Page 99 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
Reece:Dinner tonight? Just us.
The corners of my mouth tug upward before I can stop them, a little spark of heat returning low in my stomach.
Just us.
That is unexpected but in the best way.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, typing out a quick “yes, love to”before setting it back down into the cupholder.
I let myself sit with the feeling for a bit, that little rush of anticipation curling through me.
Mallory didn’t know what she was talking about, I’m perfectly safe.
And I’ll be happy to prove her wrong.
23
JACK
The thing about Carson is, you never knew which version of him you were going to get until you were already knee-deep in the interaction.
Sometimes there was the easygoing guy I’d met years ago—the one who told great stories that somehow got funnier the more you thought about them later.
The guy who could pick up a tab without making it feel like a favor you owed him for, and who could walk into a bar full of strangers and have a table of new best friends by last call.
And then there was theotherCarson.
The one who treated every conversation like a stage performance, where he was simultaneously the star and the director, carefully calculating the bare minimum he could give while still convincing everyone he was the same old Carson they liked.
I had a bad feeling today was going to bethatCarson.
It had been less than a day since we’d left the cabin, and the whole thing still felt too fresh for this lunch to be anything but a mistake.
He’d texted Liam and me late last night, short and chirpy,“Lunch tomorrow? My treat”and that was it.
The words were innocuous enough, but I could practically hear the false cheer in them.
I knew Carson.
I knew the difference between him genuinely wanting to see you and him wanting to put in just enough effort to say he’d “made the time.”
This?
I know for a fact it’s going to be nothing more than pure checked-off-box energy.
The restaurant is one of those upscale steakhouses with the kind of atmosphere that always made Carson feel like he was operating in some elite league.
White tablecloths, heavy gold silverware, deep mahogany paneling, and black-and-white framed photos of boudoir women that werejustpretentious enough to pass as art.
The kind of place where you didn’t order wine so much asselect a vintage,and the bill could easily rival a month’s rent if you weren’t careful.
Liam and I are already seated by the Carson time makes his entrance.
Because, of course, that’s exactly what he does. Strolling in like the restaurant is his personal clubhouse, sunglasses still perched on his face despite having walked well past the doorway.
The hostess trails behind him with that overly polite smile, a menu pressed against her chest.
He doesn’t remove the shades until he’s practically at our table, tugging them off with a practiced flick before plastering on a smile and shoving them on top of his head. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
