Page 42 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
We settle around the table twenty minutes later.
Holly moves easily between stove and table, setting down dishes one by one.
Pasta in a rich tomato sauce, garlic bread still steaming, a big bowl of salad that looks like it belongs in some cookbook photo.
“Wow, I can’t believe you made all this for us. What’s the occasion?” Liam asks, eyeing the spread and barely containing how much his mouth is watering.
Holly shrugs. “Wanted to do something nice. Plus, I’m the one that went to school for this stuff, so it’s only fair I get to show off my skills.”
Reece chuckles, but I catch the way her gaze lingers on me for half a heartbeat before she sits down across from me.
12
HOLLY
I’m not lying when I tell them I’m making them the “best damn dinner” they’ve ever had.
It’s my penance for being a secret horn-dog.
The wine I found turns out to be a stellar pairing and a welcomed addition to the meal, even though it had a layer of dust thick enough it made me sneeze a few times brushing it off before I poured everyone a glass.
We go through that bottle fast, and the guys break out their own stash they’ve had stuffed in one of their coolers—whiskey, rum, and something clear with a label I can’t read because it’s in another language but looks strong enough to knock a horse over.
At least the burn is pleasant when it goes down.
Somewhere between the third drink and dessert, I realize I’ve stopped thinking about my mom and the man she’s clearly having some sordid affair with.
And about the fact that she’s apparently hiding it from me.
That ache in my chest is still there, don’t get me wrong, but it’s muted, thankfully softened by the alcohol and laughter moving around the table.
By the time Liam suggests we take the party outside, I’m tipsy enough to think it’s a great idea and follow them out into the cold.
The air hits my body the second we step out, making me shudder, but the guys are quick with setting up the bonfire and moving me close to it. The flames roar to life, crackling and sending sparks spiraling into the snowy night.
I hover close, letting the heat sink into my bones until I’m sitting in a chair unfolded by Liam for me.
Jack hands me a stick and a bag of marshmallows.
“You’re in charge of dessert, Miss Baker.”
I laugh, taking it from him and ripping the bag open. “Tell me you’re not one of those psychos who likes them burnt to a crisp.”
His mouth quirks in the faintest smile, and my stomach flips.
God, I havesucha problem that alcohol has clearly only made more obvious.
My eyes dart down to those big hands wrapped in thick gloves and how they’re wrapped around the arms of his foldable chair. What would they feel like wrapped around my throat I wonder…
I skewer a marshmallow, trying not to overthink how the cold is doing nothing to chase away the heat between my thighs.
The puffy coat they gave me works against the wind, and the fire is a warm, temporary distraction, but none of that keeps mefrom noticing the way they all seem to keep their eyes locked anywhere but directly on me.
That tells me enough.
The conversation drifts to work stuff as I hold Jack’s marshmallow right over the flames and twist it to get it nice and golden brown.
It’s a lot of stuff that blows over my head, contracts and deadlines for whatever high-rise businesses they’re involved in.
