Page 5 of Daddies’ Holiday Toy (Kissmass Daddies #1)

HOLLY

My phone lights up with an incoming call days later, vibrating angrily on the counter beside the oven and staring me half to fucking death.

I freeze mid-motion, a tray of cooling sugar cookies in my hands, and stare down at the screen in disbelief.

Dad?

Oh, what the hell.

For a split second, I think about letting it ring and go to voicemail, just like he sent me.

Maybe forcing him to wonder, for once, why I called in the first place would give back some of the karma that’s owed to him.

Make him feel what it’s like to reach out and be met with the same silence he’s dished out for years.

But then, at the last moment, my stomach twists hard enough to get me to set the tray down and reach for the phone.

Goddamn it.

Unfortunately, I can’t afford pettiness right now.

Not when my bakery’s rent is hanging by a thread over my head, swaying like a guillotine ready to kill me.

With a deep breath, I swipe to answer and put the speaker up to my ear.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying for a neutral tone, but my voice comes out flatter than I intend.

“Hey honey-buns. Your mom called me. I heard you’re looking to go up to the cabin and clean it before my boys’ trip.”

His tone is easy and annoyingly casual.

He sounds like we’re old friends catching up and not my father who’s had years of unfinished business with me.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to blurt out every bitter thing I’ve ever swallowed down: the missed birthdays, the holidays spent staring at my phone, and the endless excuses that he never seems to run out of.

But I know better. It’s fucking pointless.

I’ve been down that road before one too many times, and all it ever leads to is me crying alone in my apartment after he hangs up or sitting on my shower floor as I sob underneath the spray of water, letting it wash away my shame and guilt for ever thinking he could change in the first place.

He’s not worth the energy or the mental anguish I like to twist myself into.

Not by a long shot.

“Yeah. She told me you were looking to hire someone. I figured I could help out. Though I didn’t want to travel up there if it was going to be for free.”

He chuckles.

“Always the little businesswoman, huh? Okay, sure. What’s the damage going to be?”

“Five hundred,” I say without thinking.

He lets out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s steep.”

My teeth grit together.

He’s not wrong, but at the same time it’ll be going toward my half payment for Mr. Larkin.

That combined with the two small orders I managed to get in this morning when I first walked in will be just enough to buy me some time to figure out how I’m going to come up with the rest before the end of the month.

I’ve toyed with the idea of selling my feet pics online far too many times at this rate, and for now I’d like to keep at least a little bit of my dignity intact.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you haven’t been up to that place all season? So it’s probably going to need a good deep clean. Which is going to take hours,” I reply.

“Alright, alright. You got me there.”

My lips press together. “So do we have a deal, then?”

Please say yes. Please say yes…

“You drive a hard bargain, kiddo, but sure. I’ll give you the money when you’re done and back. Just don’t linger.”

There’s a faint rustle like he’s reaching for something before he starts talking again.

Then the flicker of what sounds like a lighter opening. “Oh, and if you have time, maybe whip up some of your little treats for the guys, yeah? Consider it an early Christmas gift?”

A laugh bubbles up, humorless at the suggestion.

A gift?

My god, like I haven’t spent my whole damn life waiting for my own gift from him to arrive.

I’ve bent over backward for years trying to wedge myself into a life he clearly doesn’t want me in, only for him to turn around and ask me for a favor .

And for what?

Because I’m charging him to clean up his stupid bachelor pad in the fucking woods for whatever the hell nefarious activities him and his dumb friends are going to be getting into?

My eyes roll.

“Yeah. Sure,” I hear myself say anyway. “I’ll bring some baked goods.”

“Atta girl,” he says warmly.

The affection in his voice feels foreign, like he’s borrowed it from someone else.

Maybe he has from whatever poor soul he’s currently dating. “See you soon, kiddo.”

We hang up and I set my phone down a little harder than necessary, the screen going black under my palm. Why do I keep doing this?

Why do I keep answering, hoping he’ll change?

He really does act more like my spoiled little brother rather than my dad, breezing in and out of my life as it suits him.

And I just let him.

“Whatever,” I mutter to myself and turn back to the oven.

No sense in dwelling on things I can’t change.

Besides, I’ve got bills to pay.

The morning I head to the cabin, snowflakes drift lazily at first down from the sky, soft and harmless while I load up my tiny hatchback with cleaning supplies and three carefully packed boxes of baked goods—gingerbread, sugar cookies, and a Yule log I stayed up half the night decorating for whatever reason because I hate myself.

The drive up the mountain starts peacefully with the radio humming low in the background, some classic Christmas carol playing, and the steady swipe of my windshield wipers as a light snow fall drifts down from the sky.

My hands are loose on the wheel, and for a moment I almost convince myself this isn’t so bad.

Traveling up to my dad’s cabin in the woods, a place I haven’t been to in close to two decades, might be a nice getaway from town and the problems that have been plaguing me for the past few weeks.

Fresh mountain air might be exactly what I need to help clear my head before getting back to my bakery and grinding the rest of that rent money out.

Halfway up the mountain though, the snow starts to thicken.

Flurries turn to sheets of rain and icy, making the road’s visibility drop to practically nothing.

My wipers squeak in protest as I lean forward and put them on high, my eyes squinting at the blurry world ahead while barely being able to make out anything but the beam of my headlights flashing back at me.

