Babies for the Christmas Grump (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Sunny

“I think I own this place now?” I blurt, stumbling into the lobby of The Garland Rose hotel.

I’m a human snowdrift, dragging two overstuffed bags, one dented cat carrier, and zero dignity. “I don’t know if this is right. I was a kid the last time I was here, and it looks really different.”

The poor guy blinks at me from behind the front desk, clearly rethinking every career decision that’s led to this moment. Tinsel the cat lets out an angry yowl from her carrier like, “Same, girl.”

I yank off my beanie. My hair explodes in all directions, frizzy, wind-whipped, and now statically bonded to my Chapstick.

“Sunny Quinn?” he asks cautiously.

“That’s me.” I hold up my ID and a crumpled manila envelope from Aunt Evie’s lawyer. “There’s a will. And a clause. And a cat. She bites.”

He takes the envelope as if it might contain anthrax or an overdue bill. “We’ve been expecting you. Charles Hunt. Night manager.”

Well. That’s both comforting and vaguely ominous.

Five minutes later, I’m standing in the world’s creakiest elevator, shoulders up to my ears, snow melting down the back of my sweater. I’m cold. I’m tired. I smell of travel-sized hand sanitizer and fear.

This cannot be real.

Aunt Evie, in her infinite, glitter-covered wisdom, left me a hotel—a Christmassy hotel in the middle of Boston.

I have approximately $147 in my checking account and a work history that includes “freelance copywriter,” “seasonal candle shop assistant,” and “the girl who accidentally deleted a client’s entire website and cried in the break room.”

I should not be in charge of anything more complicated than a microwave.

Especially since I don’t even know what I want to do with my life, at the grand old age of twenty-seven, I still have no direction.

I know I said I wanted to be just like Aunt Evie when I was last here, but I was a child. Is that why she left me the hotel? Does she think that’s still my dream?

It could be, I guess. I just don’t know.

Tinsel lets out another hiss as we unlock the door to what is now, allegedly, my room. An old room that was designed for staff but never used by anyone else but me.

The one I always stayed in when I was visiting as a child. I need something familiar in the middle of this madness.

It smells of cinnamon, old books, and faint judgment. The wallpaper is vintage floral. There’s a fireplace that I have no idea how to use.

But I guess I’m going to have to find a way to make it my own for good.

“I’m not cut out for this,” I mutter, opening Tinsel’s carrier before dropping everything else and collapsing on the bed. It squeaks in protest.

Tinsel jumps onto the dresser, knocks over a snow globe, and stares me down.

“Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t eaten since Delaware.”

Ten minutes later, I’ve swapped my travel clothes for a wrinkled burgundy sweater dress, twisted my curls into a passable bun, and applied a healthy amount of lip balm.

The dark circles under my eyes are doing a whole interpretive dance, but I’m chasing comfort, not couture. I need a hot meal, a stiff drink, and five minutes of pretending my life isn’t actively unraveling.

The lobby bar is tucked behind a velvet curtain like a secret, glowing softly with golden light and flickering candles. It’s warm. Cozy.

Too nice for someone whose boots are currently soaked through.

I slide onto a barstool, giving off the vibe of a woman who’s either very tired or very drunk. Sadly, I’m just the first one.

“Please tell me you serve food,” I say to the bartender, who looks up from polishing a glass. He might as well be a character from a Hallmark movie, but hotter, and with visible sarcasm.

“We serve both food and drinks suitable for mild emotional crises,” he says, deadpan. “Which are you here for?”

“Both,” I say, unwrapping my scarf dramatically. “Ideally, at the same time.”

He grins, and I like him immediately.

“Dex,” he says, handing me a menu. “Bartender slash unlicensed therapist.”

“Good to meet you, Dex,” I reply with a smirk, forgetting to mention my own name in the process. “Sorry, it’s been a day. I might be emotionally screaming inside.”

Dex raises an eyebrow. “That’s a mood.”

“I think it’s my whole brand right now.” I laugh, though it comes out a little too tight.

He grins. “So, what are we drinking to? The impending chaos of life or just the need for some delicious carbs?”

“Definitely the carbs. The chaos has been a constant guest in my life for a while now.”

“You and me both.” He sets down a glass, wipes his hands on a towel, and tilts his head. “So, what’s your go-to drink when things are falling apart?”

“Ooh, I need a glass of red wine, for sure. And a burger would be amazing.”

“Coming right up.” He makes quick work of my order, then adds, “You sure you don’t need a side of therapy with that?”

