Page 13 of Daddy Christmas

Just pointing that out.

I didn’t dare defy him, though. I’d been doing that by pushing his buttons all week.

I made my way to the round table and sat down at a respectable distance. In the meantime, Mr. Abrams went behind the kitchen island and unpacked whatever he’d ordered for me.

“I took a shot in the dark and followed the holiday party’s hashtag on social media,” he said conversationally. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you tagged in oh-so many photos and videos.”

Gulp.

He poured a bottle of OJ into a glass, followed by some hot beverage into a mug. “You’re quite the clown around friends. Quite the drinker…” That one earned me a raised brow. “And quite the performer.”

He must’ve seen footage of Kim and me dancing.

“From there, it was easy to locate your own account and find out what you like to eat,” he said, plating something in a wrap. “Because as we all know, you can’t be on social media and not let friends know what you had for lunch. Dinner… Breakfast.” With that said, he gathered everything on a tray and returned to the table.

If I had been dumbfounded before, it had nothing on now.

He was supposed to yell at me—or, which was more apt to his character, quietly tell me to leave and never come back. Instead…he’d bought me juice, hot cocoa, a breakfast sandwich, and friggin’ pancakes.

“How’s your head this morning?” he wondered and sat down again. With his espresso and some tiny cookie. It looked like a biscotti. Typical Nespresso Daddy, I decided. “After I put you to bed last night, I was going to get you a couple painkillers, but when I came back to the guest room, you were in the process of taking off all your clothes.”

“Oh, of course I was.” I scrubbed at my face, beyond mortified. “This would be the perfect time for the ground to swallow me whole.”

He chuckled. He actually chuckled.

I looked up from my hands, and damn, his smile reached his eyes. It was the hottest sight I’d seen all year.

Then it faded, and he motioned to my food with his cup. “Eat your breakfast.”

Yes, sir.

“What about you?” I tucked into my pancakes with gusto and filled my mouth. “A cookie iffn’t breakfaft.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, just a pinch of mirth lingering. “Swallow before you talk.”

Oh, right. Yeah. I knew that.

“Are they good?” he asked.

“Very. But they’d be even better with more syrup.” I had to be honest. “And my head is okay, by the way. The shower helped.”

“Good, I’m glad.” He rose from his seat and headed over to the kitchen again. “I spent most of my thirties in both Rome and LA. This is what I had for breakfast every day in Italy.”

An espresso and a tiny cookie? That sounded boring.

“Maybe Italians should stick to pasta and pizza,” I said. “Do you by any chance have whipped cream? I already owe you the biggest gift basket known to man. I figure why not go all the way.”

“You lost me. Why do you owe me a gift basket?” When he came back, he had both syrup and whipped cream. Fucking yum. “You’re going to end up in a food coma.”

“That’s my kind of coma.” I grinned gleefully and sprayed a bunch of cream onto my cocoa, then poured lots and lots of syrup onto my pancakes.

“Hm.” Mr. Abrams clearly didn’t agree with me. “Answer my question, Parker.”

What ques—oh. “To show you how sorry I am, obviously. For stepping over the line last night. And for being pushy and stuff all week.” I poured a little bit more— “Hey!”

He’d stolen the maple syrup from me.

“I think that’s enough sugar.”

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