Page 3 of Daddies’ Holiday Toy (Kissmass Daddies #1)

HOLLY

The morning air is bitter when I step outside of my apartment building the next morning.

The world around me feels muted in the way only early fall mornings can be.

All grey skies heavy with clouds, streets dusted with a fine layer of frost, and the occasional car rolling past as its tires whisper over the slightly slick pavement.

Even the holiday lights strung across shop windows seem duller today in the pale morning, their usual cheerful glow dimmed also by the weight pressing against my chest.

My dreams had been filled with stress and never-ending sagas of past due bills and my landlord banging on my front door, demanding every personal worldly possession I had.

It had been a less than ideal way to wake up, to say the least.

My feet drag as I make my way down the sidewalk to my landlord’s office.

Thankfully, it isn’t far, just six blocks from where my apartment is, but as I walk the distance, it feels miles longer the more I keep obsessing over what I’m going to say to him.

Negotiating isn’t my strong suit.

Never has been, actually.

I’m the type who avoids confrontation at all costs because stirring up trouble is never worth the headache afterward.

But if I don’t at least try to work something out with him about the lease, I’m going to lose everything I’ve worked years for, and that’s a reality I can’t accept.

Not at this point.

That thought alone makes me feel like I’m swallowing glass and forces me to let out a shaky breath as I wrap my jacket tighter around me.

The problem is, well, I’m not sure what the solution to any of this is.

What could I even offer him?

Partial payment?

A personal loan I don’t have the credit to secure?

I’ve tried to stay on his good side, making sure to always be polite whenever we interact and always make sure to pay on time.

Well, until now.

And that’s what I’m dreading.

Trudging to an unofficial meeting with the plan to beg and plead for a little more time until I can figure something out.

By the time I reach Mr. Larkin’s office, I’m a bundle of nerves.

The place is in a small, brick building wedged between a nail salon and a locally owned hardware store.

The gold lettering on the glass door has long since faded with time and sun exposure, cracks forming between the letters and flecks of it peeling off.

I hesitate at the door and catch sight of my own reflection.

I look paler than usual under these grey skies, my hair slightly frizzy under the hood of my jacket from how dry and cold it’s been outside.

Even from the warped mirrored image, I can tell how dark the circles under my eyes are.

My hand trembles when I reach out and grab the handle, and a warm rush of air smelling faintly of freshly brewed coffee greets me.

You can do this.

“Don’t fuck this up,” I mumble to myself then step into the lobby.

The little bell above the door jingles behind me when it swings shut again.

Someone from behind the counter, a young woman around my age with light brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, looks up from her computer.

She fixes me with a polite but disinterested smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Larkin,” I reply, walking closer to her. “I don’t have an appointment but?—”

Before I can finish, a voice calls from an open doorway behind her. “Send her in.”

I swallow, dread leaking into my gut instantly.

She gestures for me to go ahead before turning back to her computer once again.

Blowing out another breath, I move behind the counter and head down the hallway.

Mr. Larkin’s office is exactly how I remember it from the first time I came here to sign my lease paperwork.

It’s all dark wood paneling and a massive leather couch next to a built-in fireplace. Behind his desk sits a tall, dark-stained chair, the finish on it gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.

There’s not a single personal photo of knickknack in sight. The entire palace is sterile and efficient.

Just like him.

He looks up from his papers as soon as I step inside, his expression perfectly neutral like always.

He’s in his mid-fifties, silver hair neatly combed back, and a pair of glasses perched low on his nose.

“Miss Callahan… I assume you’re here about the notice I sent?” His hands fold together on top of his desk, fingers lacing.

“I, um. Yes.” My eyes dart around, looking for somewhere to sit.

Nothing’s arranged close by enough for me to settle down in. Probably by design. “I wanted to talk to you about it.”

He nods, keeping direct eye contact with me.

“You’re behind three weeks now. Your lease clearly states the grace period for late payments is an extra ten days. You’ve well exceeded that.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I know and I’m sorry about that. I was wondering if there would be any way to negotiate another extension. Or maybe a payment plan?”

A single silver eyebrow is raised. “A payment plan?”

“Yes. Business has been slow these past few weeks, unfortunately. The holidays are coming up so I should be getting more orders in soon to fill up my books, but until then?—”

“You need leeway,” he finishes.

I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “Yes.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on my face.

For a long moment, neither of us speak—only the small ticking of a clock from somewhere behind me breaks up the silence.

I’m tempted to open my mouth to fill the void but second guess myself.

With him, it’s usually better not to dig the hole deeper.

I’ve learned that the hard way over the years.

His fingers lace together, the dull gleam of a wedding band flashing under the light above.

“Miss Callahan, I run a business too. I can’t afford to let tenants fall behind indefinitely.”

