Holly, Jolly, and Oh So Naughty (Festive Flames)
Holly, Jolly, and Oh So Naughty: Chapter 1

REMINDER: The annual Christmas Day Daddy/Daughter dance will be held at the Town Hall this year, not the School.

The crimson words glare up at me from a nauseating green poster, and my stomach flips slightly. Each year, the daddy/daughter dance comes around like a beacon, reminding me of the very thing my darling daughter Emma doesn’t have.

A father.

At least not one who’s in her life to take her to such a dance. I’ve skillfully dodged questions each year, and Emma’s been happy to attend the dance with her grandfather, but she’s six now, and the questions become clearer. More demanding.

I’m not sure how much longer I can keep the truth from her when fairy tales are quickly losing their sparkle.

How do I tell my child that she doesn’t have a father because he never wanted her? How do I tell her that while her room is filled with books about happy families?

I don’t have the strength to tell her when she looks up at me with her gigantic blue eyes.

Beyond the corkboard filled with announcements for all unsuspecting parents, activity in the classroom just beyond the closed door takes my attention. Emma is inside, engrossed in an animated conversation with a friend who seemingly enjoys the taste of plastic animals. Emma’s curls fly back and forth as she dramatically shakes her head, and laughter pulls from my chest.

“She’s adorable,” says a voice to my left.

I turn to face a man dressed in a light blue shirt and a cream sweater. He flashes me a bright smile and adjusts his oval spectacles while glancing past me into the classroom.

“You know which one is mine?”

“Emma, right? You’re Lily Thompson, unless I’m embarrassingly mistaken.”

“No, no, you’re right.” I smile back, taking in his brown curls and the dusting of powdered chalk along his sleeves. “And you are?”

“Mr. Sepher.” He holds out one pale hand. “Mark. Please.”

“Nice to meet you, Mark.” Taking his hand, I notice there’s an odd dryness to his palm that immediately sends a scratchy sensation up my arm, but his grip is warm and firm.

“The pleasure is all mine.” He locks eyes with me, and the handshake lingers until I flex my fingers for release.

“Is your kid in there?” I tilt my head toward the classroom and quickly glance at the clock. I’m not typically this early, but time was on my side today, and there are still a few minutes until the bell rings to release the hoards of children kept safe inside these walls.

“Oh, no, I have none of my own,” Mark says with a soft laugh. “I teach here. In fact, I think Emma will be in my class next year. How about that?”

“Oh, that’s nice!” My smile wavers a fraction. It’s only November, and Emma still has half a year left in her current grade. “I didn’t realize they sorted things like that so early.”

“What can I say? We’re incredibly efficient here.” Then he winks at me. “And caring.”

I nod politely, sneaking another glance at the clock.

This town is small, and in some ways, everyone knows everyone else. While I run one of the most popular bakeries in town and participate in almost every event hosted throughout the year, I try to avoid making small talk because I simply don’t have the patience for it.

Who cares what the weather is like or how much the price of fertilizer has increased at the grocer?

“Is Emma excited?” Mark reaches up and peels the daddy/daughter dance poster off the wall. “For the dance?”

“Yup. Just like every other six-year-old. She sees it as some special party for her on Christmas Day which just makes everything a little more special, y’know?”

“I can imagine.” Mark taps his fingers against the paper and then clears his throat. “And her father?”

There it is, that daunting question from anyone who only knows me in passing. They carry the same assumption that everyone else does the moment they meet Emma, though I can’t really blame them. Maybe I’d be guilty of the same if my situation were any different.

“She dances with her grandfather,” I reply. It’s a non-answer, but I’ll leave it to Mark to fill in the gaps.

“Ah.” Mark’s tone lifts and he taps the poster again. “Not the sort of thing you would take a boyfriend to, I’d imagine.”

Is he… trying to flirt with me?

I smile wider, trying to maintain a polite air as the clock drags its hand toward the hour mark. “I don’t have a boyfriend. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have him attend something like that. It’s for family, y’know?”

“Sure,” Mark says, pressing the poster back onto the board. “But a boyfriend can become family.”

“True.” I laugh softly. “I’d need to get one first.”

Mark suddenly straightens up next to me, and when he faces me, he’s a few inches closer than he was before.

Is this really happening?

“You run that bakery in town, don’t you? What’s it called, Sweetest something?”

“Sweet Noel,” I correct him quickly. “Cliché, I know, but I opened at Christmas and my festive designs always get the biggest surge of attention online, so it’s fitting.”

This is good. I can talk about business and baking until I’m hoarse and whoever is listening is bored stiff. Baking wasn’t my initial passion when I entered the culinary world. I had dreams of becoming a top chef at some fancy restaurant where people would spend their house down payments on one of my steaks. But college had different ideas for me and from my first cake decorating class, I was hooked.

Spending my evenings up to my elbows in marzipan isn’t as glamorous as a fancy, rich steakhouse in the city, but it’s definitely more enjoyable.

“No judgment from me.” Mark lifts both his hands, palms upward. “Half this town is named after something Christmassy. Even that crazy old Inn, Fir Tree? The food is good, but the name?”

I snort softly. “Oh, my parents’ inn?”

“Your parents’?” Mark’s face loses a few shades. “When—when I say crazy, I just mean in a kooky sort of way, y’know, like something out of a postcard.”

