Page 101 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
In those days, when Holly had still thankfully been young enough not to understand what was going on around her, Carson had fought hard for a while.
Or at least he made itlooklike he was fighting.
Because one day he just stopped.
Stopped coming around to take her for his weekends. Stopped sending Maggie checks in the mail. Refused to send Holly holiday cards or birthday gifts.
According to Maggie, there had been no warning, no explanation, other than Carson telling her he couldn’t do it anymore.
Confronted, Carson claimed, “It’s too much work and I don’t even get anything out of it. So what’s the point? Margaret’s convinced she’s got it covered so I’m letting her have it.”
And that had been that.
Ironic that now, here he is, tossing around the “my little girl” line like it gave him any right to police the behavior of the men sitting across from him.
Men who, frankly, had probably been more present for Holly in a single weekend than he’d managed in years.
I never cared to make any of Carson’s drama my business, but after spending the long weekend with Holly and getting to see for myself how wonderful of a person she turned out to be, Carson makes me angry.
Glancing over at Liam, I can tell he’s feeling the same way, his fingers drumming against the table.
He’s two seconds from throwing his napkin down and calling Carson out on his bullshit or throwing a punch.
If I know Liam, he’s not going to stay quiet much longer.
“Best behavior?” Liam repeats. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Don’t tell us to treat her well when you can’t even do that yourself.”
Oh, Jesus…
“Liam.”
He doesn’t look at me.
His gaze stays locked on Carson, steady and unblinking. Clearly he’s been holding this in for a long damn time and he’s finally done biting his tongue.
Carson’s easy smirk freezes in place, the edges of it stiffening before slowly draining away. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You barely talk to her, man. You act like you’re some father-of-the-year type, but you don’t even know her. You gave up before she even hit middle school.”
The air at the table goes quiet.
Even the low hum of the restaurant seems to dim. I can hear the muted clink of silverware from a couple tables away, the faint whoosh of the front door opening and closing, but it all sounds like it’s underwater.
Carson’s jaw flexes, his fingers curling tight against the edge of the table. “Watch yourself.”
“I’m just saying?—”
“Shut up.” Carson leans forward now too, his shoulders squared like he’s back in a fight he thought he’d already won years ago. “You’re running your mouth about things you don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty. I understand she’s a good kid. Better than you probably deserve, considering you couldn’t be bothered to actually stick around and raise her.”
The sharp crack of Carson’s palm hitting the table makes all our glasses jump, the sound snapping through the restaurant like a gunshot.
I jerk back, surprised.
A couple in the next booth turns their heads at us and stares.
Carson’s voice drops into a low register. “Say anything like that to me again and we’ll be hashing this out in the parking lot.”
