Page 1 of Daddy's Naughty List

1

HOLLY

God, this snowstorm was fucking insane.

It was relentless with the biting wind that whipped my face, and no amount of trying to dodge it was helping in the slightest.

But my anger kept me from feeling its freezing temperature as I stormed out of the office building with one destination in mind. The bar.

Not only had I been stood up for the company holiday party, but I also spent the evening dodging pitying glances from coworkers who knew I was supposed to be there with a plus-one.

I hadn’t even wanted to attend the party in the first fucking place. After several coworkers came up to ask me why I was there alone—their liquid courage going strong—I tossed back one last glass of cheap champagne, said “fuck it,” and I left.

I just hoped they were all too drunk tonight that, by the time morning came around, they wouldn’t remember shit. Because, otherwise, I wouldn’t hear the end of it in the intimate office setting where we worked.

The sharp wind slapped at my face especially hard, and I squinted my eyes against the assault. My breath formed little white clouds as I cursed repeatedly.

“Nothing like a shit holiday party to say merry fucking Christmas, Holly.” Of course the universe heard my nasty comment, because at that moment, a car came barreling down the street, hitting a deep, slushy pothole and splashing me so directly that the entire side of my body got soaked.

And then my heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk and snapped in half, causing my ankle to twist. I cursed in pain as I stopped in my tracks, standing there as the cold seeped through my tights and dress, finally penetrating my fury, and my ankle throbbed. The few people strolling down the sidewalk in this shit weather didn’t have the decency to even hide their stares as they gawked at me while passing by.

For long seconds, I just stood there, then tipped my head back and said under my breath, “Fucking perfect.”

I looked down at my foot, more pissed that I ruined my new shoes than the fact that my ankle would be swollen, black, and blue tomorrow. I started walking, but as pain sliced up my leg, I wobbled, and I reached out and braced my hand on the building beside me.

And just like destiny had fucked up my night, it now seemed to reach a hand out and offer me an olive branch. That peace offering being that the building my palm was currently braced against was actually the front door of a bar.

I straightened, but my other heel got caught in the damn sidewalk, and that ankle twisted. Unable to stabilize myself with both shoes broken, I went down with zero grace, my tights that were wet from the slush now tearing on the rough ground.

“Looks like you need a hand, sweetheart.” The voice came out of nowhere, deep and smooth, with a teasing edge that made me freeze.

Instinct yelled for me to tell the stranger to fuck off and not call me sweetheart, but I was cold and in pain and couldn’t channel my inner bitch right now. I looked up… and up… and up, this man’s height giving me a kink in my neck, because he was so fucking tall.

Standing over me was a beast of a man who was dressed in a Santa costume. Even with the thick red-and-white suit, I could see he was stacked with muscle beneath it. This guy certainly wasn’t the typical jolly, round-bellied St. Nick. No, this one had broad shoulders, with his fake white beard hanging loose around his neck, revealing a jawline sharp enough to cut through the ice forming all around us.

I blinked, honestly caught between mortification and disbelief, because I was blatantly staring at this man like he was my next snack. But then the shitty day I’d had come barreling back into my mind, and I blinked rapidly.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” While the answer was clear, given how he was dressed, my tongue was sharp tonight, because I was in a foul mood.

He cocked a dark eyebrow, his Santa hat lopsided and showing short, dark hair that was disheveled underneath. I wondered if he had a crazy night like me.

“I guess I wasn’t obvious enough.” He gave me a cocky smirk. “I’m Santa, baby,” he said, now fully grinning like he knew exactly how ridiculous this situation was. He offered me a hand, his tattoos peeking out from the edge of his sleeve. “Or at least I was five minutes ago. Right now, I’m just Stefan Huntington dressed like an asshole.”

He wiggled his fingers, reminding me he was still holding his hand out, his grin still in place. I ignored his hand and struggled to my feet, brushing dirty slush off my ruined tights and cursing as I trailed the tip of my finger along the run that snaked up mythigh. “I’m fine, but thanks. Just having the best day of my life, obviously.”

“Yeah. That's clear,” he replied, smirking as he tucked his hand in the pocket of his red jacket and took a step back, giving me room to stand up straight.

“Need a ride somewhere? My truck’s just around the corner.”

I cocked an eyebrow and pursed my lips. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I mean, I’m not a killer or anything.”

I snorted and brushed my knees off once more. “Pretty sure that’s a line every serial killer says.” The last thing I needed was to end up on the news because I took a ride from some hot Santa Claus with tattoos.

“True enough.” He grinned, a teasing note in his voice. “How about I buy you a drink inside?” He tipped his chin toward the front door of the bar we were right in front of.

I didn't have to think too hard or long on his offer. I’d planned on heading inside anyway, so if Stefan wanted to foot the bill for a couple of them, I wasn’t going to turn that down.

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