Page 29 of Daddies’ Holiday Toy (Kissmass Daddies #1)

JACK

The thing about Carson is, you never knew which version of him you were going to get until you were already knee-deep in the interaction.

Sometimes there was the easygoing guy I’d met years ago—the one who told great stories that somehow got funnier the more you thought about them later.

The guy who could pick up a tab without making it feel like a favor you owed him for, and who could walk into a bar full of strangers and have a table of new best friends by last call.

And then there was the other Carson.

The one who treated every conversation like a stage performance, where he was simultaneously the star and the director, carefully calculating the bare minimum he could give while still convincing everyone he was the same old Carson they liked.

I had a bad feeling today was going to be that Carson.

It had been less than a day since we’d left the cabin, and the whole thing still felt too fresh for this lunch to be anything but a mistake.

He’d texted Liam and me late last night, short and chirpy, “Lunch tomorrow? My treat” and that was it .

The words were innocuous enough, but I could practically hear the false cheer in them.

I knew Carson.

I knew the difference between him genuinely wanting to see you and him wanting to put in just enough effort to say he’d “made the time.”

This?

I know for a fact it’s going to be nothing more than pure checked-off-box energy.

The restaurant is one of those upscale steakhouses with the kind of atmosphere that always made Carson feel like he was operating in some elite league.

White tablecloths, heavy gold silverware, deep mahogany paneling, and black-and-white framed photos of boudoir women that were just pretentious enough to pass as art.

The kind of place where you didn’t order wine so much as select a vintage, and the bill could easily rival a month’s rent if you weren’t careful.

Liam and I are already seated by the Carson time makes his entrance.

Because, of course, that’s exactly what he does. Strolling in like the restaurant is his personal clubhouse, sunglasses still perched on his face despite having walked well past the doorway.

The hostess trails behind him with that overly polite smile, a menu pressed against her chest.

He doesn’t remove the shades until he’s practically at our table, tugging them off with a practiced flick before plastering on a smile and shoving them on top of his head. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Boys,” he greets. He claps Liam on the shoulder first then reaches over to give me the same perfunctory treatment; a quick, friendly slap that carries no actual warmth.

“Good to see you,” he adds like an afterthought.

“You too,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

He drops down into the seat across from us.

He doesn’t bother with menu that’s placed down in front of him, doesn’t bother acknowledging the hostess telling him about the drink menu before he’s shooing her away and flagging down the nearest waitress with a flick of his fingers.

“Steak, medium rare, and a bourbon,” he says once she comes over.

She blinks. “Sir, I’m not?—”

“Make that drink a double,” Carson says, flashing her a smile.

She eyes Liam and me before pulling out her notepad and jots it down without so much as a raised brow, he’s exactly the kind of customer you can tell she’s seen a hundred times before in a place like this—entitled beyond belief—and drifts away.

Only then does Carson turn his attention back to us.

Now that what he deems as the “important stuff” is handled, we can finally get back to the pleasantries. “So. How was the cabin? Heard you got food poisoning, Liam. That sucks.”

Liam quirks an eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s resisting a smirk that says, Really? That’s what you decided to go with?

I lift one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug and turn back to Carson. “Well, you missed a hell of a weekend, I’ll say that much.”

Carson leans back in his chair, a casual sense of curiosity washing over him. “What’d you all get up to before that?”

And that’s when Liam, God bless his beautiful, clueless, suicidal ass, opens his mouth. “Well, after Holly got snowed in with us, we weren’t sure what to do. But we ended up taking real good care of he?—”

My boot slams into his shin under the table, sharp enough to make him wince.

He jerks back from the hit, his glass nearly toppling over when the table shakes.

His face tightens together in a soundless curse, and he shoots me a look that is pure confusion.

Carson, oblivious to the landmine Liam just came within inches of stepping on and detonating, chuckles.

“Holly? Oh, right. Surprised she managed to get caught up in that storm. She wasn’t too much trouble, I hope?”

“Not at all,” I say quickly.

He smirks, settling back into his chair.

“Well, you’d better have been on your best behavior with her. She’s my little girl, after all.”

Just like that, the match to the powder keg is lit.

I can see it in Liam’s face.

The slight clench of his jaw, and the faint flare of his nostrils. He’s holding himself back, but the anger is there, simmering, bristling from Carson’s words.

Carson loves to talk like a protective dad.

He loves to drop lines like that whenever he can, puff up his chest, and act like the role hasn’t been abandoned for years.

Reality is that he’s been a ghost for most of Holly’s life.

I remember the stories back then about the ugly custody battle and the shouting matches in front of the lawyer’s offices while they fought over custody and child support payments.

In those days, when Holly had still thankfully been young enough not to understand what was going on around her, Carson had fought hard for a while.

Or at least he made it look like he was fighting.

Because one day he just stopped.

Stopped coming around to take her for his weekends. Stopped sending Maggie checks in the mail. Refused to send Holly holiday cards or birthday gifts.

