Page 36 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
I’m not afraid of the guys in any sense.
They’ve been nothing but polite and respectful since I got here.
The danger isme.
It’s what I might want from them if given the chance.
I doubt I’ll ever get the courage to actually speak up and say what I want…but if I do, how the hell will they react?
They’re my dad’s friends.
Hisclosestfriends.
The men who probably know every ugly detail of his failures as a father and still welcome him around anyway.
The same man I’ve spent years trying not to let define me. I can’t afford to get tangled up in my dad’s bullshit via his friends by proxy.
So I do the only thing that makes sense.
I push away from the window, head back down the hall, and hide in my room.
For the rest of the morning and into early afternoon, I avoid them all like the plague.
I stay in the guest room and scroll my phone mindlessly until the words blur together and my battery screams at me to plug it in.
When that happens, I toss it aside and pace the small space instead.
When that doesn’t work in keeping my mind occupied, I flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling and try to plan a way to save my bakery.
Yet, no matter what I do, my brain keeps dragging me back to everything that happened last night.
The worst part is they barely did anything. I’m simply conflating everything in my head and coming up with wild scenarios that will never happen, even if we were the last four people on Earth.
My stupid caveman brain simply won’t accept the logistics.
It’s too stuck on how horny I am and projecting that problem onto the only three available men around me.
Three hot as hell men…
I press my palms to my face with a groan.
Pull it together, Holly. Come on.
A soft knock at the door makes me jolt upright.
“Hey. It’s Liam,” comes his deep voice through the wood. “Just letting you know we’re heading out on a hike. Should keep us out of your hair for a few hours, so you don’t have to keep hiding.”
I blink, caught off guard, then my face begins to burn.
Wow, am Ithatobvious?
I open the door a crack, peeking out at him.
He’s standing there in his boots and coat, hands shoved into his pockets.
There’s snow already dusting his dark hair and five o’clock shadow.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say quickly. “It’s your weekend. I’m the one intruding on it.”
