A Very Daddy Christmas (Lucky Lady Reverse Harems)

Chapter 6

6

Cora

“ F ive-hundred thousand dollars? Are they insane?” Eva says, her eyes as wide as saucers as she stares at her laptop screen. Our bank account balance has stunned her. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the enormous figure as well. She looks around at me. “What the hell did you do, Cora?”

“Nothing. Just my job!” I croak, briefly wondering if the added two-hundred and fifty thousand is “payment” for the other night. No, that can’t be right. They wouldn’t. It would be the ultimate form of disrespect. “All I’ve been doing is working, Eva. I take care of Dario, I come here, then I go home. That’s it. I don’t understand it either.”

“Cora, we’ve got half a million bucks in our account!”

“Sebastian did mention I’d get a bigger bonus yesterday. He said he wanted to make sure we secure a high enough payment for the building to prevent Orson from selling to a higher bidder. He said it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Better to be safe than sorry? Wow.”

“I know. I know! I’ll just send it back,” I say, reaching for the laptop, but Eva swats my hands away. “Ouch.” I chuckle softly at her reaction.

“No. Leave it. He does have a point,” she grumbles. “But it’s still insane.”

“We’ve got enough to make one hell of an escrow payment.”

“Might as well. We’ve worked so hard for this, Eva. Orson was so quick and eager to screw us over. Let him suffer.”

I smile, watching my sister as she proceeds through the online banking app, preparing to deliver the escrow payment, following the tenancy agreement’s original terms and dates.

“I don’t know how much suffering he’ll get from an extra quarter of a million dollars though,” I mutter.

“At least he’ll leave us alone for good.”

It’s what we’re hoping for. The bakery has had its share of both good and bad days. We make a decent living from it, and the locals love it. We don’t always pack a full house, but we’re steady in our sales reports. We could do with a little bit of growth, but once we own the building, we’ll be able to invest our profits differently. Rent will be one less expense to worry about.

Lunchtime on Mondays is usually quieter than the other weekdays, so I take advantage of the absence of customers to wipe down all of our glass displays while Eva handles the escrow payment.

“I’m adding a copy of the contract to my confirmation email to Orson,” Eva says, taking a long sip from her coffee. “I highlighted the specific clause regarding our payment, just to be on the safe side.”

“I wonder if he’s going to be thrilled or pissed off,” I reply, moving around the front of the pastry display. Our pear tarts look so pretty in this light. Not a day goes by that I don’t reminisce about the hours I’ve spent here, shadowing Dad and learning every trick of his craft. My first pear tarts were terrible, but I know he’d be proud of me now. “I mean, he’s getting paid a lot of money.”

“Yeah, we keep telling ourselves that, but I don’t know. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Mom and Dad would be popping open a bottle of champagne at this point.”

She gives me a wry smile. “Dad would. Mom would wait until the escrow expires.”

“Ever the cautious woman.”

“For good reason,” Eva says, then quietly adds, “She didn’t want Dad to drive that night.”

My stomach sinks. We both know it’s true. Had they spent another night at the inn instead of taking their chances through the monstrous blizzard, maybe they’d still be with us today. But we cannot change the past. All we can do is live in the present while we secure our future.

I still can’t believe Sebastian, Riggs, and Waylan gave us so much money. I feel like I should be offended, but we need this. “Is it done?” I ask her after a few minutes.

“Yeah. It’s only a matter of time before we know how he feels about it.”

Three hours have gone by and we’ve yet to hear from Orson. We’ve got customers keeping us busy, though. Most of them are locals along with a few out-of-towners who stuck around for the Christmas fair.

The pear tarts are selling like crazy. “We’re going to have to make more for tomorrow,” Eva warns me as she wraps the last one in a pretty red and green box for Mrs. Sandoval.

“Should we? I mean, the Christmas stuff is ready to roll out,” I reply from behind the till.

Mrs. Sandoval chimes in with a pleading smile. “You absolutely should, I love these tarts. And my nieces are coming over for the weekend. I know I’ll be back for another order.”

“Say no more, Mrs. Sandoval. We’ll whip up a few more just for you and your lovely nieces,” I reply.

The traffic dies down a little and it’s quiet in the bakery again. It’s only three o’clock, but we’ll get another rush around five or six before closing for the day. I check my phone to see a text from Sherry, the babysitter. She’s with Dario at the zoo and keeps sending me pictures. I love the look on his face. He’s starting to come out of his shell more and more each day.

“Oh, cutie pie,” I mumble.

“I need to run to the bank for a minute before they close,” Eva says, taking her apron off. I wave her away.

I keep scrolling through the photos, realizing how fond I’m becoming of this boy. Dario is quite perceptive and ridiculously smart for his age. He’s curious and loves to experiment. He also loves to test authority if you tell him not to do something.

The bell above the door chimes.

“Back already?” I ask, expecting to see Eva coming back in. But it’s not Eva.

Two men, big, burly and clad in black, walk through the door. Both look angry. My breath falters as they walk in.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” I ask, my voice uneven.

My instincts are screaming at me, telling me to run. But where? This is my bakery. My turf. I will not run from here. I will stand my ground and protect what’s mine. These guys creep me the hell out, though.

“You keep asking for trouble,” one of them says. “So it’s time for you to understand how things run around here.”

“What are you talking about?”

The second guy gives me a hard look, then sternly walks toward the counter while his partner casually strolls between the bistro tables, looking around. I don’t like this. The hairs on the back of my neck prick up.

“Mr. St. James doesn’t need your money,” the first guy says from across the room.

