Page 4 of Daddy Christmas

He had a point.

As we headed out into traffic, I took a few seconds to have a look-see. Cupholders in the doors, always nice. He had a small to-go mug stuck in one.

He was probably an espresso guy.

His entire character was kind of immense. I couldn’t not observe him. And it was the air around him, the vibe he gave off, more so than his stature. I mean, that was pretty impressive too; he was tall and had a stocky build, but most people looked like skyscrapers next to me.

Not that many could be so quiet and yet ooze “I own the world” like Wyatt Abrams could, on the other hand.

I had a slight thing for such men.

The Daddy Dom type.

“It’s not polite to stare, Parker,” he said mildly and turned the page.

I let out a laugh, unable to help myself. Could he be any hotter? He smelled incredible too. Another day, another bespoke suit. It was dark blue today. Never a wrinkle in sight, obviously. One leg folded over the other. Shoes professionally polished, I bet. Rich people had services to hire for everything.

“Can I ask why you treat every day at the office like it’s your own funeral?” I asked.

“When I die, there won’t be a funeral,” he responded coolly. “I intend to donate whatever I can to science.”

I shook my head. Noble and all, but even after his death, he would rob people of the fun experience of hosting a funeral service.

“Surely someone loves you enough to throw a memorial…? You have a big family.”

Most of them were involved in the family business—on his uncle’s side. As far as I knew, Wyatt didn’t have any siblings, just cousins. Many of them. And three stood out. Three men had risen over the years and managed their own branches. Clarke’s two eldest sons, both located on the East Coast, and Wyatt.

“Hm.” Exciting response.

“Wow,” I mouthed to myself.

Safe to say, I wasn’t going to become besties with my boss.

Starting to feel hungry, I opened my jacket and retrieved the stack of cookies I’d wrapped in a napkin before leaving this morning.

The first bite brightened my day instantly. A perfect batch. Chewy on the inside, a thin crunch on the outside. With lots of cinnamon-sugar.

My cousin and I traded recipes sometimes. Cam was a submissive too, and he’d recently told me I reminded him of his new boyfriend, who was “a total brat.”

“Would you like a snickerdoodle?” I offered. “I made them myself last night.”

I’d been baking Christmas cookies anyway, so I’d had all the ingredients out.

Mr. Abrams lowered his paper and eyed me with an unreadable look. “How old are you, Parker, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I cocked my head and took another bite of the cookie. “Almost twenty-six. Why?”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. He appeared surprised. “You act much younger.”

My own eyebrows bunched together at that. “Maybe you’re the one acting super old. Or, you know, your age. You’re…sixty-two, sixty-three…?”

His mouth flattened in dismay, and he folded his paper with enough force to let me know I’d struck a nerve. “I’m forty-six.”

“Then you have no reason to act like a snickerdoodle is a child’s toy,” I replied stubbornly and crammed the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “You’re a damn grinch, you know that?” I accidentally let some crumbs fling out as I spoke, so I quickly brushed them off the packages on my lap.

Mr. Abrams didn’t say anything else, and it was just as well. I’d lost my desire to try. I didn’t know why I’d bothered in the first place. Everyone who interacted with Mr. Abrams at work said the same thing. It was no use. He never let a conversation derail if it resulted in him having to stick around longer than necessary. He never went out to lunch with coworkers. He didn’t have friends at our branch.

When we arrived at corporate, I was quick to escape the vehicle before he did—before the driver could get the door for me—and I told Mr. Abrams, “I’m leaving three cookies for you. I strongly advise you to eat them. Maybe they’ll make you sweeter.” And then I aimed straight for the entrance to this huge skyscraper in front of us. Possibly the city’s largest mirror. It was covered in glass tiles—or whatever material they used to prevent seven thousand years of misfortune after an earthquake.

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