Whether fate wanted to save me from the conversation or Mark from his embarrassment, I couldn’t be sure, but as those words left Mark’s lips, a sudden yell rose up from down the hall. Two kids quickly became engaged in a small brawl over who was the owner of the silver coat.

“Shouldn’t you…?” I raise a brow and tilt my head in their direction. Mark’s relief is clear as he makes excuses and quickly hurries after the quarreling children.

In his absence, my next breath shifts easier in my chest. I can’t fault him for trying to take an interest in me. The dating pool in this town is rather limited, but dating is far from my mind.

My heart still, painfully, belongs to one man, and I’ve yet to draw it out of his grasp.

James Anderson was a handsome, brilliant man who blew onto my college campus for a medical seminar with his father, and he blew right into my heart. As a small-town girl, there was something so beautifully intimidating about people who lived their lives in the spotlight of the city, and James was exactly that. His father was famous in the medical world, to a degree, and he was next in line.

He was funny and kind, so incredibly sweet and attentive, and the sex was… I adjust my stance and pull lightly at the collar of my blouse. He completely stole my heart.

And then he left as quickly as he arrived, leaving me heartbroken and confused.

And pregnant.

I tried for weeks to get in touch with him to tell him he was going to be a father, but the only person I was able to reach was his mother.

Turns out his sweetness was all an act and he was the kind of asshole who got his mother to break bad news. He didn’t want to see me, didn’t want to hear from me. I was an easily forgotten fling and nothing more. That didn’t change even when I told his mother I was pregnant.

Her response still haunts me to this day.

My eyes close, and I swallow down the ache of old hurt that threatens to rise at the memory. James made himself clear, so I honored his wishes.

I never contacted him again.

That doesn’t stop me from looking him up on social media after one too many glasses of wine, but he’s been inactive for years. Some nights, it’s hard to believe he was even real.

“Mommy!” Emma’s bright, happy voice bursts through the air and immediately pulls me out of my dark thought spiral. I’d been so caught up in memory lane that I didn’t even hear the bell I yearned for.

“Hi, darling!” I open my eyes and crouch just in time for my daughter to barrel into my arms with an excited cry. She hugs me with all her might, not caring for how the strap of her rucksack smacks me in the mouth or how her folder stabs me in the stomach.

All she wants is a hug.

“Mommy, Mommy, you’ll never guess!” Emma bounces around excitedly as I stand and take her rucksack from her shoulders.

“What is it?” I ask her, quickly waving goodbye to Amelia, her teacher and my best friend. Taking her fist in my hand, we walk down the hallway toward the doors, weaving between the sea of children and parents, all sharing that after-school moment.

“I got three gold stars today!” Emma’s so excited that she can barely keep still.

“That’s amazing!”

When we make it to the steps, she pulls her hand away from mine and comically stomps down each step to the bottom. Once there, she pauses and holds out her hand.

“Come on, Mommy,” she says matter-of-factly as if my descent is holding her up.

“I’m here, I’m here. Okay, tell me. What did you get the stars for?”

“I got one for my reading.” Emma counts it out on her hand with her pink folder tucked under one arm. “One for helping Katie with her knee because she fell in the playground, but I got her up and helped her inside. And one for feeding the fish!”

“Aww, Emma. That’s brilliant! I’m proud of you, sweetie.”

“I know!” Emma continues her stomping as we walk toward my car.

“Why are you walking like that?”

“Like what?” She glances innocently up at me.

“Like this.” Holding her rucksack up, I mimic her stomping steps until she squeals and pushes into me.

“Mommy, stop!” Emma giggles. “You’re not doing it right!”

“Okay, then how am I supposed to do it? And why are you doing it?”

“Because.” Emma stops abruptly and places one hand on her waist. “Because Mrs. Grant said that powerful walking is a good way to confed—confrid… confiderence!”

It’s becoming hard to hold in my laughter. “Do you mean confidence?”

“Yeah!” Emma resumes her stompy walking and it suddenly clicks for me. Emma may have taken the powerful walking tip literally.

“Is it working? Do you feel confident?”

“Yeah!” Emma declares as we reach my car. “I need it ’cause… ’cause Keiran and his friend Martin were being mean to me today.”

“Wait, what?” My heart drops to my gut. “What happened?”

“It’s nothin’,” Emma says casually, pulling open the car door. I help her inside, and as I’m clipping her into her booster seat, I lock eyes with her.

“If they’re being mean to you, sweetie, we can do something about it, okay?”

“You can’t,” Emma says, and she pats my cheek with one small hand. “Only Daddy can!”

A chill whips down my spine. “What?”

“They said–they said that they don’t believe I had a dad an’ that’s why Grandpa always comes to the dance. I told them I do and that he’s just away, like you say.” Emma sniffles and settles into her seat. “They don’t believe me ’cause they never seen him, but I told them I’m gonna ask him this year and this year, he can come with me, right, Mommy?”

She stares up at me with such an intense innocence that my heart breaks.

“Emma…”

“You can call him, right? I told them you would.”

“I…” I can’t say it. Not like this, huddled in the back of the car with a seatbelt catching on my arm and the exhaustion of the day weighing down on me. “Sure, baby. I can call him.”

It looks like my years of telling her fairy tales are finally over.