A Very Daddy Christmas (Lucky Lady Reverse Harems)

Chapter 1

1

Cora

S hit. We’re three months away from Christmas, and our bakery isn’t getting nearly as many orders as it should be in advance of the busiest holiday of the year.

“Miss Levine?” a client snaps me back to reality.

“Oh, so sorry, Mrs. Lemming,” I nervously giggle. “This fair is really draining the life out of me. Where were we?”

“Is it like this every year?”

“Yes.”

The Madison County Holiday Fair is the biggest holiday-themed expo of the year. Vendors and artisans from all over Colorado gather here from October first through Christmas Eve to showcase their best products. You name it, we have it.

“You seem nervous,” Mrs. Lemming says, eyeing me closely.

“I am. A little.”

“Your first time?”

“My sister Eva usually attends these commercial events,” I say. “I stick to baking—behind the scenes.”

Mrs. Lemming smiles gently. “You’re going to do fine, Cora. It’s only the first day, and we all know the Levine Bakery is the pride and joy of Madison.”

I only wish we had more customers to attest to that. “It hasn’t been the same since the St. James Mall opened its doors, though. Everybody’s jumping on the ‘live fast’ train, grabbing their coffees in paper cups and their bear claws in brown paper bags, always rushing, never stopping to just—”

“Smell the coffee?”

“Yeah.”

I glance around again. It’s a huge event and it’s always an honor to be a part of it. Even though the low figures are concerning, Mrs. Lemming is right— it’s only the first day. I shouldn’t be discouraged. Yet I see so many people stopping by other stalls, buying other cakes, sampling other pastries and hot chocolate. I feel tired and left out. Drained.

Our landlord opened a mall with just enough competition to squish us. I warned Eva about him. I can’t tell her “I told you so,” though. She’ll wring me like a wet t-shirt.

“Let’s see how the week turns out before we worry,” Mrs. Lemming says, tugging her mauve winter hat down so it covers her ears. Curls of gray hair flow from beneath it, cascading over her shoulders, and she’s clad in a gray, woolen overcoat. “And put me down in advance for a big order, honey.”

I whip out my pad and pen, instantly fashioning a bright smile for this God-fearing, church-going lady who keeps coming back to us for the good stuff. “A big order? Expecting all the family over for Christmas?”

“Yes, indeed. All five kids. Ten grandchildren. Spouses and a couple of cousins, too!”

“Oh, wow!”

“I’m thinking twenty-five people, approximately. I’ll have the Black Forest cake. You girls make it best. And some apple and cinnamon cupcakes. Can you do one of those giant yule logs too? Chocolate, caramel, maybe throw some peanut butter in there…”

“Of course, Mrs. Lemming,” I say as I write everything down, my mind already working out the production costs and an estimate on the prices. “You’ll get some of our signature candy canes as well, on the house. What about the hot chocolate varieties? Have you checked the menu yet?”

She squints at one of the colorful menus on display, nodding slowly. “I’ll get back to you on that, Cora. One of my grandsons is bringing some of his fancy tea boxes from New York, according to his mother.”

“Sure, let me just…” My voice trails off as I look up and see him coming.

The bane of my existence.

Orson St. James.

“Are you distracted again?” Mrs. Lemming giggles, but I can barely hear her. “Cora?”

“Mrs. Lemming, I’m sorry. Again.” I give her a faint smile. “I’ve recorded your pre-order and I’ll give you a call early in December to confirm. Is that alright with you?”

“It is, darling. You have my card details on file, I believe?”

“Yes. I’ll process the deposit before the end of this week.”

She nods once. “Same as last year, right?”

“Thirty percent, yes ma’am.”

Mrs. Lemming follows my gaze. “Why are you scared of Mr. St. James, Cora? He’s a good man. An honorable man. I see him in church every Sunday enjoying our preacher’s sermons. He gives to the poor regularly.”

And he recently bought the building our bakery resides in from our previous landlords. Mr. St. James has been aggressively taking over the city of Madison, one property at a time, over the past few years.

