Page 64 of A Very Daddy Christmas

“No, we’ve been here before. We live just three blocks away,” the man says.

“We should try the bakery at the mall,” his wife tells him. “It’s closer.”

I shouldn’t feel offended, but I’m fairly sure she said that on purpose. “They’re pretty good,” I reply with a pleasant tone. “Not as good as us as they don’t have artisanal suppliers and don’t use local seasonal ingredients, but they’re not bad for when you’re in a rush, especially if they’re closer.”

“Whatever. I’m sure they’re more family friendly,” the woman retorts.

“What do you mean?” I ask, almost immediately regretting the words as I set the box and the coffees on the counter.

He makes a card payment, averting his gaze, while the woman gives me a sour look. “We prefer to buy from places that aren’t run by whores.”

“Excuse me?” I gasp, my eyes widening with shock.

“Come on, honey, let’s go,” he says, taking the order off the counter and nodding at the door. “Open that for me, please.”

“Did you just call me a whore?” I blurt out.

“That’s what you are,” the woman shoots back then bolts through the front door, shoving it open while her husband slips through like a scared little mouse. It closes behind them, leaving me flustered, pissed off, and sweating.

“George Hamilton,” I whisper to myself. “He did see something.”

We said we’d be more careful. The guys promised we’d be discreet. In hindsight, we were, except for that group hug outside. But that’s all it was. A hug in the shadow of a large SUV. Alright, and maybe some discreet kisses. George was in the car across the street. He didn’t have a clear angle.

Could someone have been spying on us at the resort?

They were super tight with security. Known for their discretion. I saw some of their patrons. I even recognized a few. Powerful people. There aren’t any rumors swirling around abouttheirparticular lifestyle. The resort guaranteed our privacy. They had no control over the snowmobiling incident, though. And if those people got in, what could stop others?

I’m spiraling into one hell of a rabbit hole of rampant overthinking, and I can feel my pulse spiking with each passing minute.

“You look pale,” Eva tells me as she steps behind the counter.

I shake my head slowly. “Nothing to worry about. Just a little tired.”

We’re both behind the counter, restocking the pastry displays. It’s almost noon, and my sister brought the baguette sandwiches and the bagels out for lunch. We’ll have about a dozen regulars coming in soon, so I get busy squeezing a bag of oranges for fresh juice.

The bell above the front door chimes, prompting both Eva and I to look up.

“Mrs. Darcy,” I exclaim and put on a friendly smile. “Welcome back!”

The sour look on her face makes my stomach churn. Eva turns around, immediately seeing what I see. “Mrs. Darcy, what’s wrong?” she asks.

“What’s wrong is you’ve managed to completely soil your family’s name,” Mrs. Darcy replies, sounding downright offended. “You’re lucky I already paid for my order, otherwise I would’ve gone elsewhere for the pies.”

“I don’t understand,” Eva says.

“Mrs. Darcy is here to collect four brie and cranberry quiches, Eva. They’re already packed and ready for her under the counter,” I reply, never taking my eyes off the woman.

She’s accompanied by her granddaughters, both in their late teens and both looking positively flustered, likely trying to reconcile my filthy presence with the homey atmosphere of our family-owned bakery.

“Yeah, I got that, but what did we do wrong, Mrs. Darcy?” Eva won’t give up.

Dammit.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Mrs. Darcy tells me. “It’s one thing to be intimate with a man before marriage, but what you’ve been doing is so much worse. You’ll go to hell for it!”

“Okay, that’s it,” Eva cuts in as she puts the quiche boxes atop the counter. “Here are your pies. You need to leave. Now.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m never coming back!” the woman snaps.

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