Page 68 of Santa Baby

I shook my head. “We have plans that night.”

“What night?”

“Christmas Eve. Want another cup of coffee?”

She nodded but looked conflicted as she swiveled in her chair. “Are we still going to dinner with your parents?”

I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment. I knew she overheard what my dad said about her. She acted like it hadn’t affected her, but it sure as hell had affected me.

“I think you should go,” she said.

“There’s no point.”

“I’d like to meet your mom.”

I turned with a coffee for myself and a refill for her. “My mom would love you.” I was being honest. Mom would love Fia. Her charm, her artistic sensibilities. “I’ll think about it.”

She smiled, shrugging, and went back to her pancakes.

I sat beside her and pulled out my phone, raking through my schedule for tomorrow. Fia glanced at my phone, curious.

“What’s Pitch mean?”

“I’m going to pitch taking my grandmother’s recipe to market on a larger scale. It’s not great timing based on everything that happened this week.”

“Why do you have to pitch anything when it’s your company?”

“I have a board. Investors I need to impress. Being a CEO doesn’t necessarily mean you have full control, but they normally see things my way.”

“You seem nervous though.”

I smirked, toying with my breakfast. “Are you reading my mind?”

“You don’t like public speaking, huh?”

“I don’t like having to prove that I know what I’m doing to a group of men who only care about how much money I’m about to make them.”

“Tell me your pitch.” She forked a piece of pancake drenched in syrup.

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ve seen you naked, Mason. You think I’m about to start judging you now?”

Heat flared across my cheeks. I swiped my tongue across my lower lip. “I was just going to give them the data. Our heritage line, that’s what the whiskey’s called, does really well in the restaurant where we serve it exclusively. It’s brewed in very small batches right now. We do twelve barrels a year. I have three barrels that have been aging since I started my company. I want to be able to do more.”

“So the whiskey you currently sell isn’t even your family recipe?” she asked.

“It’s close, but not quite.”

She nodded, taking it in. “You should name it after her.”

“Name what?”

“The whiskey. You should name it after your grandma. I bet—I bet that would make your dad happy.”

“I’ve been trying to make him happy for years, Fia. It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe it is that simple,” she replied, giving me a little nudge.