“I have no quarrel with Mr. St. James,” I politely tell Mrs. Lemming.

“You shouldn’t,” she quickly replies. “Orson is a pillar of the community. Frankly, I’m glad Anne sold the building to him. I hear she’s living the dream in Florida now.”

“Yeah, a spot opened up at one of the more glamorous retirement homes. She’s doing well.”

Eva and me? Not so much.

“Mr. St. James!” Mrs. Lemming exclaims as the landlord reaches us.

Orson St. James comes from money. He is ruthless in business, but he gets a pass for every deal he makes because he goes to church every Sunday and writes the occasional check to various Madison charities. It’s his way of giving back, he often says.

I don’t buy it. Not for a single second. This guy gets richer off the backs of the less fortunate. He's thrown people out in the streets and forced small business owners out of their shops. But he puts on a kind smile, his wife attends every fundraising gala, and his grandsons sing in the church choir when they’re not pushing investors left and right across Wall Street… yeah, he’s a great guy.

“Mrs. Lemming!” Orson greets, giving her a polite nod. “What a pleasure to see you here. How are you liking the fair so far?”

“I love it. I just put in a pre-order with Cora,” she replies. “Have you tried her yule log yet? The Levine’s are notorious for it around the holidays.”

He looks at me with a curious twinkle in his light green eyes. “My wife may have brought one home in the past few years or so.”

“It’s gotten better with every season.”

“Mrs. Lemming, you’re too kind,” I say, half-smiling. “Mr. St. James, nice to see you. What brings you to the fair?”

“I’m one of the sponsors and a co-organizer.”

“Ah. Ever the intrepid entrepreneur, eh?”

Mrs. Lemming giggles and sets her purse back on her shoulder. “I need to check the Nativity scenes one more time before I go. I’ll see you soon, Cora.”

“Have a lovely day, Mrs. Lemming, and thanks again. Leave your holiday baking to me.”

Orson and I wait for the retired schoolteacher to leave before we allow our usual tension to seep back in between us, thickening the air and making the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. He smiles again, but I can see the ill-intent in his gaze, the way his smirk turns into something downright depraved.

“Not very busy, I see?” he comments.

“It’s only the first day sir,” I reply with a flat tone.

“Cora, have you spoken to Eva about moving into my mall? You’d get a lot more customers there, I guarantee it.”

My blood pressure spikes, but I gather every ounce of strength left in me to keep my composure. The last thing I want is for him see me as weak. Or worse, easy to tear down. This man has a way of making people crumble with just a few carefully chosen words.

“Mr. St. James, the bakery has been in my family for two generations now. Mr. and Mrs. Selznick leased it to my grandparents nearly fifty years ago. Five decades we’ve spent in that place, crafting our best pastries for the good folks of Madison. We’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, yes, I know the story,” he mutters, glancing around. “Mrs. Selznick told me all about it when I bought the building from her. She insisted I let you girls do your thing. And honestly, it’s been fine over the past couple of years, but it’s no longer good enough.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks at an imaginary piece of lint on his dark brown overcoat, then looks at me, a coldness in his eyes. “While I sympathize with your parents’ passing—”

“It was ten years ago, Mr. St. James.” And not something I want to talk about, especially not with him.

“Be that as it may, I get it. You and Eva have worked hard to keep the Levine Bakery afloat. You’re the patissier, as you like to call yourself—”

“Well, to be fair, I do have a degree from Paris to back that up,” I cut him off.

“Right, right, and your sister is more like the administrative brains behind the operation. I admire and respect what the two of you have been doing. But like I said, it’s no longer enough.”

“And I have to ask you again, what do you mean?” I can hear the tension in my voice.

Orson’s lips twist into a satisfied sneer. My stomach drops before the words even come out of his mouth. “I found a clause in that old contract of yours.”

“Mrs. Selznick’s lease agreement, you mean. Which you purchased along with the building. That contract.”

