Page 1 of Daddies’ Holiday Toy (Kissmass Daddies #1)

HOLLY

The smell of dough and cinnamon sugar clings to me long after I shut the ovens off for the night and clean up my workstation.

Crumbs are in my hair and clothes, in every little nook and cranny of this place, too, now that my eyes roam around the space freely.

I can feel the scent baked into me like a second skin.

It’s burrowed so deep that it’s down to my bones, making it hard to tell where it ends and I begin.

But hey, that’s the beauty of doing what you love: you become one with your passion, with the thing that makes you tick.

I’ve never wanted anything less for myself, especially when I’ve worked so damn hard to achieve it in the first place.

This place…I live and breathe it most days.

And that’s something I’m proud of.

After wiping down the counters, I take and toss the last of the cookie trays into the dishwasher and start it, my shoulders tugging with that familiar ache that usually sets in around this time.

I roll them back a few times and stretch my neck to the side.

A long hot shower before bed should loosen things up, or I least I’m hoping it will.

There’s nothing like waking up stiff as hell in the morning before I’ve even gotten around to taking care of my caffeine addiction first.

I rub my hands absently over my apron, the front of it still stained with the remnants of flour and dried cake batter.

That’s another thing I need to take care of before leaving: the dreaded laundry.

Five years into owning this place and I’ve long since accepted I’ll never leave this place clean.

It’s par for the course, though.

Heading out of my kitchen and to the front of the store, I pull the light switch next to the front door to plunge the shop into darkness.

Only the soft glow from the streetlamps outside streams in.

Through the glass windows, I can just make out the faint outlines of bundled-up pedestrians moving past the shop on the sidewalk, their boots crunching over the brittle leaves littering the ground that will soon be swallowed up by snowfall if the weather forecast for the next week and a half comes to pass.

I watch them from behind my sanctuary, fighting the urge to press my palm against the cool glass in front of me.

None of the pedestrians so much as glance my way.

It’s a little disappointing, though honestly I don’t know what I expect seeing as how the bell over my door hasn’t jingled all day except when I came in this morning.

It has me sighing on my way into the back again.

The holidays are supposed to be my busiest season.

November should mean preorders stacking up and customers crowding the display cases at the front register for spiced tarts and pumpkin cookies on their way to work, but instead it’s been weirdly quiet.

For a few weeks now, I’ve had this sinking pit in my stomach that hasn’t gone away no matter how many free samples I’ve tried passing out to people passing by, and those who do actually make their way in from the street never end up walking away with more than a small cup of coffee and a prepackaged parcel of espresso nuts at the register.

For the life of me, I can’t understand what I’m doing wrong.

It isn’t like this place is a new business and has yet to build up some credibility with the locals.

That I would understand working against me.

Small towns like this aren’t trusting to newcomers and even less so when it comes to what they put in their mouths.

But my bakery’s been in business for a little over five years.

That’s plenty of time to prove myself.

Which I thought I had up until recently.

My gaze drifts down the hallway that runs alongside the kitchen when I pass by it.

I find my eyes latching onto the office door that’s still cracked open.

The faint strip of light cutting across the floor feels like a taunt considering I know what’s waiting for me on top of my desk: a giant stack of paperwork that I’ve been avoiding looking through all week.

Checks to cut, books to balance, accounts to verify.

All the things I absolutely hate, and dread, running a business.

I nearly groan.

Those damn books…

Even thinking about them now as exhausted as I am makes my stomach twist painfully.

Another day of low sales to record and another column of red ink bleeding across my ledgers now that today’s turned out to be a total failure.

At this point, even walking past my office is becoming a painful reminder that not all dreams are meant to be forever and that I might be clinging to some ideal that seems to already be slipping right through my fingers.

My hand scrubs over my face.

But what am I supposed to do at this point?

I’ve invested too much money into my bakery to simply give up on it and let it fail.

Yet at the same time, the more money I sink into this place, the deeper the hole I’m digging that I’ll eventually need to fight my way out of.

It’s a catch-22, and I’m not sure which option is going to leave me with less regrets in the end.

No matter how many nights I lie awake and stew on weighing both sides of the spectrum, I’m coming up blank.

