Page 2 of Daddies’ Holiday Toy (Kissmass Daddies #1)

There’s a pause on her end, long enough that I think she’s debating saying more about the topic before she finally clears her throat.

“Actually, now that I think about it, I wasn’t sure if I should bring this up but…maybe it’s worth mentioning.”

My brows knit together. Up ahead, the park’s trees twinkle from the Christmas lights wrapped around them. “What?”

“Well…your father and I were talking the other day.”

That has me blinking.

What?

Since when have my parents been in contact?

And recently?

The last time they spoke had been at my culinary graduation, which ended in a complete disaster.

I remember that day all too well unfortunately, standing in that thick as hell polyester gown and hat under the hot June sun relentlessly beating down on me.

They’d been in the bleachers watching the procession, waiting for my turn to walk across the stage to accept my diploma to cheer.

Only, neither of them actually got the chance to do that because what started out as—according to my mom—small talk had quickly devolved into a shouting match that triggered my mom’s water bottle to be flung at my dad’s head.

It wasn’t long until they were both dragged out of the ceremony by a pair of security officers and forced to leave, leaving me flushed with embarrassment and with no one there to witness me actually accept my diploma.

Even now, those memories make my stomach clench.

As mortifying as that had been though, it never actually surprised me.

That’s just how they were together: kerosene and gasoline with a match waiting to strike them both, igniting each other and burning everything around them.

“He called a few days ago,” she continues.

“Said he was looking for someone to head up to that cabin he has in the mountains and clean it up. I guess he’s hosting some boys’ weekend with his friends soon, but the place hasn’t been touched in a while.

He was looking to pay someone to go do it for him.

Is that something you’d be interested in? ”

I let out a bitter laugh, my breath fogging in the air.

Working for my absent father as some glorified housekeeper isn’t exactly what I ever imagined myself doing.

Actually, it’s the last thing to cross my mind when thinking of ways to earn possible extra income.

Doing rideshares, running food to people for a fee, maybe even donating plasma… none of that at all is associated with my dad.

Then again I am kind of desperate.

“How much is he looking to pay?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. I can ask him the details and get back to you. How’s that sound?”

My teeth gnawed at my lip again.

The thing is, I could use the extra cash.

Actually, I’m desperate for it no matter who’s wallet it comes out of.

Fuck knows my checking account is on practical life support at this point.

A few hours of working up at that cabin to clean it out shouldn’t be too bad, right?

Especially if it could mean paying down some of those bills cluttering my office.

Or my landlord…

I’ve been up to the cabin when I was little to keep my dad company on hunting trips.

Back then, I never found it strange how he would invite a few female friends up to keep us company, not once questioning his excuses about why my mom would have to stay back in town to work.

They always brought me candy and gifts to keep me distracted long enough not to notice them sneaking off to god knows where before returning half an hour later with flushed cheeks and messy hair.

It’s been no secret that my dad and I have had a rocky relationship for years.

Though, maybe “rocky” is putting it too kindly.

He left just as I hit my preteens, running off with some woman he met passing through town and never looked back, disappearing before I ever had the chance to say goodbye.

No note, no explanation, and definitely not enough maturity to break up with my mom the proper way without completely shattering her heart.

My dad had left me to pick up the pieces of my poor mother’s broken heart and bear the brunt of years of her trying to cope through it with drinking and late nights at the office.

It wasn’t until years later that I’d gotten the whole truth out of my mom about how he’d been planning to leave her for months and had drained their accounts dry the day he picked up and left.

I’d never quite forgiven him for that, even after the apology calls and holiday cards started rolling in over a year later.

He’d come and gone a few times throughout the years after I turned eighteen but could never quite manage to figure out how to stick around long enough to be held accountable for anything, let alone rebuild our relationship.

I’d long since given up on ever hoping he’d change—that would be a waste of both of our time.

The last time I’d seen him had been at my graduation and even then, it had been less of a reunion and more of ripping open old wounds and allowing years of resentment to come spilling out in front of all my classmates and professors.

Now the real question is this: did I want to involve myself with the man that’s brought me and my mother so much pain throughout my life?

Could the money be worth dredging up old wounds like that?

I’m not sure.

Then again, when it comes to my dad, I’m not sure of anything.

He’s too much of a wildcard to put any real trust in.

“Why don’t you think about it, okay?” my mom says, already reading through my silence.

I sigh. “Alright. I’ll let you know. Thanks for calling and checking on me.”

“Of course, sweetheart. You get home safe, okay?”

“Will do. Love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replies, hanging up right after.

I tug my scarf tighter around my neck, breathing into it slowly as I eat up the rest of my time walking while stewing on my thoughts.

The streets are even quieter over this way.

Only the soft shuffle of my worn sneakers against the sidewalk accompanies me, along with the occasional hum of a car passing in the distance, breaking up the stillness.

Strings of twinkling lights drape around lamp posts, glowing white and blue in the chilly darkness.

Wreaths hang on a few storefront doors, and some windows are even painted with frosted snowflakes.

Our sleepy town is already being dressed for the holidays and it’s barely November.

Usually, the sight of it all would be enough to pull me out of any foul mood since this time of year has always held a special magic for me.

But tonight that warm, nostalgic feeling feels just out of reach.

The cheerful lights only remind me of my empty schedule and my display cases full of unsold goodies, accompanied with the deafening silence of the bell above the front door that never rings.

It’s sad, really, seeing my dreams slowly crumble like this.

I don’t tend to get too down in the dumps when it comes to the future, but right now I’m wallowing hard.

When I finally push through the glass door of my building, I stop at the row of dented metal mailboxes and fish out my key, twisting it until the door creaks open.

A small stack of envelopes stares back at me.

I scoop them out and begin thumbing through as I climb the narrow stairwell to the third floor, the dim hallway lights buzzing overhead.

Bill… bill… a crumpled flyer advertising a two-for-one pizza deal I can’t afford right now. Bill…

The last envelope stops me in my tracks at the top of the stairs.

The return address is from my bakery’s landlord.

Shit .

My pulse kicks up as I tear under the flap with a shaky finger.

Unfolding it, I find exactly what I fear: a past due notice and a hefty balance that seems to glower at me in thick, black ink.

Below it, I read a line that makes my blood run cold: failure to remit payment within seven days of this letter will result in termination of lease and forfeiture of property per your signed rental agreement.

I sag against the stairwell wall, gripping the paper tight enough to crumple the edges.

Seven days?

Seven days to come up with money I don’t have.

Seven days before the one place I’ve poured my heart, soul, and every last dime into gets ripped out from under me.

Fuck…fuck, fuck, fuck.

My eyes sting as I blink hard against the sudden rush of tears.

This bakery had been my fresh start, my redemption, after years of scraping by and working my ass off in culinary school.

It’s where I’ve spent countless nights elbow-deep in dough, where I’ve laughed with regulars over coffee and shared my secret recipes with little old ladies who reminded me of my grandma long since passed on.

How can it all end like this?

I force myself to keep walking, my legs heavy as I climb the last few steps and unlock my apartment door.

The hinges squeak in protest as I push it open, stepping into the dim, quiet space.

I drop the mail on the small counter by the door and hang up my coat, the landlord’s letter still clutched in my hand like a curse.

When I toss it onto the kitchen counter, it seems to mock me.

Seven days.

That’s all the time I have before I lose everything.