“Yes. I didn’t have the time or the energy to have a battle of legal wits with Mrs. Selznick back then, but as it turns out, I didn’t really need to.” He takes out an envelope and hands it to me. “I’ve printed you a copy of the contract for your consideration.”

“I know what it says.”

“But do you remember Clause 8B?”

I stare at him, rather dumbfounded for a few moments, before I tear the envelope open and unfold the copy, scanning the lines of practically ancient text to find Clause 8B. As I read the aforementioned clause, I can feel the blood draining from my face.

Orson is quick to pick up on it.

“Miss Levine, consider this your official notice. You have three months to clear the premises. My sincerest regrets, though I am willing to give you a good discount on any of my commercial spaces at the Parkside Mall, which is more than my other tenants ever got.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. And I’m also lucky I noticed the time frame. Three more months, and I wouldn’t have been able to enforce it. I am enforcing it now, though. You have until December thirty-first.” He pauses and nods at another vendor, two stalls over. “Dmitri! Fancy seeing you here! How’ve you been, old sport?” He looks at me and smirks one last time. “Good luck with the rest of the fair, Miss Levine.”

I lean against the stall, trying to measure my breaths as I read the clause over and over. In the eventuality of a sale, the new owner has up to two years to evict the existing tenants with proper notice. Otherwise, the new owner must respect the current lease agreement terms until the contract expires.

Eva and I knew the contract was signed for eighty years. Our grandfather saw to it with Mr. and Mrs. Selznick, long before we were even developing in our mother’s womb. He wanted the bakery to pass on to us. He had a vision for the future.

Now that vision is about to go up in smoke.

It’s an old contract. Some of the sale and rental laws have changed since it was drawn up, but we still stuck to it, just like our parents did before us. This contract was supposed to keep our bakery safe for another thirty years, at least, except for this stupid clause.

Mr. Selznick must’ve assumed a new building owner might want to do something different, and he didn’t want them necessarily tied to us. A two-year time frame seemed reasonable enough to give the guy time to figure out if he wanted the bakery there or not.

Orson is about to destroy our lives. How am I going to tell Eva?

“That son of a—” I mutter, my attention briefly caught by the distressed wails of a little boy a few yards over to my right.

“I don’t wanna!” he shouts, kicking, screaming, and flailing every limb.

The three men with him appear flustered, trying to remain calm while the boy grows increasingly aggravated. “Dario, please,” one of them says. “We’ll take you to Santa’s Workshop later. We just need to meet with a client first.”

He’s tall, dark, and handsome with broad shoulders. Black hair with specks of gray and white, and just enough of a stubble to outline his strong jaw. The dark green suit he’s wearing brings out his athletic frame, tailored to perfection, while the burgundy flannel scarf and the black overcoat give him a definitive note of distinction.

I can’t look away from him.

His companions are equally as stunning. And one by one, they all look my way. The tallest among them sports a rebellious shade of ginger hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the tattoos on his thick neck disappearing beneath a crisp white shirt and a camel-colored vest, while his linebacker thighs struggle against blue denim jeans.

The other reminds me of a California surfer boy turned stockbroker—blonde hair, blue eyes. Time has left its marks on both—fine lines around their curious eyes and delectable mouths, and confident statures—just enough to tell me that I’m looking at three grown men. Devastatingly handsome grown men.

But Dario has no intention of cutting them any slack.

He flails and cries, determined to make a scene. “I wanna go to Santa’s Workshop!” the little boy moans, dramatic tears rolling down his reddened cheeks. His hair is light brown with copper highlights, a fluffy mess made even more colorful by his bright green eyes and spritz of freckles on his nose. “Santa! I wanna see Santa!”

“Waylan, we’re in trouble,” the dark-haired man says, finally pulling his attention away from me. “Dario really wants to go to the workshop, and I don’t think we’re going to make it out of here alive if we don’t appease him.”

“I know, man, but the client is waiting,” Waylan tells him, genuinely frustrated.