I exhale again and tug my apron over my head.

It catches on my ponytail, instantly annoying me, before I’m forced to yank a little until I shove my head free.

It hands limply from my hand as I lift it to hang on its hook over by the fridge.

The pocket feels heavier than usual when I pull my phone free.

More reminders from my calendar that rent’s coming up.

Some texts from my best friend, asking me when I’ll be able to actually leave at a decent time and have dinner with her.

And at the end of the list: two missed calls from Mom.

Shit.

My teeth gnaw at the inside of my cheek, guilt pricking at me.

I wasn’t meaning to ignore her all day, but between pretending like I’m busy in order to try and attract customers in—a well outdated piece of advice, I’m now realizing—and the creeping dread of having to admit to myself that things aren’t going well this week, let along this month, I just…

Couldn’t.

What’s worse is once I call her back, I’ll have no excuse to give my mother on why I didn’t pick up when she called earlier.

It’s not like I’ve been buried in orders and had no time to pick up the phone, which is something she’ll definitely ask me about.

She’s never been one to helicopter-parent me, but she’s always worried and is constantly wanting updates about the bakery.

I think it’s her little way of still keeping tabs on me without actually coming around and busting down my front door.

Normally I have no problem telling her about my day.

As the quiet days have turned into quiet weeks, I’m beginning to worry that the world has completely moved on and I’m standing here, still baking my heart out, in this tiny shop that used to bring me so much joy.

Every day since October hit, I’ve been telling myself tomorrow will be different.

That tomorrow I’ll have my regulars back and they’ll be bringing friends with them.

That the boom of business I’ve been waiting for is right around the corner and that holiday rush will finally hit.

It has to happen. Right?

But unfortunately, the shorter the days grow, that silent promise—or is it a plea at this point?—to myself keeps breaking. Day by day.

It’s so frustrating, not just disappointing.

Shaking my head, I dust off the thin sheen of flour collected on the front of my phone from the flour and tap on my mom’s contact before bringing it up to my ear.

She picks up on the third ring, her voice warm and with a slight lilt she gets when she’s had a healthy glass of wine with dinner…or two.

“Hi, sweetheart. You still at the shop? It’s pretty late.”

I wonder who she went out with.

“Yeah. Just closing up.” I don’t bother to mask the fatigue in my voice.

She’ll just pick up on it anyway and call me out all the same.

Tonight isn’t a night I feel like trying to put on a mask and pretend like everything’s going right in life anyway.

“Were you busy? I didn’t hear from you all day.”

I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Not even close. I had maybe four customers all week. Two of which only wanted coffee from the Keurig on their way to work. It’s like everyone suddenly forgot about the holidays. Don’t people bring in baked goods to work anymore?”

“Oh, honey,” my mom murmurs, her voice dropping into that concerned tone I know all too well.

It’s the same one she used to use when I’d call her crying during finals at school.

“You’re working so hard. Something’s bound to give sometime soon.

Once December hits, you’ll have a bunch of orders coming in.

That’s how it always works. People can’t resist your cakes and cookies during the holidays.

You know it, I know it. Hell, the entire neighborhood does, too! ”

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek again as I fish the shop’s keys out of my pocket and head out the back, locking the place up behind me.

I want to believe her, but I know the numbers will be talking an entirely different scenario.

I know exactly how tight my margins are getting and how many of those late notices are already piling up on my desk.

I doubt I even have until December to wait it out and pray for a miracle like she’s hoping for.

Bills don’t care about holiday cheer and my building’s landlord definitely doesn’t care no matter how much of my soul I’m pouring into every tray of cookies that comes out of my oven.

At the end of the day, I’m still coming up short.

The air is a little chilly as I begin the trek back to my apartment.

Thankfully I don’t live very far, less than a ten-minute walk.

This part of town is nice and quiet, making it easier to decompress from my awful day spent slaving over the oven and mixing bowls.

As soon as I get home, I’m crawling into a warm bath with a tall glass of wine and calling it a night.

“Thanks, mom. I appreciate you saying that. I’ll, um…try to keep looking on the bright side of things.”

“That’s the spirit. I believe in you, honey. I always have.”

“Thank you.”