Chapter 1 – Daddy’s Gift
Chapter 1 – Daddy’s Gift
POV: Jessa
“I’m not doing Christmas this year.”
I mutter it while tossing clothes into my red weekender bag, folding nothing, dancing in nothing but a thong and an old college tee that barely covers my ass. Mariah’s hitting her high notes through my speaker like she’s personally sick of my seasonal depression. The plan? Solo winter break. Just me, a few bottles of Moscato, and some emotionally stunted men on Netflix.
Then the door slams open like a DEA raid.
“Pumpkin!”
I shriek, nearly twisting my ankle trying to hide my ass with a pillow.
My dad barrels in, smelling like celebration and midlife crisis. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s holding a glass of something that screams expensive and unfiltered. “Guess what! Me and Kathy—” cue the violent eye twitch, “—we’re heading to Europe for the holidays. Surprise honeymoon! Paris, Rome, that place with the boats.”
I blink. “Venice?”
He points at me like I just unlocked a new level in a video game. “That’s the one!”
I plant a hand on my hip. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning!” he beams, lifting his glass in a half-toast like I’m supposed to cheer along.
I stop moving. “You’re ditching me. For Christmas.”
“You’re twenty-two! You’ll be fine. I raised you independent. Empowered.”
“You raised me with Lunchables and low expectations,” I snap. “Where exactly am I spending Christmas while you’re off fondling Kathy in front of the Eiffel Tower?”
His grin stretches wider. That’s when I know I’m fucked.
“Nick’s taking care of you.”
I drop my bra back in the suitcase like it’s suddenly too hot to hold. “Nick?”
“Carrington! You remember Nick—my best friend, the guy who rebuilt our deck, best man at the wedding, lives up in the mountains in that cabin. Real cozy.”
I can’t breathe. “You’re sending me to Nick Carrington’s house?”
Dad laughs, clueless. “He’s got space! Said he didn’t mind watching over you. Said you’d probably bring a little holiday cheer.”
I bring a lot of things. Subtlety has never been one of them.
He pats my head like I’m six and about to board a school bus, then downs the rest of his drink.
“He’s single,” he adds. “Not that you’re allowed to notice.”
I cough to cover the sound of my ovaries bursting. “Noticing? Who’s noticing?”
“You said something.”
“I said nothing,” I lie, and Dad’s too tipsy to clock the lie sitting right there in my cleavage.
He starts rambling again — flight times, train schedules, how Kathy’s allergic to red wine but drinks it anyway because it’s French. I tune him out around the word “gondola,” my eyes sliding toward the photo still sitting on my dresser like it doesn’t haunt me regularly.
It’s the three of us — me, Dad, and Nick Carrington — taken right before a ski trip when I was… what, eighteen? Nineteen? I looked soft and fresh-faced. Nick looked like sin and sawdust.
Arms crossed. Half-smile. Scruff thick enough to exfoliate a bitch. He had on this black thermal that clung to him like it was grateful, and those eyes — dark, sharp, like they already knew all my secrets and were too tired to judge me for any of them.
“Nick said he’s gonna stock the fridge for you,” Dad says, walking toward my door with his glass. “He eats like a bear, so you’ll have plenty.”
“I’ll make sure to thank him. Personally.”
“What?”
“Still nothing.”
He laughs and disappears down the hall, mumbling something about packing his Speedo. I suppress a gag and flop onto my bed, eyes back on that photo like a glutton for punishment.
God, I remember that trip.
I’d gotten up in the middle of the night to pee, stumbled into the hallway, and there he was — Nick — fresh out of the shower, towel hanging dangerously low, water still sliding down his chest like a slow strip show. His abs looked like they could file paperwork. I remember standing there, frozen, throat dry, thighs clenched.
He looked right at me.
Just said, “You should be asleep.”
And I swear my pussy whispered then put me to bed, sir.
I told myself it was just a phase. A dumb crush. Hormones and hot water and proximity. He was older. Off-limits. Practically an uncle. The responsible one.
But now?
Now I’m being delivered to his house like a Christmas ham.
And every single bad idea I’ve ever had is stretching, cracking its knuckles, and lighting up like a string of holiday lights.
I roll off the bed with a groan, open my suitcase, and start over.
This isn’t a break anymore. This is a mission.
The boring sweaters and fluffy socks get shoved aside. I reach for my leggings — the ones that get compliments from women and make men walk into street poles. Then the slouchy off-shoulder sweater that hugs my tits like it’s in love. My knee-high boots that click when I walk and make me feel like I own stocks in sin.
And then, tucked under my laundry pile like a secret I forgot I had — the red lingerie set. Lace. Strappy. The kind of underwear that makes you feel like you should come with a safety warning.
