriesandbad ones.

And now, with Carson pulling us all back together again, I can’t help wondering what exactly is waiting for us up there this time.

4

HOLLY

My phone lights up with an incoming call days later, vibrating angrily on the counter beside the oven and staring me half to fucking death.

I freeze mid-motion, a tray of cooling sugar cookies in my hands, and stare down at the screen in disbelief.

Dad?

Oh, what the hell.

For a split second, I think about letting it ring and go to voicemail, just like he sent me.

Maybe forcing him to wonder, for once, why I called in the first place would give back some of the karma that’s owed to him.

Make him feel what it’s like to reach out and be met with the same silence he’s dished out for years.

But then, at the last moment, my stomach twists hard enough to get me to set the tray down and reach for the phone.

Goddamn it.

Unfortunately, I can’t afford pettiness right now.

Not when my bakery’s rent is hanging by a thread over my head, swaying like a guillotine ready to kill me.

With a deep breath, I swipe to answer and put the speaker up to my ear.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying for a neutral tone, but my voice comes out flatter than I intend.

“Hey honey-buns. Your mom called me. I heard you’re looking to go up to the cabin and clean it before my boys’ trip.”

His tone is easy and annoyingly casual.

He sounds like we’re old friends catching up and not my father who’s had years of unfinished business with me.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to blurt out every bitter thing I’ve ever swallowed down: the missed birthdays, the holidays spent staring at my phone, and the endless excuses that he never seems to run out of.

But I know better. It’s fucking pointless.

I’ve been down that road before one too many times, and all it ever leads to is me crying alone in my apartment after he hangs up or sitting on my shower floor as I sob underneath the spray of water, letting it wash away my shame and guilt for ever thinking he could change in the first place.