I give him a grin. “I’d say yes, but I’m pretty sure your license is just for making drinks, not for listening to me lament my questionable life choices.”

He chuckles, sliding a glass of wine in front of me. “Therapist’s code: No judgment. Just the drink.”

I take a sip and let out a satisfied sigh. “Much better. Thanks.” I glance around the cozy, dimly lit bar. “This place is beautiful. Better than I expected. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re in a snow globe.”

Dex’s eyes flicker. Maybe with amusement, or just tiredness. “Yeah, it does have that vibe.”

I pick up a fry, dip it in ketchup, and then take a bite. “Okay, this is amazing. Like, I’m pretty sure I’ve found my new favorite food in the world.”

“Good taste,” he says with a nod, glancing at the clock behind the bar.

The door opens behind me, and Dex’s gaze flicks toward it. He pauses.

I know something’s happened because Dex stops mid-pour.

I glance over my shoulder.

And see him.

Tall. Broad. Expensive-looking. The kind of man who wears a black wool coat as a statement and walks in a way that suggests he doesn’t need to explain himself to anyone. Steel gray hair. Eyes of ice. That jaw.

Oh no. Oh no.

He’s hot.

And not just hot. He’s ruin-your-life, forget-your-name, leave-you-thinking-about-him-for-the-next-decade hot.

He meets my eyes and smiles. Not big. Just enough.

My stomach drops straight into my boots.

I need to move. I don’t know why, but I do. I have to get to the nearest table while I catch my damn breath.

I do not have time for further complications.

I slip off the barstool before I can even think about it, my legs suddenly full of nervous energy.

I take a few awkward steps toward a table in the corner, hoping to disappear into the shadows. But of course, the universe has other plans.

The sound of boots clicking on the polished floor sends a shiver down my spine, and I don’t even have to look back to know he’s following. It’s like the guy knows.

Like he has radar for clueless, flustered women trying to avoid eye contact.

I pull out the chair with too much enthusiasm, almost knocking over a glass of water in the process, and drop into it. My fingers, twitching for anything to hold onto, find the edge of the table and grip it like it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away.

And then there he is, towering over the table with the kind of presence that says, “I own the room.”

“Mind if I join?” His voice is dark chocolate and velvet, low and smooth but just sharp enough to make my knees weak.

I blink up at him, then blink again, hoping that if I do it enough times, I’ll stop seeing this handsome man whose face belongs on a movie screen and not in my little corner of a hotel bar.

“Uh… yes. I mean… uh, no, go ahead.”

I’m already regretting it.

He sits with a casual confidence, and I feel my stomach do some strange, slow-motion flip. My lips are suddenly parched, my nerves tingling with electricity.

It’s just a guy. A handsome guy.

Not a big deal.

“So, what brings you to The Garland Rose tonight?”

I blink slowly and start talking without even really thinking about what I’m saying. “The drinks brought me in. The food, too.”

He cocks his head to one side, studying me as if he’s figuring out a puzzle. His eyes are a piercing shade of blue, too intense for casual conversation.

They don’t wander; they stay locked on me—a hawk zeroing in on its prey.

I tug nervously at the hem of my dress, trying to calm my nerves, but there’s something about the way his gaze doesn’t waver that has my insides doing some strange, synchronized dance.

His eyes lock onto mine, like he’s trying to read me, or maybe figure out how much I’m hiding behind my sarcasm and flippant remarks.

“Well, the drinks and the food are solid reasons to stop by.” He leans in slightly, his smile curling the corners of his mouth, a slight edge to it. “But I suspect there’s something more going on. Something that brought you into this hotel bar tonight.”

I almost choke on my wine, but I recover with an awkward cough.

“I’m a sucker for cozy places. Who isn’t, right? Especially in this charming neighborhood.”

He smirks. “Ah, and here I was thinking you were here for me.”

Uh-oh.

My stomach does a flip.

I’m in trouble.

I’m tipsy.

That’s the only explanation for why I’m standing here, at the door to the elevator, feeling my insides become one big mess of nerves and too much wine. The kind of wine that makes everything a little too bright, a little too intense.

He’s standing too close, just enough for me to feel his presence. It’s a magnet pulling at me. I can smell the faint trace of his cologne. A woodsy, smoky scent that makes me feel warm in places I shouldn’t.

His voice, smooth as velvet, is still in my ears, and I can’t seem to stop smiling in that way that makes me realize I’m playing with fire.

“So, here we are,” he says, leaning slightly against the elevator door, arms crossed. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, not for a second.

His eyes, those icy blue eyes, seem to burn right through me, and I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the fact that he’s just that magnetic.