Page 66 of A Very Daddy Christmas

“I swear I wasn’t monitoring you or being nosy. Every email comes through my inbox, but I never pry. I just couldn’t help but notice that you kept getting offers you repeatedly turned down.”

I offer a faint shrug and a blush in return. “I wasn’t interested in any of them.”

“I know.”

“And it wasn’t just out of loyalty,” I add. “I really like our business, our concept. Dad was onto something when he steered us deeper into French pastry territory. It’s truly one-of-a-kind. And we’re making a decent living out of it. It’s got to count for something, right?”

“It does. So, if you’re ever worried about where I stand, Cora, don’t be,” Eva lovingly reminds me. “No matter what you do, I will always have your back.”

It means the world to me.

I can’t bring myself to tell her the whole truth yet. I’m glad she’s so understanding and determined to stick by my side, regardless of what others imply. She is a good sister, and she’s done more for me than most.

To Eva, family comes first. Me. Her husband. Her daughters. That’s what she cares about and who she fights for. The bakery is our dream, our precious project, the place in which we’ve poured all our love and passion ever since we were kids.

I do need to tell Sebastian, Riggs, and Waylan about this, though. They need to be aware in case they are targeted next.

The thought fills me with dread and embarrassment.

Why can’t people just leave us alone?

20

Riggs

“Play nice,” Sebastian warns me as we casually walk into the Golden Eagle Country Club. “We can’t let them see they’re getting to us.”

“I know. I just really want to wring their necks, though,” I mutter.

“It’ll have to wait until the escrow expires,” Waylan says.

It’s been a while since we set foot in this place, even though we pay exorbitant fees on a yearly basis. We don’t have time to play golf and yuck it up with other rich people in Madison. We’re busy building something incredible, while they’re spending money on luxury simply because they can, simply because they need a place to flaunt their wealth.

Personally, I’ve always found country clubs to be pretentious, useful perhaps when you need to close a more private business transaction, but otherwise, pretentious.

“There they are,” Waylan mutters, spotting our targets once we’re past the reception desk. “Looking pretty cozy.”

“Let’s fix that,” I reply with a smirk.

We make our way into the breakfast room. A café bar sprawls along the western wall, while the opposite side opens onto a generous terrace overlooking the snow-covered golf course. Naturally, with the exception of a few die-hards, nobody golfs during this time of the year. Most of the club’s members come for the drinks, the food, the occasional game of poker, and the privacy they need to be in the company of luxury call girls.

George Hamilton and Orson St. James are seated near the heated terrace, enjoying their coffees and club sandwiches, chuckling and exchanging glances, while one of the waitresses brings a tray of glazed pastries to their table.

They sense our presence as we approach. Both of their shoulders tense up, their postures stiffening. As soon as Orson sees us, the color begins to fade from his freshly shaven jowls. His face is just begging for a good old-fashioned beating.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Sebastian quips and takes a seat without asking for an invitation. “We need to talk.”

Waylan and I pull a couple of chairs from nearby tables to join them, the three of us wearing flat smiles and cold eyes, reveling in the visible discomfort our sheer presence causes.

“What the hell do you want?” Orson groans. “I didn’t ask you to join us.”

“And I didn’t ask you to send masked assassins to kill us while out snowmobiling on a private getaway, yet here we are,” Sebastian replies.

Orson looks horrified. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? Did you butt dial the order by accident?”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, and frankly, I don’t take kindly to slanderous accusations, either.”

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