A Very Daddy Christmas (Lucky Lady Reverse Harems)

Chapter 9

9

Cora

A s the days go by, our connection grows stronger, and not just physically. While I look after Dario and handle my family’s bakery, navigating the weeks before Christmas as smoothly as possible across difficult waters, I find myself falling for these men.

I need to stop it, but I can’t. It would never work in the long term. I feel happy and safe when I’m with them, and I find comfort in every single message they send me during the day when we’re apart. It’s a dangerous curve I’m sliding around because I know it can’t last.

All three men are the total package; any woman would be lucky to have any one of them.

“Miss, I don’t understand,” I hear Eva say to a customer as I walk into the bakery early one morning, eager to get my claws on a double shot of espresso. I’m deliciously sore from the previous night’s lovemaking and unable to wipe the delighted grin from my face as I greet them.

“Good morning!” I quip, beaming like the sun. It’s a disturbing contrast compared to the sour looks greeting me.

A couple of customers are enjoying coffee and croissants at one of the corner tables. But the lady in front of the till appears to be angry while my sister looks alarmed and irritated. I look around; the vandalized display cases have been replaced. We had to choose cheaper ones, but the place is back to normal. However, the woman looks as if she’s seen a rat run across the pastries.

“What’s going on here?” I calmly ask, trying to keep my smile on.

The lady gives me a nasty look, lips twisted with disgust. “What’s going on is that I got one hell of a case of food poisoning from your garbage pastries!” she declares, loud enough for the other customers to hear.

“Oh, dear,” I blurt out, my mind instantly going into damage control.

Eva sighs deeply. “And I keep telling Miss Blanchard that it’s virtually impossible unless she has an allergy to one of our ingredients. I’ve gone through the entire list with her, but she claims it’s because our pastries were not up to food safety codes.”

“That is impossible,” I state firmly. “Everything we use for our products is safe and fresh. The labels are frequently checked and anything past its date is immediately tossed.”

“Our work surfaces are spotless, and our storage spaces, as well. We’ve passed every inspection with flying colors, Miss Blanchard, I assure you,” Eva adds.

But Miss Blanchard seems determined to stay angry and outraged. Her hand gestures strike me as a tad theatrical. There’s something about this whole scene that doesn’t quite make sense. I’ve seen her before. Not as often as our other regulars, but she has always been pleased with our products. I remember putting together a large order for her a couple of months back.

“I’m going to call the authorities,” Miss Blanchard says. “I was sick for days, puking my guts out. I almost had to go to the hospital. That’s how sick your pastries made me!”

My instincts are flaring, and while I hate to doubt people—especially customers—I need to say something. “What pastries did you buy from us, specifically?” I ask, mindful of the others overhearing everything from their corner table.

“I don’t remember,” she says.

Eva and I exchange knowing glances. It quickly becomes obvious something fishy is going on here. “You should remember, if they made you as sick as you say they did,” my sister says.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Miss Blanchard croaks, red-faced and panting. The more she reacts, the less I believe her, and the more connections my brain rushes to make.

“No, ma’am, not at all. But if what you claim is true, we need to investigate and make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else,” I say. “What pastries did you buy?”

“I don’t remember. Danishes, maybe.”

“We don’t make Danishes in the fall. We only use seasonal fruits, and the only type of Danishes we make are apricot Danishes in early summer.”

“Then some other fruity thing, I don’t remember. I was craving something sweet, I came in, I bought about four of them. I only ate one, then vomited my heart out for days.”

Eva blinks once, slowly enough to make it clear to me that she’s not buying this either. “Miss Blanchard, when was this? What day? It must’ve been recent for you to come back today, so understandably aggravated. We’d like to get to the bottom of it.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll tank you in the online reviews anyway.”

Miss Blanchard is in her mid-thirties and a substitute schoolteacher. It’s all I know about her. She lives somewhere in the area, but I’ve never seen her in the company of friends or relatives, only in church with the other congregants.

Oh shit.

“Tell us the day you came and bought the so-called fruity stuff, and we’ll check our cameras. Trust me, everything here is on camera. We’ll check the footage so we can figure out what happened.”

“There’s no need, it’s done anyway. I will make sure people know this isn’t a good place anymore.”

“Do you have a receipt? Our receipts have the date on it.”

“No, I don’t have a receipt,” she scoffs.

“Did Mr. St. James put you up to this?”

The look on her face makes my skin crawl. She’s not as good a liar as she thinks she is, but it is becoming more and more obvious that this is not what Miss Blanchard is making it out to seem. It’s pure slander designed to hurt us and our business, and I’m willing to bet this whole building she’s doing this on Orson’s behalf.

“How dare you?” she snaps. “This is slanderous!”

