Page 10 of A Very Daddy Christmas

“About two-hundred and two thousand dollars.”

I almost spit my coffee out. “What?”

“I made some pretty good investments, as it turns out,” Eva says with an innocent shrug. “But we’re still short forty-eight thousand dollars.”

“Damn. That is a lot of money, Eva.”

“It is, but it’s doable.”

“Our sales haven’t been that good. We barely paid off our suppliers last month, remember? It’s pumpkin spice season, and we just finished the first of three spice jugs that would’ve barely lasted us through October in past years.”

Eva’s about to say something, probably along the lines of “we’ll manage somehow,” when the bakery door opens, the bell chime signaling the first customer of the day. I didn’t know she’d already unlocked the door.

Orson St. James and a familiar-looking gentleman with silvery hair and an expensive tweed jacket walk in.

“Good morning, ladies,” Orson says with a bright smile. “Gosh, I love the smell of freshly brewed coffee at this hour. Whip us up a couple of cappuccinos, will you, darling?” he says to Eva.

The air in the room changes. It’s thicker. Heavier. It’s a struggle to stand here and smile at Orson and his buddy after yesterday’s events. And to think we’re just forty-eight grand away fromthrowing this whole madness back into his face.

“Two cappuccinos, coming right up,” Eva says with a pleasant smile.

“Good morning, Mr. St. James,” I mutter.

I know I should try to be civil, but his smirk isn’t helping. The way his friend keeps looking around makes me feel anxious. Orson notices it, and he makes a point of stealing glances at Eva just to get her reaction.

“This is George Hamilton, by the way. My good friend and business partner in several projects,” he says. “We wanted to take a gander at this place before we put it up on the market.”

“Pleasure, ladies,” George says.

Eva drops a teaspoon in the sink, loudly enough to make an impactful statement. “We haven’t even left yet, Mr. St. James.”

“I know, but I’m eager to get this ball rolling,” he replies.

“Rolling where? The real estate market is dead. Who are you even selling to?” I cut in.

He gives me a hard look. “That doesn’t really concern you anymore, does it?”

“It might,” Eva interjects, then places two steaming mugs on the counter. “Your cappuccinos are ready. Would you like a pain au chocolat or a croissant with your drinks? On the house and fresh out of the oven.”

Orson chuckles dryly. “Trying to bribe us, Eva?”

“I doubt you’re cheap enough to buy off with a piece of puff pastry, Mr. St. James.”

I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be an insult or a compliment, and it’s obvious that Orson doesn’t know how to take it, either. Instead, he offers another tepid laugh and takes the coffees over to one of the tables by the window where Mr. Hamilton is already seated. They’re speaking loud enough for us to hear what they’re saying. Probably on purpose.

“Our friend will be thrilled,” Orson tells George. “My guess is the entire neighborhood can benefit from this change.”

“What, like a dry cleaners?” George asks.

“Or a local market. You know, the fancy kind, with whole foods and super foods and all that jazz. Something to spruce up the entire block.”

Eva leans over the counter. “Don’t say anything about buying this place from him yet,” she whispers. “We don’t have the whole amount.”

“It’s not like one of us is going to magically come up with it before New Year’s Eve,” I grumble, not daring to get my hopes up. It’s bad enough that salvation is so close yet not close enough. “Let’s just put up with whatever this is and move on with the day. I need to be at the fair in about an hour.”

She nods once. “Can you get some fall-themed fruit preserves from Ashley’s shop while you’re there? She’s got this incredible pumpkin, ginger, and carrot combination I really want to try. I think you’ll find a spot for it on our menu, too. Maybe some teatime tarts or something.”

“So, ladies, have you found another space for your bakery yet?” Orson interrupts, comfortably leaning back into his chair.

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