“He needs you to vacate the premises by December thirty-first,” the other one chimes in.

My blood runs cold as my survival instincts kick into play. I measure each man from head to toe, trying to register as many details as possible. The problem is, however, that aside from their size, they both look rather average. Mundane. Brown hair. Brown eyes. No scars, visible tattoos, or memorable marks. Nothing. It’s like they came out of the Average Joe factory and got pumped full of steroids before they were sent over here.

Fear begins to build inside me.

This is clearly Orson’s reaction to the escrow payment, but it doesn’t make sense.

“We’re entitled by the same contract to buy the building back from him,” I reply, speaking calmly to hide my fear. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You should’ve put that money elsewhere. You still can,” the second guy says. “You can withdraw your offer.”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m sorry, who are you again? Are you employees of Mr. Orson St. James?”

“We’re employees of someone who works closely with him. Someone who doesn’t appreciate the dirty move you and your sister pulled. There’s a deal already in place, Miss Levine,” the first guy says. “And you’re messing that up.”

“That’s not my problem,” I snap. “My family and I have been here for decades. Whatever deal Mr. St. James made doesn’t concern me, and if you don’t leave right now, I’ll—” I scream when the second guy whips out a baton and smashes my pastry display.

I jump back, watching the glass pane I just cleaned shatter into millions of little pieces. The baton comes down again, another scream escaping my throat as it smashes into my croissants and cinnamon rolls. Everything falls apart. My heart stops and breaks. My eyes sting from instant tears. And my limbs won’t stop shaking while the other goon starts turning the tables over.

Outside, I see a couple of customers coming up to the door. They see what’s happening within and quickly turn and run away. I hope they’re smart enough to call the police.

I can’t do a fucking thing. I’m frozen in terror.

“It is your problem,” the first guy says, rejoining his buddy. He steps over the destruction, the glass crunching under his black boots. The sound sends shivers down my spine. “Mr. St. James can’t send you the money back, as per that fucking ancient contract. But you can withdraw it yourself.”

“I’m not doing that. Smash this place all you want, I’ll rebuild it from scratch if I have to,” I shout, shocked by my own boldness. Or rage. Whatever it is, I’m going with it if it keeps me alive and leads to these two bastards leaving. “Get the hell out of my bakery!”

“Maybe you need a more hands-on approach,” the second guy growls and moves behind the counter just as the bell chimes again. He glances back to see who came in.

I barely register the movement as three large shadows lunge at him. I hear myself scream again as a fight ensues.

“Get down, Cora!” Sebastian’s voice breaks through the scuffle.

I do as I’m told and huddle behind the counter, my heart racing and my body shaking uncontrollably. I poke my head out and watch as Sebastian, Waylan, and Riggs tackle Orson’s goons. It’s an uneven fight—my men are bigger, stronger, and remarkably agile. Orson’s men are brute force but untrained like the three ex-Marines they’re fighting. They don’t stand a chance.

I hold my breath.

Sebastian ducks as the first guy swings at him and Riggs clocks him in the side of the head. Waylan handles the second guy on his own. My eyes dart all over the place as more tables and chairs get knocked over. Riggs punches the first guy again and blood spurts out from his lip.

The second guy bolts out the door after his beating from Waylan, panting and wheezing and holding his side. Waylan is about to go after him but the first goon also runs out, ending it. I’m frozen and trembling, unable to think or react. I can only register that the danger has passed, but other than that, I’m stunned.

Waylan goes outside to see if they’re still there. “Damn, they’re fast,” he says as he comes back inside, then frowns at the sight of what they left behind. “Fucking pricks.”

“Cora, are you okay?” Sebastian is the first to reach me.

He takes me by the shoulders and helps me up. I burst into tears and hide in his arms, letting everything out. This is supposed to be my safe place, my haven. My whole life is in this bakery, and those assholes just barged in and trashed it.

“It’s okay,” Sebastian whispers, gently stroking my hair. “They’re gone.”

“Yeah, but they’ll be back,” Riggs says. “Look at this place. God damn.”

“It’s fine,” Waylan replies and starts setting the tables and chairs back up while constantly keeping an eye on Sebastian and me. “Cora, it’s fine. Anything that was broken can be replaced.”

“My displays,” I manage.

Riggs nods. “They can be replaced.”

“But they’re so expensive.”

“I promise, everything will work out,” Sebastian insists, beckoning me to focus on him and him alone while Waylan and Riggs get to tidying up the place. “We’ll buy new displays, custom-fit. We’ll hook you up with a panic button—”

I shake my head. “You’ve already done so much. Too much. Sebastian, Orson doesn’t want to sell this building to me. That’s why they were here.”

“He sent them?” Sebastian’s gaze darkens into something cold and deadly.

“Please, don’t make it worse,” I implore him. “Thank you for being here, for saving my ass.”

He offers a faint shrug. “We just wanted to place an order for the weekend. Had I known this would be Orson’s response, believe me, we wouldn’t have allowed it to happen.”

“I know, but it did. And Eva and I are going to have to figure out a way to press forward.”

“Orson is obligated by the contract to accept your offer, that’s why he’s pissed off,” Riggs says. “But I do wonder why half a million dollars isn’t enticing enough for him. This building isn’t worth anywhere near that.”

I give him a tired look. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

The only thing I do know is that if they hadn’t shown up when they did, Orson’s men would’ve done much worse to me and to my bakery. I shudder to think what the worst-case scenario would have been. I shudder again when I realize +this is far from over.

Orson just declared war, and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why.