Page 37 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
His smile softens into something faintly amused, almost kind.
“Hey, stop saying that. You’re welcome to join us if you like, but I get it if you don’t. No hard feelings. Least this gives you the run of the place for a bit.”
There’s a teasing note in his voice, but I still feel guilt prickle hot in my chest.
They’ve been too nice to me this far.
Now I’m being given space when I’ve done nothing to deserve it.
After crashing their weekend, instead of thanking them, I’m hiding in my room like a coward.
“Thanks,” I murmur, ducking my head.
Then again, the alternative is putting myself in danger by making a fool out of myself, and that’s the exact opposite of what I want to do.
“See you in a bit,” he says.
When the cabin door clicks shut down the hall behind them and the muffled sound of their boots fades from the stairs, silence settles over the cabin like a heavy blanket.
I let out a long breath and finally step out of the guest room for the first time since this morning.
Funny how much quieter the place feels without their presence pressing in on me…and also strangely lonely.
I wander aimlessly through the living room and into the kitchen and then back again, my fingers brushing over the back of the couch when I pass by it.
Now what?
My stomach pinches uncomfortably, forcing me to turn and head back into the kitchen.
Rummaging through everything in there, I spot it: a dusty old bottle of red wine tucked into the corner cabinet.
Somehow surviving the many trips my dad and his friends have taken up here over the years.
I pull it out, turning it over in my hands.
A plan starts forming in my head almost instantly.
If I can’t bring myself to properly thank them face-to-face like I should, maybe I can do it another way.
As in another dinner that isn’t just a bunch of things I’ve thrown together into a stew and called it a day.
This one will be an actual well thought out meal that leaves everyone at the table stuffed full and ready to crawl into bed to pass out for a few hours.
Perfect.
Smiling to myself, I set the wine aside and grab my phone, dialing Mom while pulling vegetables from the fridge.
She picks up after two rings, her voice bright. “Holly! How are you? How did cleaning the cabin go? You make it down the mountain okay? You never called.”
“Actually…I got stuck up here. The snowstorm got worse than I thought. So, I’m staying for the weekend until a plow can get up here and bail me out. But the guys have been great. Super polite. Giving me space.”
My hand moves slowly as I slice through the carrots, making them nice and even.
This has to be perfect. More than perfect, actually.
My skills in the kitchen aren’t usually in the cooking department.
I can throw something edible together no problem, but my real talent comes from my desserts.
