Page 27 of A Very Daddy Christmas

The traffic dies down a little and it’s quiet in the bakery again. It’s only three o’clock, but we’ll get another rush around five or six before closing for the day. I check my phone to see a text from Sherry, the babysitter. She’s with Dario at the zoo and keeps sending me pictures. I love the look on his face. He’s starting to come out of his shell more and more each day.

“Oh, cutie pie,” I mumble.

“I need to run to the bank for a minute before they close,” Eva says, taking her apron off. I wave her away.

I keep scrolling through the photos, realizing how fond I’m becoming of this boy. Dario is quite perceptive and ridiculously smart for his age. He’s curious and loves to experiment. He also loves to test authority if you tell him not to do something.

The bell above the door chimes.

“Back already?” I ask, expecting to see Eva coming back in. But it’s not Eva.

Two men, big, burly and clad in black, walk through the door. Both look angry. My breath falters as they walk in.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” I ask, my voice uneven.

My instincts are screaming at me, telling me to run. But where? This is my bakery. My turf. I will not run from here. I will stand my ground and protect what’s mine. These guys creep me the hell out, though.

“You keep asking for trouble,” one of them says. “So it’s time for you to understand how things run around here.”

“What are you talking about?”

The second guy gives me a hard look, then sternly walks toward the counter while his partner casually strolls between the bistro tables, looking around. I don’t like this. The hairs on the back of my neck prick up.

“Mr. St. James doesn’t need your money,” the first guy says from across the room.

“He needs you to vacate the premises by December thirty-first,” the other one chimes in.

My blood runs cold as my survival instincts kick into play. I measure each man from head to toe, trying to register as many details as possible. The problem is, however, that aside from their size, they both look rather average. Mundane. Brown hair. Brown eyes. No scars, visible tattoos, or memorable marks. Nothing. It’s like they came out of the Average Joe factory and got pumped full of steroids before they were sent over here.

Fear begins to build inside me.

This is clearly Orson’s reaction to the escrow payment, but it doesn’t make sense.

“We’re entitled by the same contract to buy the building back from him,” I reply, speaking calmly to hide my fear. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You should’ve put that money elsewhere. You still can,” the second guy says. “You can withdraw your offer.”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m sorry, who are you again? Are you employees of Mr. Orson St. James?”

“We’re employees of someone who works closely with him. Someone who doesn’t appreciate the dirty move you and your sister pulled. There’s a deal already in place, Miss Levine,” the first guy says. “And you’re messing that up.”

“That’s not my problem,” I snap. “My family and I have been here for decades. Whatever deal Mr. St. James made doesn’t concern me, and if you don’t leave right now, I’ll—” I scream when the second guy whips out a baton and smashes my pastry display.

I jump back, watching the glass pane I just cleaned shatter into millions of little pieces. The baton comes down again, another scream escaping my throat as it smashes into my croissants and cinnamon rolls. Everything falls apart. My heart stops and breaks. My eyes sting from instant tears. And my limbs won’t stop shaking while the other goon starts turning the tables over.

Outside, I see a couple of customers coming up to the door. They see what’s happening within and quickly turn and run away. I hope they’re smart enough to call the police.

I can’t do a fucking thing. I’m frozen in terror.

“It is your problem,” the first guy says, rejoining his buddy. He steps over the destruction, the glass crunching under his black boots. The sound sends shivers down my spine. “Mr. St. James can’t send you the money back, as per that fucking ancient contract. But you can withdraw it yourself.”

“I’m not doing that. Smash this place all you want, I’ll rebuild it from scratch if I have to,” I shout, shocked by my own boldness. Or rage. Whatever it is, I’m going with it if it keeps me alive and leads to these two bastards leaving. “Get the hell out of my bakery!”

“Maybe you need a more hands-on approach,” the second guy growls and moves behind the counter just as the bell chimes again. He glances back to see who came in.

I barely register the movement as three large shadows lunge at him. I hear myself scream again as a fight ensues.

“Get down, Cora!” Sebastian’s voice breaks through the scuffle.

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