“No, what you’re doing is slanderous,” I shoot back, getting angrier with every deep breath I’m trying to take in order to cool down. “I promise you, I will sift through every single second of camera footage until I find you. I will double-check every single ingredient and surface in this bakery, just as I do every time I bake our products. I always put our customers’ health and safety first. Meanwhile, here you are, making noise and accusations without any proof or even basic information to back it up. And given whom you’re known to associate with, I can’t help but wonder if maybe this is yet another ploy of Mr. St. James to get us to leave this building.”

“Which will never happen,” Eva adds. “So either give us proof that you did, in fact, suffer from food poisoning after eating our pastries, or we will contact a lawyer and file a slander suit against you.”

Miss Blanchard’s eyes are filled with rage and indignation, both fabricated. She mutters something under her breath and stomps out, leaving Eva and me genuinely befuddled. Adrenaline surges through my body, making my limbs quiver with raw anger.

“Are you okay, ladies?” one of the customers asks us from their corner table.

“Yes, thank you. Just a misunderstanding,” Eva replies with a friendly smile, then gives me a worried look and slowly leans over the counter. “What the hell was that about?”

I shrug, trying to pull myself back together. “I don’t know, but it was infuriating. I’ve never felt more insulted in my entire life.”

“That’s not all. Annie said she’s been hearing things in town.”

“What sort of things?”

“Apparently people are saying we aren’t living up to our end of the lease agreement. Meanwhile, that bastard is out there, playing the victim card with five hundred grand sitting in his escrow account, not to mention sending his goons here to terrorize us. It’s ridiculous.”

My heart breaks a little. “I don’t mean to be a bearer of bad news, but I fear he’s only just getting started, Eva.”

“He can suck a bag of—”

“Eva,” I chuckle dryly. “He’s not worth that kind of energy.”

“I’m worried, Cora. But I’m not backing down. And for some reason, neither are Sebastian, Waylan, and Riggs. I don’t know why God brought them to us, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let our parents’ hard work be for naught.”

As the hours go by, Eva and I keep ourselves busy. I prepare orders in the kitchen while she tends to customers. The lunch rush is swift but bountiful, and I can hear the cash register chiming with each sale as I roll my dough over the worktable. With deliberate movements, I stretch it out, remembering what my father taught me about every step of the process. Even though ten years have passed since he died, I can still hear his voice in my head, talking me through the motions of how to bake the perfect quiche.

“Cora,” Eva’s voice pulls me out of my memory.

I glance back to find her standing in the kitchen doorway with a sour look on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Come out here for a minute. We need to talk.”

I follow her to the front. It’s late afternoon, and we’ll be closing soon. Only a handful of customers are left, their plates and cups almost empty. But that’s not what captures my attention. It’s Carl, Eva’s husband. He’s in his work clothes—dark yellow overalls, the construction company’s branded t-shirt, helmet still on his head and boots smudged with dried concrete. He looks miffed.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my gaze bouncing between Carl and Eva.

“I just got fired,” Carl replies, his dark brow furrowed. “On the spot. I’m getting my severance pay and whatnot, but the project just started. I lost six months’ worth of work, plus future projects, in under five minutes. What the hell is going on here?”

“I don’t understand, what does that have to do with—” I pause and take a deep breath as I remember who owns the company Carl works for. “Oh. George Hamilton. It came from above, didn’t it?”

“The foreman didn’t know what to tell me. He just handed me a measly check and said I’m not needed anymore,” Carl replies. “It came out of the blue.”

“I am so sorry,” Eva tells him.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Carl says.

“Wow, he’s really pulling out all the stops, isn’t he?” I say.

“George Hamilton was supposed to buy this building, right?” Carl asks.

I exhale sharply. “Yeah. But we doubled the price market with what Sebastian and the guys paid me for the nanny work. So it appears he’s lashing out.”

“This is weird,” Carl grumbles. I pull up a high stool for him to sit at the counter with us while Eva goes over to the kettle to make him a cup of chamomile tea. “What is it about this building that’s got St. James and Hamilton so determined to take it away from you two? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know. But this is their third act of retaliation,” I reply. “Did Eva tell you about today’s incident with Miss Blanchard?”

He nods again. “She texted me. Have these people lost their minds?”

“No, you’re right. Something is missing, something about this building. And I’m starting to think that Denaro mobster dude might be connected somehow. Those were his goons the other night. The guys are sure of it.”

Eva brings Carl his tea, a soft look lingering in her eyes. “What are you going to do, honey?”

“I’m not going to sit around and mope, that’s for sure. If Hamilton wants to be a vindictive prick, he can go ahead and be a vindictive prick. I’ll start looking for a new job in the meantime.”

“Winter is just starting,” I point out. “Pretty sure you’re going to have a hard time finding new projects. The one they had you on was scheduled to take a two-month break, right? But they were going to cover your days off?”

“Maybe that’s why they fired you. Your severance check is way smaller than two months of paid time off,” Eva says.

But Carl shakes his head. “Nah, I’m the only one who got laid off, and I’m their fire safety expert. It’s strange, I tell you. There’s no logical reason for them to do this.”

“Unless it really is retaliation for our move to buy the building,” I say. “Which makes me feel really awful.”