I smirk and toss it into the bag.
“Oh no,” I whisper to myself. “I’m the problem.”
My phone buzzes. I don’t even check who it is — only one person texts me like they’re live-tweeting my entire existence.
Sabrina:
You’re really going?? To the Big DILF’s cabin??
I laugh so loud I snort, fingers flying.
Me:
His name is Nick. And yes. Daddy’s orders.
Sabrina:
He’s gonna ruin you. On a bearskin rug. In front of a fireplace. While holding a whiskey.
Me:
You’ve been real quiet since you realized you’d be into it too.
Sabrina:
Bitch, I encourage it. Climb that man like a jungle gym. Leave your earrings on the mantel like a power move.
Me:
I packed the red set.
Sabrina:
Manifest it, slut.
Me:
Already lit the candle.
I toss in my glittery lip gloss — sticky, sinful, and impossible to ignore — then grab a bralette that couldn’t support a sneeze and fold it real pretty like it belongs in a magazine spread.
If Daddy’s best friend wants to babysit me, he better be ready for the kind of trouble that needs to be handled.
Morning…
I slam my suitcase shut with a wicked grin, tug on my curve-hugging coat, and head out before I can second-guess myself.
By the time I reach his driveway, it’s snowing again — that thick, fluffy kind of snow that looks romantic until you have to drag a wheelie bag through it like you’re hiking to Narnia.
The cabin appears out of the trees like something off a Pinterest board. Dark wood, warm lights glowing through the windows, smoke curling from the chimney like a Hallmark orgasm. It smells like pine, fresh snow, and the kind of trouble I should not be walking into with lip gloss on.
I knock twice. Shake the snow out of my hair. Try to look chill.
The door swings open.
Oh. Oh no.
Nick Carrington is six-foot-something of lumberjack sin. Black thermal clinging to his broad chest like it was sewn on wet, sleeves shoved up to reveal forearms that look like they could lift me and my emotional baggage. There’s a smudge of sawdust near his wrist. His jaw’s sharper than my winged eyeliner and he’s got that same unreadable stare from the photo, only realer. He looks like he hasn’t smiled since the Bush administration.
My thighs clench on instinct.
His eyes narrow, then soften. “Jessa?”
“Surprise,” I say, flipping my hair like I’m not internally combusting. “I brought sarcasm and an allergy to authority. Hope you’re stocked on patience.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just stands there like a man rethinking every choice that led him here.
Then he steps back, grudgingly. “Your dad said you were... excited.”
“I’m thrilled,” I say, dragging my bag over the threshold. “Nothing says holiday magic like a man who looks like he chops his own firewood and judges your life choices in silence.”
He coughs. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even look at me — not directly.
Which is funny, because I can feel his eyes dragging down my coat, pausing at my waist, hesitating just long enough over the leggings I knew would be a problem.
The door clicks shut behind us. He locks it. Not dramatically — just an easy flick of the wrist.
But my heart is thudding like I just walked into a wolf’s den wearing glitter.
“Your room’s upstairs, first door on the left,” he says, voice low and clipped like everything about this is an inconvenience he intends to survive through sheer willpower.
“Not much of a welcome speech,” I murmur, dragging my suitcase toward the stairs. “No wine? No chocolate on the pillow?”
“I’m not running a resort.”
“No shit,” I say, and shoot him a grin over my shoulder. “But if you were, your Yelp reviews would be tragic.”
I hit the first step slow. Not for drama. For science.
My leggings cling like second skin, and I know exactly how they move when I climb stairs. One step. Then another. Hips swaying just enough. I don’t look back — not yet — but I feel the shift in the air behind me. The silence isn’t just silence. It’s watching.
Halfway up, I pause like I’ve forgotten something.
Turn.
Catch him.
Nick’s standing at the foot of the stairs, jaw tight, arms crossed — and his eyes? Nowhere near my face.
Busted.
His gaze jerks up like I slapped him, and he tries to act casual, like he was checking for structural damage in the house instead of staring at my ass like it owed him money.
“Eyes up here, Mr. Carrington.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Looking?” I smirk, resting one hand on the banister. “Sure you weren’t.”
His jaw works, but he says nothing. Just turns toward the kitchen like retreat is his only option.
I keep going, steps slow and deliberate. Heat crawling up my spine — not from embarrassment. From power.
He wants me.He knows he shouldn’t.
I reach the top of the stairs, toss my bag into the guest room, and hear him mutter from downstairs.
“This is going to be a long fucking month.”
I smile. God, I hope it is.
To Be Continued...
To Be Continued…
