Page 1 of Bragg's Christmas

Chapter 1

Damon Bragg – a man who’s about to get the biggest small surprise of his life

March

Damon Bragg

Igroan when the doorbell rings. It’s after eight on Friday night, and I just made it home from work. I’m exhausted and have no interest in opening the door, let alone talking to whoever’s on the other side.

I flop down on the sofa. I’m ignoring whoever it is. My friends know better than to drop by uninvited and my family would have called if they were in town.

The doorbell rings again. This time the intruder presses the button and doesn’t let up. Damnit. There goes my choice in the matter.

I haul my ass to the door and open it with a scowl on my face. When I notice the woman and small child standing on my porch, I force myself to smile.

“Can I help you?”

It’s the woman’s turn to scowl. And she does it way better than me. Her scowl clearly says I’m an idiot who should know who she is.

I study her. Her curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles are familiar. I dig into the recesses of my memory.

“Maria?”

“At least you remember my name.”

Barely. Maria is a woman I had a one-night stand with a few years ago. I don’t usually remember my one-night stands, but it’s hard to forget a woman who yells ‘Giddy up, cowboy!’ when she comes while pretending to lasso my dick. Which would have been fineifwe had been role-playing. We weren’t.

Add in my dad just passing away and the absolute shit show my life was back then and it’s a time in my life I’ve tried hard to forget.

“How did you know where I live?”

We met at a bar and I don’t remember giving her my address. I don’t think we bothered exchanging phone numbers.

“I’m not stupid.”

I raise my hands in surrender. “No, you’re not. I didn’t mean to insinuate you were.”

“I need your help.”

Crap. This is why I don’t have one-night stands. There’s no time to discover if the person you’re having sex with is a nutjob until she decides to lasso your dick.

“What’s up?” I say instead of asking how I can help. I’m not making any promises here.

“I need you to babysit your daughter for the weekend. I have a conference for work and I can’t bring her with me and my neighbor’s out of town.”

I scratch my beard. “You want me to babysit your daughter for the weekend? I barely know you.”

“Not my daughter.Ourdaughter.”

Our daughter? Is she saying we have a child together? She has to be wrong. I am not my father. Screwing my way across the country and leaving devastation in my wake.

“But I used protection.”

“You were also drunk as a skunk.”

“I hate skunks!” the little girl says, and I peer down at her.

She has her mom’s blonde curly hair and freckles. But when I look closer, I notice she doesn’t have her mom’s blue eyes. No, her eyes are brown. The exact same shade of brown as mine.

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