Page 30 of Daddies’ Holiday Toy (Kissmass Daddies #1)

HOLLY

If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be sitting across from one of my father’s best friends in a dimly lit Italian restaurant, sipping the wine he insisted on ordering for me and actually loving it, I would’ve laughed.

Or choked.

Or both.

The best part about going on a date with Reece Blackwell is he knows how to look at you like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to in the whole damn room.

Not in the way some men feign interest while they’re actually just waiting for their turn to talk.

Reece is the total opposite.

His attention makes the rest of the world fade until it’s just him and me. It both flatters and terrifies me, because it makes it nearly impossible to focus on my own words.

I keep wondering what he’s thinking while those amber-brown eyes track every little shift in my expression, every flick of my hand as I tell him my baking horror stories.

He’s leaning back in his chair now, one arm resting lazily along the back of the booth we’re in, the other relaxed on the table near his finished plate.

That easy half-smile curves his mouth up while I recount the craziest client request I ever got.

When I get to one of the ridiculous punchlines, he tips his head back and laughs warmly like I’ve just made his entire day.

At the twist in the middle, his brows jump, eyes widening just enough to make me think I’m actually a good storyteller.

And when I finally land the climax, his smile widens, nodding in approval at a story well told.

I grin, unable to help it. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with the public much.”

“That’s true,” he agrees, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it down. “But being stuck in a corporate office all day sucks. Winter’s especially brutal because I barely get any sun.”

I lean my elbow on the table, my chin in my hand. “Poor you. I can see you’re already losing your tan.”

He lets out a dramatic gasp, eyes crinkling in mock offense. “Don’t say that to me or else I’ll be dragging you to keep me company at that tanning salon over on Cannon Street.”

I laugh, shaking my head, but my smile lingers even after the joke passes.

His voice is one of those rare ones—rich and smooth, making you want to lean in and keep him talking because it’s so pleasant to listen to.

Even if he’s rambling about nothing at all, I find myself peppering him with questions, just to keep him going.

I’m finding that with Reece, his presence is comfortable in a way that sneaks up on you. There’s no pushy, flashy performance.

It’s strange. I thought I had him pegged by now.

At the cabin, I figured I’d know exactly which box to put him in. But sitting here, watching the way his eyes linger just a second too long on my mouth, his thumb absently tracing the rim of his glass like he’s imagining it’s my body instead of crystal…

I realize I might not have figured him out at all.

“So, the kids,” I say when there’s a natural lull in the conversation, idly swirling the last sip of wine in my glass. “You said they live with their mom?”

His tone shifts. It’s not sad, exactly, but it grows a little softer. “Yeah. Out in Arizona.”

“That’s quite far.”

He sets down his fork, leaning back a little.

“My ex and I got married right after high school. Had our first kid before I was twenty-one. It was…fast. We were too young trying to be grown-ups before we knew how. We grew up with our kids while raising them and it was”—he exhales, almost laughing at himself—“a whole mess at times.”

I smile faintly, imagining him younger, overwhelmed but still trying. “And now?”

He shrugs, not in the dismissive way, though.

“We’re fine. We get along better now than we ever did married. She’s remarried to a really nice guy who loves the kids. He’s a great dad to them, so I don’t mind him taking over that paternal role while they’re with him.”

It’s nice to hear there’s no jealousy in his voice.

Just a quiet confidence in what he’s built with his ex.

That’s a rare thing these days. Especially living so far away from each other.

He continues, “I see the kids on breaks, and they stay with me all summer every year. We’ve got a really good thing going, which is a total blessing.”

“That actually sounds…really healthy,” I admit, a smile tugging at my mouth.

“It is. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss them when they’re not around, though. But yeah…” He gives a small nod. “I’m really fucking blessed.”

The way he says that makes something in my chest squeeze.

I don’t expect a guy like him, with that smile and that swagger, to be so open about missing his kids.

Or feeling like he’s been blessed with the circumstances he’s been given.

We end up splitting a tiramisu, and there’s something almost absurdly intimate about sharing the same dessert, our knees brushing under the table now and then from leaning closer together over the table.

By the time Reece pays and we finally step outside, the air is crisp enough to make my nose prickle.

Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s just him, but this is the lightest I’ve felt in a long, long time.

We start toward his car, our steps falling in sync on the sidewalk.

“So…” I glance over at him, a teasing edge slipping into my voice. “My place is actually nearby. You wanna see what you’re paying for?”

His eyebrows lift, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Pretty sure I’ve already seen?—”

I smack his arm before he can finish. “My bakery, smartass.”

He laughs. “Alright, alright. I’d love to see where my investment money is being spent.”

Ten minutes later, we’re stepping through the glass door of my little shop.

The lock clicks behind us, and the quiet settles in.

The warm, sweet scent of the place hangs in the air, a comforting mix that always makes me relax instantly.

The lights overhead cast a soft golden glow when I flick them on, bouncing off the polished glass of the display cases.

“This is it,” I say, my voice light with pride as I spread my arms. “My empire. Where the magic happens.”

I sweep one arm toward the glass display case next to the register, though it’s empty from being purged before I closed the shop today.

Reece strolls forward slowly, hands tucked in his pockets.

He scans the shop like it’s some private gallery, pausing to look at the chalkboard menu and letting his gaze slide over the little seating area and the potted plants in the windowsill.

“Wow,” he says after a moment. “It’s…very you.”

I tilt my head at him. “Meaning?”

“Warm. Inviting. Makes you wanna stay a while.”

I give him a skeptical look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

His smile curves just enough to show he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You love it.”

He’s definitely not wrong.

We both drift into the back.

The air is still warm back here from the ovens running all day.

We’re standing close enough now that I catch his familiar scent, woodsy and clean.

It wraps around me and makes it very hard to focus on anything else.

His gaze flicks toward the stainless-steel fridge then back to me with an expression that’s just shy of a smirk. “You ever use any of this stuff for extracurricular activities?”

My lips twitch. “You mean…have I ever had sex with frosting involved? No.”

“Wanna change that?” he teases, clearly already imagining it and building the scene in his head.

My pulse jumps. “I’m intrigued by what you have in mind.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs.

He pulls open the fridge door, his hand disappearing inside before emerging with a tub of whipped cream.

There’s a mischievous glint in his eye now, and now that it’s paired with the slow kind of grin that tells me I’m not getting out of here without being covered in it.

He holds the tub up. “Whipped cream. A total underappreciated classic.”

I cross my arms, pretending to be unimpressed even though my body is already responding. “Don’t you think that’s a little stereotypical?”

“No way,” he says, stepping closer, “and I bet it’ll become your new favorite.”

He peels the plastic seal from the tub, tossing it aside, and dips two fingers into the pillowy white cream.

My eyes track the movement.

When he holds them up, he murmurs, “Open.”

When I part my lips, he leans in slowly, slipping his fingers in just enough for the cream to melt on my tongue.

I close my mouth around his fingers instinctively.

His breath hitches.

Close like this, I notice it immediately, while his eyes drop to my mouth, looking memorized by the sight.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Definitely will be my favorite.”

He slides his fingers free, slow enough to make my stomach clench, and reaches for the tub again.

This time, instead of offering it straight to me, he swipes the cream along the inside of his wrist.

I swallow. “Really?”

“Really.” He tilts his head toward me, a silent challenge.

I step in, closing the last bit of space between us, and take his wrist in my hand.

My lips brush his skin before my tongue does, catching the sweet cream taste first, then the warm, faintly salty taste of him underneath.

“Holly…” My name is mixed with a groan.

I let go of his wrist, licking the last of it from my lips, and give him my most innocent look I can manage. “Where else you gonna put it?”

That earns me a low laugh, rougher than before, nothing like the ones from dinner.

His hands drop to his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle echoing in the quiet bakery.

Before I’ve even fully processed the shift, I’m sinking to my knees in front of him, the tile cool beneath me.

My dress tugs tight across my thighs under my coat, but I barely notice it.

He works the button on his slacks with slow precision because he knows I’m watching every move.

The faint rasp of the zipper follows, then he frees himself, thick and flushed, already heavy in his hand.

My mouth goes dry in anticipation.

When he turns slightly, I see the glint of mischief in his eyes right before he dips two fingers back into the tub of whipped cream.

He scoops up a generous amount, then wraps his hand around himself.