“Me too,” Eva whispers.

Carl pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her for comfort. “We’re going to be okay, babe. Worst-case, we’ll have a tough winter. Best-case, maybe I’ll find some construction gigs in Texas or Arizona. Or New Mexico, where it’s warm and dry and the developers work all year-round. We’ll figure something out.” He pauses and gives me a hard look. “But you’re not giving up on this place, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Loud and clear. But the more I think about it, the more concerned I become. How far will Orson and his buddies push this? Where do we draw the line? We may need to hire an attorney. Protection. Additional protection on top of this new security system and the panic button. The sheriff hasn’t followed up with us about who the guys were that trashed our bakery and threatened me. It’s been a week already. I worry Sheriff Foreman is afraid of Orson or George—or both.

Either way, the pushback we’re getting for simply trying to save our business and our livelihood makes my stomach feel tight. I don’t like this and it’s not fair.

The next morning, I’m brooding at the breakfast table.

Dario is busy with his oatmeal, adding more berries on top. I’ve been pretty successful with improving his diet. The guys keep exchanging glances while digging into their own bowls.

I can barely eat mine. The stress of this whole bakery situation is starting to get to me. My sleep cycle is broken. I’m constantly on edge and looking over my shoulder. Even my quiches came out a little dry yesterday after Carl and Eva left.

“I got something for you,” Riggs says, placing a small, green, velvet box on the table next to my bowl. I stare at it for a long second. “Maybe it’ll lighten your mood a little bit.”

“Another gift?” I ask dryly. The words come out before I can filter them.

I’m irritated. They keep giving me presents. Some small, others ridiculously expensive, the kind of stuff I’d never buy for myself because I can’t afford it. It should be every girl’s dream to have such men spoil her, so why am I resisting? Why do I feel slightly offended by this?

“It’s nothing fancy,” Riggs replies, a soft smile on his lips. “But it will go well with your eyes.”

I open the box to find a pair of absolutely gorgeous diamond earrings. They’re small and delicate, tear-shaped. I look up at him. “I’m sorry, but I think we have different concepts of what nothing fancy means, Riggs.”

“What’s going on with you, Cora?” Sebastian feels the need to intervene, looking worried.

My nerves are a wreck, and I have trouble dealing with the unexpected—even if the unexpected comes in the form of thoughtful gestures. “I told you I don’t need all of these gifts. You don’t need to buy me.”

“I like gifts,” Dario says, though he’s not nearly mature enough to understand what my issue is. His view of things is remarkably simple.

“Everybody likes gifts,” Sebastian chuckles softly.

“Can I get one?” Dario asks, looking at his foster fathers hopefully.

Riggs snorts. “You can have Cora’s earrings. She doesn’t want them.”

The kid looks confused, prompting the guys to chuckle some more, while I set the box aside and scarf down the rest of my breakfast in heavy silence.

“Tell you what, Dario,” Waylan says. “I’ll get you something really cool if you have a good day at preschool today, okay?”

“I can do that,” he says enthusiastically.

Last night, I told them I wasn’t feeling well and slept in my room. I know the guys are worried about me, but I keep reassuring them that I’m okay. I’m not. Not really. I don’t know how to be in a relationship with all three of them. Maybe that’s where it all stems from—not knowing what this is, what it could be, and how we could make it work under such difficult circumstances.

One by one, I feel like the people of Madison are starting to turn on us. The two Denaro-linked goons scared the life out of me. Then there was the incident with Miss Blanchard. Now Carl is out of a job.

In the meantime, I’m getting hot and steamy with three of the city’s richest and most eligible bachelors, who happen to love sharing me, body and soul. It’s all very confusing.

“Cora, you need to talk to us,” Waylan says. “What’s going on with you?”

“Are you upset that I was…” I glance at Dario, but he’s focused on his breakfast. I’m careful with my words, but I need to say this. “Unavailable last night?” I ask, giving him a stern look. “Do you think more expensive gifts will get you better results?”

“What? No, we’re worried about you,” he scoffs. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Stop buying me pricey stuff. I don’t need it,” I snap and get up from the table.

Sherry comes in, bringing the entire conversation to a sudden halt. “Mornin’, fellas, how’s everyone…. Whoa, what’s with the long faces?”

“It’s nothing,” Sebastian is quick to reply. “Have a seat. Join us.”

“Yeah, join them. I need to head out anyway,” I say, giving Sherry a faint smile. “Thanks for taking Dario to school today. I really appreciate it.”

Sherry smiles, revealing a cute gap in her white, pearly teeth. “It’s my pleasure.”

“I’ll see you later,” I tell Sebastian, Riggs, and Waylan as I head out. “Dario, I’ll bring you back something from the bakery.”

“Chocolate, please!” he calls out.

I smile and wave at him. At least he always manages to get my spirits up, if only for a second. But I’m won’t be able to keep going through these emotional cycles, day in and day out. There’s too much happening and too much at stake.