Page 89 of A Very Daddy Christmas

“Eva, hold on—” Sebastian tries to explain, but she cuts him off.

“I’m done holding on! I’m done trying to understand!” she snarls. “There is a morality clause in the tenancy agreement that gives Orson St. James the opportunity to render the automated sale of the building null and void because of these images. Because they’re proof of the tenant’s lifestyle, the kind of lifestyle that goes against the landlord’s core moral beliefs. I don’t know what Mr. Selznick was thinking when he put that clause in, I really don’t. But the clause is there, and it’s ironclad. We lost the building and our bakery’s good reputation along with it.”

“Who gave you these photos?” Riggs asks, his voice low. I can almost hear the wheels in his head turning, the fury bubbling its way up to the surface. I’m right there with him. “St. James?”

“Yes,” Eva says. “We have until January seventh to leave the building.”

“The clause can be appealed,” Sebastian says.

“And let me guess, you’ll supply the counsel through your attorneys.”

“They’re the best in the state.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sebastian, can’t you see? For every good deed of yours, Orson comes back with a vengeance,” Eva says, genuinely exasperated. “He was able to undo months’ worth of work with that damned clause and a few photos. What else is he going to dig up on Cora, if he really puts his head to it? What else is my sister hiding from me?”

“Eva, we were trying to protect you and everyone else—” I try to reason with her, but she doesn’t cut me any slack, either.

“Right, by taking it to a luxury mountain resort.”

“There were privacy and discretion terms to our stay there,” Sebastian replies. “I’ll have our lawyers take this to court. It shouldn’t have happened.”

I’m quite sure Eva isn’t aware of the attempt made on our lives during our weekend at Rutger Resort, and after a quick exchange of glances with Sebastian and Riggs, we silently agree to keep that to ourselves in light of these new revelations.

“But it happened all the same,” Eva says. “And it gave Orson the ammunition he needed to destroy everything. Even if we appeal the morality clause, there is no guarantee we’ll win, and frankly, I am exhausted. I’m tired of constantly living on the edge of a razor blade, not knowing if I’ll be able to keep my family business and continue my father’s legacy. I’m exhausted from trying to keep my kids from seeing this kind of hatred. I’m tired of all the secrets, and even now I’m sure Cora hasn’t told me everything. It’s bad enough she didn’t tell me about the baby—” She stops herself in a heartbeat, instantly covering her mouth with both hands as she gawks at the three of us.

My heart sinks. It doesn’t take a genius to figure this one out.

“Cora’s pregnant?” I ask, just to make sure I’m not losing my mind.

Eva nods. “She was supposed to tell you.”

“Well, clearly she hasn’t,” Riggs groans with frustration and takes a step back. “Where is she?”

“I thought she ran back to you three,” Eva sighs, confusion in her tired gaze. “I tried calling her but—”

“Straight to voicemail, I know,” Sebastian says. “When did you see her last?”

“A few hours ago, before I left to get the plywood and these handy gentlemen to help with the windows.” Eva takes another deep breath and tries calling her sister again. “Voicemail.” She looks at all three of us with fear in her eyes.

“She was supposed to take care of Dario until later tonight,” I say. “When she didn’t show up at the house, we tried calling, texting… nothing.”

Eva looks distressed. “This can’t be good. She’s pregnant. The morning sickness gets to her sometimes. With the earlier shock, the photos, Orson… oh, God, I didn’t go easy on her, either.”

“We need to find her,” I say with a swelling sense of urgency. “It’s unlike her, regardless of today’s events. She wouldn’t just disappear like this.”

Silence falls heavily between the four of us.

“You’re right,” Eva says. “Please, help me find my sister.”

29

Riggs

Our first stop is the Golden Eagle.

Determination makes each of my steps feel heavier than ever as we walk into the main building of the country club. The air feels tight and stiff, the smell of cigars and pricey bourbon tickling my nostrils while we check in with the receptionist. I don’t like the looks she keeps giving us.

“Is there an issue?” I ask, my tone sharp.

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