The blonde-haired man kneels in front of Dario and offers him his phone. “How about it, little man? For thirty minutes, tops.”

“No!” Dario slaps the phone from his hand altogether.

I can’t help but admire the three for their patience. They’re trying to dote on the boy as best as they can, but I know a sleepy tantrum when I see one. They’re not going to win this unless they figure out a way to get him to fall asleep, and fast. Other people are starting to notice and are looking their way, some clearly judging the men’s failure to keep the boy under control.

“Dario, please,” the dark-haired man tries again. “We can go after—”

“No. I wanna go now!”

“Excuse me,” I hear myself say before my brain can catch up to what my mouth just did. “I couldn’t help but notice. Do you need help?”

The three men freeze, their eyes so wide I take my sweet time looking at the different shades of green and blue between them. I take a step forward while Dario prepares for another round of hot crocodile tears. We’re two minutes tops from a full meltdown, and despite the news that Orson just threw in my face, I can’t let anybody else’s day be miserable. Not with Christmas quickly approaching.

“This one here seems like he kind of needs a nap,” I add with an awkward smile. “If there’s one thing I learned from my nieces, it’s to spot the signs of a sleepy tantrum.”

“A sleepy tantrum,” the surfer dude echoes as he measures me with genuine curiosity from head to toe, making me feel rather self-conscious. I am, of course, wrapped in Christmas colors because it’s a Christmas-themed fair and I’m selling Christmas-themed cookies.

I look at all three men with a sense of doubt. “He’s never gotten really cranky before a nap before?”

“He hasn’t been with us that long,” the dark-haired one says. “He just came to stay with us a short bit ago. We’re not really experts at reading him yet.”

“I want Santa!” The kid reminds us he is very much still here.

There’s a story behind Dario, a tragic one, if the hint of sadness in Waylan’s grayish-green eyes is as telling as I think it is.

“How old is he?” I ask.

“I’m four!” Dario shouts, showing me five chubby fingers.

I laugh. “You’re a big boy, too.” I smile at the men with all the softness I can muster. “Trust me, a thirty-minute nap can do wonders for the rest of his day. And yours.”

“I don’t wanna nap! I wanna go to Santa’s Workshop!”

“This is beyond awkward,” the dark-haired man says with a heavy sigh, then steps closer. My heart picks up the pace when a hint of his musky cologne hits my nose. “I’m Sebastian. Sebastian McKenna. These are my close friends and business partners.”

“Waylan Jenkins,” the ginger says.

“Riggs Marley,” the surfer dude introduces himself with a playful half-smile. “And you’ve already met Dario.”

“Well, hello, Dario. I’m Cora. And it’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

“Is it, though?” Sebastian chuckles, slightly embarrassed.

The boy rushes over and offers to shake my hand. I take it and smile as he gives me a good, firm squeeze. “I wanna see Santa,” he says it again, for good measure. “I don’t wanna take a nap.”

“You guys have somewhere to be?” I ask. “I couldn’t help but overhear, sorry.”

“Yeah, a client meeting. Picked the fair, of all places,” Riggs says with a roll of his eyes. “Our regular sitter couldn’t take Dario, so we’re trying to figure out the best way to hit two birds with one stone. The kid really wants to visit Santa’s workshop.”

I laugh lightly. “Okay, maybe I can help. What if Dario stays with me while you handle your client meeting, and when you’re done, you can pick him up and take him to Santa’s Workshop.”

The men stare at me with a mixture of confusion and awe.

Dario still isn’t having it. “I wanna go now!”

“I know, sweetie, but if I let you taste some of my cookies first, will you wait a bit?”

“Cookies?” His eyes sparkle.

“The magic word,” Waylan mumbles.

Sebastian offers me a soft smile. “You’d do that for us, Cora?”

“Well, not just for you. For him too.” I nod at Dario. “And I’ll admit, for me, as well. I need the distraction. I know I’m technically a stranger, but I’m fairly good with kids. I’ve successfully babysat my two nieces numerous times with no memorable incidents or trips to the hospital. Both are alive and well, might I add.”

