Page 30 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s bad enough to have a slip up like that, acting as if we’re familiar with each other.
On top of that, I’m also kicking myself for noticing—really noticing—how damn good she looks now.
Jesus Christ. Get your head on straight. She’s Carson’sdaughter.
My best friend’s little girl.
Off limits.
Completely.
But that doesn’t stop my brain from replaying how her lips curved when she smiled earlier at me, even if she seemed nervous to do so.
Or how her sweater had slipped slightly off her shoulder when she untucked herself from the couch and got up to wander off into the kitchen after offering to make dinner.
Both of those moments replay in my mind over and over while I stare into the fire, willing my mind to drop it and let it go before things get out of hand.
I scrub a hand over my face harder, none of it helping.
Reece clears his throat suddenly, snapping me back before I spiral too far down that dangerous road.
“You know what, I’m gonna make up the guest room for her. She can have her own space for the night. Fuck knows she probably needs it being forced to surround herself with us. I’ll take the couch for the night.”
“Good idea,” I reply automatically, though my thoughts are still miles away.
Liam claps Reece on the shoulder as he heads down the hall. “You’re a saint, man.”
“You can thank me later by letting me steal your favorite pillow.”
“Hey now, don’t get carried away.”
The house falls quiet again once Reece retreats down the hall, save for the faint clinking and sizzling coming from the kitchen.
I should stay planted in this chair, shouldn’t even think about going in there and checking on her because I have no business doing that in the first place, but my feet have other ideas.
Before I know it, I’m standing, my boots creaking against the old hardwood as I cross the room and head into the kitchen.
Once I pass the archway, the smells hit me.
It makes my mouth water instantly.
Onions and garlic simmer in a pan on the stove, and something hearty bubbles in a pot on the back burner.
Holly’s standing over it, stirring with a wooden spoon, her brows drawn together in concentration.
“Smells amazing in here,” I say, leaning casually against the doorframe.
She jumps slightly, the spoon clattering against the edge of the pot.
Glancing over her shoulder, she gives me that same small and uncertain smile as before, her blush from earlier returning too.
“Oh. Uh, thanks. It’s just a simple stew. Figured something warm would be good on a night like this.”
“You’re too modest. I doubt there’s anything ‘simple’ about what you’ve got cooking up.” I let a small smile tug at my mouth, trying to put her at ease. “You’ve always been interested in making food, huh? I think I remember your dad saying you tried making him pancakes on his birthday and he nearly broke a tooth.”
That earns a soft laugh from her, the sound shy but real.
