Daddy Christmas Read Online Cara Dee

Categories Genre: M-M Romance, Novella Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)

Standalone • Holiday Romance • Age gap • Comedy • Silver Fox • Age Gap • DaddykinkThe annual holiday office party is the one occasion my silver fox boss isn’t his rigid, uptight self—not to mention completely liberated of a sense of humor. For a single, magical evening, he replaces Armani with a Santa suit and grabs a couple drinks with his employees. He might even chuckle once or twice!Through no fault of my own, I end up half-naked and embarrassingly drunk on candy cane Jell-O shots. I plant my sweet rear on his lap, call him Daddy Christmas, tell him I’ve been a good boy, and ask for a very specific gift.So I’m pretty sure I’m about to get fired.

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Parker Jacobson


Not again.

This was it. This was how I was gonna die. Not from panic at the disco but at the office.

“I want the record to reflect that this isn’t my job,” I said loudly.

Mya and Kim shot me looks that told me where to go. The sun didn’t shine there.

Flustered and completely stressed out, I left our cubicle area and all the phones ringing and headed to Mr. Williams’s office.

What a great start to December.

I stayed in the doorway. “You summoned me with a shout heard in China, sir?”

“I’m not in the mood, Parker.” When was he ever? “I need you to personally bring this down to corporate and deliver it to Mr. Abrams.”

I furrowed my brow, walked over to his desk, and accepted the two parcels, the bigger one the size of a briefcase. The other box made a little clunk when I shifted it in my arms, so it had to be a bottle of something.

“I don’t need to point out that this isn’t my job, right?” I asked to make sure. “I’ve been tasked to do things I’m not qualified for all week.”

“It’s Wednesday.” He lifted his gaze from his computer and raised a brow. “I think you’re qualified to be an errand boy for a couple of hours. Luanne can help you with cab fare.”

I didn’t need a cab. I didn’t need to take this to corporate downtown. Mr. Abrams was here today, as he was every Wednesday. And Monday and Friday.

“All right…”

“Team effort, Parker,” he reminded, somewhat patiently. “The department will hopefully be back to normal before the week is over.”

I sure hoped so because this was bullshit. But hey, at least I got to get out of the IT department for a little bit. It was absolute chaos down here. Phones ringing nonstop, people yelling, higher-ups breathing down our necks for updates.

I made my way through the mayhem area toward the elevators and wondered if I should bring my Christmassy earmuffs for tomorrow. Maybe they’d drown out some of the noise.

Did people even know what they were doing? A question I asked myself more frequently for every year I worked here. The company was just so massive. Thousands of employees across three continents. Countless branches. “Entertainment” was in the name, but I’d never seen any of the entertainment myself—or anything related to it. Except for random tickets to movies the company was involved in. But not with production. Our branch in Glendale manufactured setups for craft services for movie sets and events. The branch in Pasadena recruited people straight out of Caltech for something in technology. My little branch here in Culver City was focused on the corporation’s main website and online support.

And sometime last Sunday, our servers had gone down.

I took the elevator up to the top floor where the suits sat, and I adjusted the packages in my arms so I could straighten my tie. I tended to tug at it when I was uncomfortable, and down on my floor, nobody gave a crap.

I kinda wanted to change floors. My own department was so small that it fell under Mr. Williams’s leadership in IT. Two floors of engineers, web administrators, developers, and other tech-savvy folks…and Mya, Kim, and me.

The top floor stole all the light from the rest of us. They had big bay windows, as opposed to our tiny square ones. The building used to be a factory of some sort, so it was all exposed brick and concrete floors. But not up here. Oh no, sir, they got hardwood floors and potted plants.

This should be my floor.

Mr. Abrams’s office was in the far back, past the bullpen of worker bees who handled social media marketing and flippin’ Instagram support. Up here, you could get paid to banter with Variety and Sony online. Downstairs, our online support got stuck with angry emails and phone calls.

On Friday, the two top floors would turn into the crime scene for our annual holiday office party. Something to look forward to, at least.

After the bullpen came two hallways of fishbowl offices, and then the space opened up to Mr. Abrams’s grand office. And his assistant’s desk.

She wasn’t here, though.

I scratched my head.

Should I just leave the stuff on Suravi’s desk? Perhaps she was out to get Mr. Abrams’s lunch, what did I know? I usually communicated with her through email. In fact, I’d only been in Mr. Abrams’s office once before, and he hadn’t even been there. Kim and I had snuck in at last year’s holiday party. We’d been curious.

Oh, screw it. I got closer to the doorway since the door was open and peered inside, finding Mr. Abrams behind his desk to the right. It was a pretty big office, but he didn’t have much in there. All those windows, the biggest Persian rug I’d ever seen, his desk, and cabinets behind him. He could’ve had an entire seating area—or a pool table, if I got to pick—and perhaps a bar table because all rich top dogs had that. But nothing. Two chairs in front of the desk that looked uncomfortable.