Daddy Claus (Billionaire Baby Daddies #9)

Chapter 1

EMBER

I had been Dr. Nathan Bradley's personal assistant for exactly three days, and I was already drowning in a mountain of work.

My feet hurt, my back was sore, and sweat dripped down the back of my navy-blue skirt suit I thought would look professional.

Turned out it only served to make me look hot as I scurried behind him, weaving through the masses surrounded by garland and string lights.

The Christmas in July festival was in full swing with every traditional element of the holiday season, right down to the ridiculous commercialism that prompted sales in every storefront.

Dr. Bradley strode three steps ahead of me, his long legs eating up the distance between the craft vendors and the main stage.

His gray suit jacket hung over one arm, his white dress shirt rolled to the elbows, and even in the oppressive heat he moved like a man with a mission, and I found it hard to keep up with him.

"Email Henderson about the board meeting," he said without turning around. "Tell him I need the quarterly reports by Thursday, not Friday. And call my mother—she's been leaving messages about Sunday dinner. Tell her I'll confirm tomorrow."

I fumbled with my phone, nearly dropping it as I sidestepped a toddler chasing a balloon.

My fingers flew across the screen, trying to capture every word while keeping pace and mopping sweat from my forehead with the back of my sleeve.

"Henderson, reports, Thursday. Your mother, Sunday dinner, confirm tomorrow. Got it."

A boy on roller blades darted between us, making me gasp, but Dr. Bradley didn't miss a beat.

"And reschedule my two o'clock with Dr. Mitchell. She wants to discuss the residency program, but I have that hospital foundation meeting I can't move."

"Reschedule Mitchell," I muttered, typing frantically.

I considered myself good at this sort of thing, but this man was next level, and he was a perfectionist too. "Foundation meeting at two."

"Two thirty," he corrected.

My stomach dropped. "Two thirty. Right. Sorry."

He finally glanced back, and I caught a glimpse of those pale blue eyes—cold as winter frost despite the summer heat.

When he looked me in the eye, it made my heart flutter.

"You brought water?" God, he was good-looking, even at his age, and I found myself noticing.

I dug into my oversized tote bag, past my planner and backup phone charger, and produced a bottle of lemonade from the thermal pocket.

"Lemonade. Thought it might be better in this heat." For mid-July, it wasn't as bad as it could've been, but it definitely wasn’t comfortable.

He took it without comment, twisted off the cap, and drank half the bottle in one long pull.

When he handed it back to me, I got a half smile from him that made me blush.

I'd always had a thing for more mature men, but never one this much older than me.

Checking him out felt naughty, but I knew better than to let it distract me.

He was a challenge with his busy schedule as it was.

I shoved the bottle back into my bag and hurried after him as he took off again.

I'd lasted three days, and already, I understood why four assistants had fled before me.

The man was relentless.

His schedule was a nightmare of back-to-back meetings, administrative duties, and public appearances that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

This festival, for instance—I'd found the invitation buried in his email inbox at eight o'clock this morning, marked for today at noon.

I'd had four hours to clear his afternoon, print directions, and ensure he arrived on time.

And somehow, we made it.

The crowd got more chaotic as we approached the main stage, families clustering around the central green where a massive platform had been erected and draped in red velvet and gold garland.

A banner stretched overhead, Christmas in July - Celebrating Tradition, Family, and Light.

I'd never been to the Christmas in July festival here, and back home in San Diego, we didn't have anything like this.

If I weren't so busy, I'd have enjoyed stopping by to check things out.

A woman with a clipboard spotted Dr. Bradley and waved frantically. "Dr. Bradley! Thank goodness you're here!"

She was matronly, short, curly hair and warm eyes, but she was also a type-A and I could see it immediately in the way she started manhandling us without even saying a word.

It was her posture, her facial expressions, and the hurried way she stutter-stepped.

He adjusted his stride, angling toward her, and I followed in his wake.

The woman wore a bright red blazer despite the heat, and I wondered if she was as hot as me.

Her name tag read Festival Coordinator.

"We're running behind," she said breathlessly, "but we're so honored to have you. The Lightkeeper ceremony is such a significant tradition, and your contributions to the community make you the perfect choice."

Dr. Bradley lifted his chin, the warmest smile on his face. "Thank you. I'm honored to accept."