I should turn back.

Any reasonable person would.

But all I can think about is the rent notice on my kitchen counter, bold letters screaming, NOTICE, LATE PAYMENT .

The bakery. My home. Everything I’ve worked for.

I can’t give it up.

So I keep going.

By the time the cabin looms into view, half-shrouded in snow and tall pines sagging from the weight, my knuckles ache from how hard I’ve been gripping the wheel. Relief slams into me hard enough to make my eyes sting.

Oh, thank fuck.

Parking and getting out of the car, I look back at the track marks made from my tires, watching them already rapidly fill with the falling snow.

A shiver races up my spine, causing my entire body to jolt in protest.

My boots sink into the snow while I move around to the back passenger side and grab my goods and haul them up the tall steps to the front door.

The key is still hidden in a small fake rock next to the door, just like I remember.

Inside, the cabin is frigid and smells faintly of woodsmoke and a fine layer of dust.

It has my nose wrinkling.

It’s all exactly how I remember it from childhood trips, except smaller and sadder somehow.

Without a fire crackling in the hearth or my dad fumbling around in the kitchen while his friends move about the space, tracking in dirt from their activities outdoors.

Pulling myself out of the memories, I quickly get to work.

Scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming and polishing every wood surface until they practically gleam.

I even fluff the damn pillows in each bedroom and rearrange the firewood basket by the fireplace.

Hours pass in a blur of motion, my mind a blank space except for the rhythmic scrape of a broom and the ache in my shoulders.

When I’m finally done, the place looks like something out of one of those grocery story catalogs.

Cozy and pristine, ready for my dad’s precious “boys trip.”

I collapse onto the couch from exhaustion, every muscle in my body humming with a slight ache.

It’s different than what I’m used to working at the bakery, bending over ovens and low counters all day.

My hands are stiff as I wring them out a few times.

The cushions dip under me while I settle back into the couch, a long exhale leaving me.

My phone buzzes from somewhere nearby, forcing me to sit up again and pat the couch until I find it wedged between the cushions.

I grab it and answer it without looking.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you make it up okay?”

The moment I hear my mom’s voice, some of the tension in my shoulders melts.

“Yeah.” My eyes shift over to the window. “Storm’s still bad, so I’m going to wait it out a few hours before heading back.”

Through the glass, I can see the snow still falling in thick sheets, swirling in unpredictable currents that have me practically mesmerized.

It’s beautiful in an unsettling way.

She sighs softly. “Alright, you keep me updated, okay? I don’t want you staying too late where you’ll be driving down that mountain when it’s dark out.”

“I won’t. I’ll call you before I leave. How’s that sound?”

“Please do, Holly. You know I worry about you.”

That pulls a faint smile out of me despite how tired I am. “I know. Thanks for the call, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon.”

We hang up, and exhaustion crashes over me like a wave once again.

My limbs feel leaden, my eyes burning from the lack of sleep from the night before.

Without meaning to, I curl up on the couch and grab the throw blanket I’d draped over the back of it and let the storm’s howling wind fill the silence around me.

I don’t mean to drift off, but sleep comes fast and with it, dreams.

At first, they’re soft, warm.

Filled with the kind of memories I don’t usually let myself dwell on too often nowadays.

I’m little again, my mittened hands wrapped tight in my parents’ as they swing me between them on a walk to the park.

The air smells like fresh snow and my mom’s lavender hand cream.

My dad is laughing, a deep, unguarded sound I haven’t heard in decades.

“Ready, peanut?” he teases, giving my hand a playful squeeze.

“Ready!” I shout, kicking my legs as they lift me higher.

The scene shifts again and I’m on the monkey bars now, my fingers barely gripping the cold metal while I swing from one rung to the next.

Below me, my mom and dad cheer like I’m competing in the Olympics.

“You’ve got it, Holly-bug!” Mom claps, her grin wide and proud.

“Atta girl!” Dad’s voice booms, rich with encouragement.

For a moment, it’s perfect.

So perfect it aches.

But then things are changing once again.

Their smiles falter and the warmth in their voices curdle into tension, their clapping slows then stops altogether.

My mom’s face twists, her brows pinching tight.

My dad’s jaw clenches, his eyes going cold in a way I remember all too well.

The park fades around me.

Suddenly, I’m small again, standing in the hallway outside our kitchen.

My socked feet slip on the hardwood as I press my back to the wall right outside of it, my stuffed rabbit clutched tight to my chest because it’s the only lifeline I have.

A glass shatters at my mother’s feet while my father’s drunken slurs carry down the hallway toward me.

“You’re never here, Carson!”

“And when I am, all you do is nag,” he snaps back.

Their anger fills every inch of this house, seeping under closed doors and into corners where the shadow monsters hide.

I press my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help.

It never helps.

What had once been fond times are now soured by the stark reality of my world shattering.

Of the two people that were supposed to love and protect each other, and me, tearing themselves apart until all that’s left are the ugly parts.

Strong hands shake me awake. “Hey. You okay?”

My eyes snap open to a stranger’s face.

Rugged, silver-haired with faint stubble catching the low light.

He has piercing blue eyes that study me with quiet concern.

Holy hell.

My heart stutters hard against my ribs. “Who…who are you?”