“Is this your stall?” Waylan asks. He nods at the display boxes, pastries, and the colorful sign mounted with my father’s name written in elegant, French-style swirls of white on wooden brown. “Levine Bakery. I know that place.”

“Yeah, pretty sure you brought us some stuff from there once,” Riggs tells him.

“Family business,” I reply. “Cora Levine.”

“Well then, tell you what, Cora Levine,” Sebastian states. “If you’re kind enough to take care of Dario while we meet with our client, we’ll gladly and wholeheartedly reward you for it.”

“A nice Christmas pre-order would do wonders,” I shoot back with a grin. “You three go do your thing. Dario and I will be right here when you’re done.”

“Stay with Cora, and I promise we’ll visit Santa in just a bit,” Waylan gently tells Dario.

The kid’s about to protest, but I gently pull him away and back to the cookie display. “Hey, little man, pick your favorite.” I briefly glance back at the guys and mouth, “Go, go!” before turning back to Dario. “I’ve got apple and cinnamon, chocolate and peanut butter, white chocolate and raspberries. What’ll it be?”

“And then Santa?” Dario looks up at me with tired eyes.

“And then Santa.”

Ten minutes later, Dario is out like a light, sleeping in a chair behind the stall’s generous counter, while I wrap a few orders for customers. I manage to hand out a couple of business cards for catering events too, but every time I’m left alone with my thoughts, a sense of impending doom takes over. I look at Dario and find comfort in his slow, even breaths, wondering what happened that caused him to be placed in the care of Sebastian, Waylan, and Riggs.

I want to know more about them, too.

“Oh, wow,” Waylan says, startling me out of my thoughts. “He’s asleep.”

The gentlemen are back, looking lighter and infinitely more relaxed. They are pleased to see their small charge wrapped in my coat, counting sheep in a faraway land.

“How did you get him to do that?” Riggs asks, keeping his voice down.

“I gave him a good sugar crash,” I reply. “He may be too young to understand the concept of a bribe, but he sure does appreciate my chocolate and peanut butter cookies.”

“You’re amazing,” Sebastian says. “And thank you so much. You made the whole day ten times easier.”

“I’m glad.” I sigh, the weight of my woes becoming increasingly harder to hold inside. “How’d the meeting go?”

Sebastian nods, visibly pleased with the outcome. “We’ve got a massive campaign to roll out before Christmas, apparently,” he says. “Which is going to be tricky since Christmas is barely three months away.”

“Glad it worked out for you,” I manage, knots tightening in my stomach.

I keep looking at the kid, thinking that if we lose the bakery, absolutely everything I want to achieve will be pushed back. Will I ever have a family of my own? A successful business? My career will fall apart. I can’t work at another pastry shop. Our bakery is the only one I’ve ever known. It’s my life, my livelihood. How could Orson do such a horrible thing so close to Christmas?

“Cora, are you alright?” Sebastian asks, inching closer, snapping me out of my reverie.

Waylan cautiously moves around me and picks Dario up. The kid wakes as he’s lifted and greets Waylan with a bright smile. “Hi, Uncle Waylan.”

I’m engulfed in a plethora of emotions and I don’t quite know how to manage them all. The mask I’ve been wearing since Orson’s brutal visit is starting to crack, and I can’t hold on to it for much longer.

“Listen,” Sebastian says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll take Dario to Santa’s Workshop and then we’ll come back.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” I reply, my eyes stinging with tears.

“But we want to,” he assures me. “The fair’s closing soon. Let us take you home, at least. Or wherever you need to go.”

“We want to talk to you anyway,” Riggs adds.

This piques my interest. “About what?”

“It’s just something we thought up,” he says, as Dario gives a big, loud yawn to signal he’s fully awake. “He’s back, ladies and gentlemen. Ready for Santa’s Workshop, buddy?”

“Yeah!” The kid is quick to pick up where he left off.

Sebastian gives me a wink. “Thank you, Cora. We’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”