I hung back, half-hidden behind his broad shoulder, and watched the coordinator's expression shift from frazzled to charmed in an instant.

He had that effect on people.

When he chose to turn on the warmth, even that small amount, it was devastating.

Heaven help me if he ever turned that warmth on me.

I felt the need to fan myself as my body temperature rose a few degrees just thinking about it.

A cameraman approached, trailed by a reporter with a microphone.

The large contraption on his shoulder seemed larger than him and it sent a pang of anxiety right through my belly. "Dr. Bradley! Can we get a quick word about the Lightkeeper ceremony?"

I retreated immediately, angling myself behind a nearby speaker tower where the camera couldn't catch me.

My heart rate spiked as panic clawed across my chest.

I hated being on camera and had no clue this would be publicized like this.

I pressed my back against the metal scaffolding and focused on breathing.

If I'd have known, maybe I would have insisted on staying at the hospital.

Dr. Bradley, meanwhile, stepped into the limelight like a cultured celebrity. Of course he did.

"The Lightkeeper tradition is one of Beacon Hill's most cherished customs," he said confidently. "It's a privilege to carry that responsibility and to represent the values this community holds dear."

The reporter beamed. "And your Hearthkeeper? We understand Veronica Tate had to step down. Will you be announcing your new choice today?"

My heart was racing so hard and my body went into hypervigilance.

His expression didn't falter, but I swear I saw a slight tightening around his eyes. "We'll address that during the ceremony." His confident smile didn't fade a single bit.

"Any hints?" the reporter pressed, shoving her mic closer to his mouth, but he winked at her in an ultra-confident move that had my insides shrinking and my stomach roiling.

It was so easy for him to face reporters because he probably hadn’t had a day of trauma in his life.

"You'll have to wait and see." Dr. Bradley clapped his hands once before clasping them and tilted his head sideways as the reporter chuckled.

I watched him from my hiding spot, my fingers clenched around my phone and clinging to my tote.

He was good at this.

The camera loved him.

He looked every inch the respected physician and leader, the man who had his whole life organized and in control.

I was jealous of that confidence and control, but curious too.

Men like Nathan Bradley were usually scooped up by the time they were thirty, with three kids, a dog, and a white picket fence.

Especially here in Boston, of all places.

My wonder over why this attractive, successful man was still a bachelor at his age helped me ground myself and push the panic away enough to listen to the rest of the questions.

As the interview wrapped, Dr. Bradley scanned the crowd around himself, spotting me in my hiding spot, and gestured at me with a hand. "Let's go," he said. "They want us backstage in five minutes."

I fell into step beside him, still scrambling to keep up, but the pause in our walk at least allowed me to catch my breath. "Do you need anything else before the ceremony?"

"No," he said without looking down at me.

And that was that.

Sometimes, I got a list of orders so long, I had to scramble to write them down, and sometimes, nothing.

We reached the stage entrance, and a young man with a headset gestured us toward the wings.

The backstage area was chaos—volunteers rushing past with props, someone adjusting sound equipment, a woman in a Mrs. Claus costume fanning herself with a program.

I pressed myself against one of the posts holding up the curtains that created the makeshift area, trying to stay out of the way, and watched Dr. Bradley as he rose on his tiptoes and looked over people’s heads.

The coordinator from earlier appeared again, this time with a fan in her hand making her hair dance. "Dr. Bradley, we have a problem."

His jaw tightened as he fought through a range of emotions I read on his face.

I assumed this was what the reporter was talking about when they said his Hearthkeeper was out.

I hadn't seen a thing about it, but then, this event had been news to me too.

"Your Hearthkeeper. We sent you an email last week explaining that Veronica Tate had to withdraw due to her diagnosis. You were supposed to submit a replacement name by Monday."

The woman’s eyebrows furrowed and she cocked her head.

I watched the realization dawn on his face—the slow, terrible understanding that he'd missed the email because his last assistant had quit.

I'd only started three days ago and hadn't thought to check his archived messages, but that didn't stop guilt or shame from rising.

My hopes of doing an excellent job in this position and rising through the ranks to become head of HR were looking slimmer all the time.

Every tiny mistake I made like this was a black mark on my reputation.

"I didn't receive that email," he said evenly.

"We sent it to your hospital address," the coordinator insisted, "and followed up twice."