According to Maggie, there had been no warning, no explanation, other than Carson telling her he couldn’t do it anymore.

Confronted, Carson claimed, “It’s too much work and I don’t even get anything out of it. So what’s the point? Margaret’s convinced she’s got it covered so I’m letting her have it.”

And that had been that.

Ironic that now, here he is, tossing around the “my little girl” line like it gave him any right to police the behavior of the men sitting across from him.

Men who, frankly, had probably been more present for Holly in a single weekend than he’d managed in years.

I never cared to make any of Carson’s drama my business, but after spending the long weekend with Holly and getting to see for myself how wonderful of a person she turned out to be, Carson makes me angry.

Glancing over at Liam, I can tell he’s feeling the same way, his fingers drumming against the table.

He’s two seconds from throwing his napkin down and calling Carson out on his bullshit or throwing a punch.

If I know Liam, he’s not going to stay quiet much longer.

“Best behavior?” Liam repeats. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Don’t tell us to treat her well when you can’t even do that yourself.”

Oh, Jesus…

“Liam.”

He doesn’t look at me.

His gaze stays locked on Carson, steady and unblinking. Clearly he’s been holding this in for a long damn time and he’s finally done biting his tongue.

Carson’s easy smirk freezes in place, the edges of it stiffening before slowly draining away. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You barely talk to her, man. You act like you’re some father-of-the-year type, but you don’t even know her. You gave up before she even hit middle school.”

The air at the table goes quiet.

Even the low hum of the restaurant seems to dim. I can hear the muted clink of silverware from a couple tables away, the faint whoosh of the front door opening and closing, but it all sounds like it’s underwater.

Carson’s jaw flexes, his fingers curling tight against the edge of the table. “Watch yourself.”

“I’m just saying?—”

“Shut up.” Carson leans forward now too, his shoulders squared like he’s back in a fight he thought he’d already won years ago. “You’re running your mouth about things you don’t understand.”

“I understand plenty. I understand she’s a good kid. Better than you probably deserve, considering you couldn’t be bothered to actually stick around and raise her.”

The sharp crack of Carson’s palm hitting the table makes all our glasses jump, the sound snapping through the restaurant like a gunshot.

I jerk back, surprised.

A couple in the next booth turns their heads at us and stares.

Carson’s voice drops into a low register. “Say anything like that to me again and we’ll be hashing this out in the parking lot.”

Liam frowns.

Carson goes on, “You don’t get to sit here and judge me about my daughter. You don’t get to lecture me because there’s not a damn thing you know about what I’ve done for her. Lecturing me like you have kids when you don’t even have any yourself. What a fucking joke.”

Liam’s eyes narrow further, his voice pure acid now. “You don’t even send her a check once in a while for her troubles. So what exactly are all the ‘things’ you’ve been doing for her?”

Jesus Christ, Liam…

“Alright, let’s cool it. Both of you.”

Carson shoves his chair back hard enough that it scrapes the floor.

A muscle ticks in his jaw with how hard he’s grinding his teeth together. “We’re fucking done here.”

He tosses a few bills onto the table, barely enough to cover his steak, and storms to the front of the restaurant.

The hostess by the door starts to say something, but Carson’s already striding past her, sunglasses sliding back on like this is some kind of dramatic mic-drop exit.

By the time the glass door swings shut behind him, I let out a long sigh.

A couple at the next booth start talking again in lowered voices, while the waitress from earlier hovers a few steps away, unsure if she should come over.

The manager approaches with a practiced, tight smile soon after. “Gentlemen, I think it’s best if you finish your conversation elsewhere. We try to avoid…domestic disputes during the lunch hour.”

Liam doesn’t even argue and gets up from the table.

I drop enough cash down to cover the rest of Carson’s tab and a tip before we stand, walking out into the winter air.

Outside, the cold bites, making my eyes sting from the windchill.

The parking lot is half-buried in dirty snow, and Carson’s truck is nowhere in sight. Probably halfway home already. Or to the liquor store to pick up a case to drown himself in later tonight.

I turn to Liam, shoving my hands into my coat pockets. “What the hell was that about?”

He looks at me, disbelief twisting his face. “Oh, so you’re taking his side now?”

“What? No. I’m not taking anyone’s side, I’m just saying maybe you could’ve handled that better.”

“ Handled it better ?” His voice spikes, making me wince. “He’s a shitty dad and you know it. But yeah, go ahead and keep defending him.”

“I wasn’t defending him, Liam.”

“Save it,” he snaps, already turning away, his boots crunching hard over the slush. “I’ve got better stuff to do than argue with you.”

I stand there for a long moment, the wind needling through my coat, as he climbs into his car and peels out of the lot.

My fingers ache from the cold, but that’s not the part that stings.

The thing is…he’s not wrong.

Sighing, I head to my truck and slide into the slightly less cold cab.

While I knew this lunch would go poorly, I didn’t think it would end with our friendship potentially cracking.