“It wouldn’t be indefinite,” I say quickly. “Just for a few weeks. I’ve been a good tenant with no late payments up until recently. You know I’ll get you the money the second it clears in my business account.”

He sighs. “While I sympathize, I already have inquiries from other business owners potentially interested in that space. If you can’t fulfill your contract, then unfortunately some choices are going to have to be made. I need businesses that can pay on time.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

My eyes sting suddenly, tears prickling at the corners.

“Please. This bakery…it’s everything to me. I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am. A few bad weeks shouldn’t be what closes my doors. I swear I’m good for it. If you take it away now…I’ll…”

I choke on the words, my throat growing tight with the lump forming in it.

I can’t even finish the thought because it’s too devastating to entertain, let alone admit out loud.

While Mr. Larkin is a straight-forward person, he can’t be that heartless.

He exhales slowly, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

“Half the payment next week, and the rest by the end of the month,” he says finally. “I’ll give you until then to make up what you owe, but that’s it. I can’t give you any further extensions. If the balance isn’t paid in full by then, the lease will need to be terminated.”

Oh. My. God!

Relief floods me so fast my knees nearly give out.

“ Thank you . I’ll get that half payment to you ASAP.”

He nods once. “Good. I’ll look forward to hearing from you in a few days.”

Leaving his office is a blur and so is running back to my bakery to open for the day to get started on the few orders I do still have on standby that I booked out months ago.

Maybe the universe is starting to turn in my favor.

I shrug off my coat and toss it and grab my apron from its hook, tying it around my waist with shaking fingers.

My mind is already sprinting ahead, making mental lists of ingredients I need for my upcoming order and walking through the prep times and pricing I’ll need to send out once I start.

A local wedding for a bride I’ve met a few times, an outdoor venue in the parking right across from the store.

It’s the perfect place to host something small and intimate, especially since the local Parks and Rec department decorated for the upcoming holiday.

Now that I think about it, I’ll have to start whipping up extra trays of sugar cookies for any locals who end up wandering by that day and stop to watch the ceremony.

Maybe a few holiday pies to put on display in the window to grab people’s attention, too.

It’s past Thanksgiving, but who doesn’t love a little reminder?

Maybe I can even take a suggestion out of my best friend’s checklist and start up a social media page like she’s been telling me to do for ages.

Posting photos of my daily menu and begging the algorithm to show mercy on me and get me in front of local customers.

I’ll do literally anything to try and turn this blessing into a full-on miracle.

But when I glance down at my phone right before I reach over to start up the oven, the screen flashes with new email notifications. The name on it has my stomach dropping instantly.

It’s my bridal client.

Hopefully to add on another dessert.

Maybe a smash cake for their eight month old?

Tapping on the notification, I read the one message I’ve never wanted to find sitting in my inbox: Hi there, Holly. We regret to inform you that the wedding has been canceled so your services will no longer be needed.

Fuck.

It’s like a knife to the gut.

The bride and groom have decided to part ways amicably. Sorry for the inconvenience.

My throat burns as I clutch my phone.

“No,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice cracking on the word.

Oh my god. Now what?

I can already see the FOR LEASE sign in my front window, the last of my dreams dissolving like sugar in hot coffee.

I press my palms to my face, trying to block out the thought but it’s no use.

The numbers don’t lie, and neither do my now non-existent orders. Mr. Larkin wants his money, and he isn’t going to wait around forever for me to get it to him.

He’s made that abundantly clear.

The holidays aren’t going to save me like I wanted them to.

Unbidden, my mother’s voice echoes in my head. “Your father’s looking for someone to clean his cabin.”

Goddammit.

Letting out a long, self-suffering sigh, I grab my phone and scroll through my contact list until my thumb hovers over his name.

Dad.

The word feels foreign to me, even now.

There have only been a few times in my life where I’ve actually considered him as more than a sperm donor to my mom.

Most of the time, he acts more like my spoiled little brother than an elder I can look to in times of crisis.

And the times where I have tried to integrate him back into my life were ones I quickly ended up regretting.

Hopefully this isn’t one of them because I’m too fucking desperate to turn anywhere else.

I hit call button before I can overthink it even more.

It rings.

Once…twice, three times.

And then his voicemail picks up: “Hi, you’ve reached Carson Callahan. Leave a message.”

My eyes roll as I immediately end the call.

Figures .

“Story of my life,” I mutter, the bitterness sharp tasting on my tongue.

I don’t bother wasting my time texting him to call me back—it’s not like he’ll bother reading it until weeks later when I’ll be out of a damn job anyway.

The only times my father ever shows any remote interest in my existence is when he suddenly remembers having a daughter might get him laid, then he’s suddenly father of the year for a short time before he grows bored and moves on to the next girl.

My body sags against my counter.

For the first time in years, I feel completely lost.