Dark Christmas: A Bratva Next Door Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)
Dark Christmas: Chapter 1

Holy fucking sexy accountant.

I can’t stop staring at the man who lives across the street. I’ve only caught fleeting glimpses of him disappearing into his house or slipping into his car.

I’ve been calling him the sexy accountant in my head ever since I first laid eyes on him, though I have zero clue as to what he actually does for a living.

He’s usually so… private. Mysterious, even. But today, he’s out in the open, stretching on his front steps like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

And damn, what a show.

It’s a chilly November morning in San Francisco, but he’s dressed as if were a summer day. His shorts hug his muscular thighs and his tank top shows off his strong, powerful-looking biceps and shoulders. Short salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard accentuate his square face and chiseled jaw.

He gives off an air of intelligence, like someone who reads a lot and takes an interest in world events. But his eyes—dark and dangerous—tell me there’s more going on beneath that sharp exterior.

And his smile—disarming, secretive, and guarded. He looks like he could wreck my day and then cheerfully ask how it went afterward.

I’m trying to be subtle but in truth I’m openly gawking at him through my bedroom window like a creep.

Oh, shit. He’s looking right at me.

Just as I’m about to duck out of view, he slips on a pair of sunglasses and takes off running.

An incoming text snaps me back to reality, my little fantasy about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-as-Sin shattered. It’s from Claire, my ride-or-die since high school, the one who was there when everything went sideways after my parents died. We run a bakery in the city together, and we’ve got big plans.

Hey, can you pick up some vanilla extract on your way in? We’re fresh out. Again.

I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling. I quickly shoot back a reply.

Got it. I’ll grab extra this time.

With that handled, I toss my phone on the bed and head for the shower. I definitely need to wash away all the dirty thoughts after the show I just witnessed.

I stand beneath the stream, letting it cascade over me, my mind drifting right back to him and the way his muscles flexed and shifted with every move, his lean, powerful body in perfectly controlled motion. I bite my lip, feeling heat pool low in my belly.

Before I know it, my hand’s sliding down my stomach, fingers grazing the sensitive skin between my thighs. But just as things are about to get interesting, I remember that I don’t have time to let my fantasies run wild.

Damn it. I’ve got to pick up vanilla extract for Claire and my peeping has caused me to be running behind. I pull my hand away from where it was headed, forcing myself to get back to the basic business of showering like a functioning human being.

Once I’m done, I step out and dry myself, then head straight for my closet. I dress quickly in black jeans, an old comfy band t-shirt, and Chuck Taylors and I’m ready to slay the day.

I grab my keys, coat, and beanie, and head out the door. The crisp November air is invigorating. From my porch in the Mission District, I can see the fog just starting to lift, giving everything that dreamy, slightly eerie glow.

Lining the street and creating an image that looks straight off a postcard are the quirky yet iconic pastel-painted houses with little flower boxes under the windows.

I head down the street. First stop: coffee. I don’t even have to say a word when I walk in. The barista, Zoe, spots me before I enter and nods, already putting the finishing touches on my order.

“Mornin’, Am! Your iced oat milk latte with a double shot’s already ready!” she calls out, sliding the drink across the counter.

“Thanks, Zoe! Lifesaver, as usual.” I flash her a grin and slip a couple of bucks in the tip jar before grabbing my caffeine fix.

Sipping my coffee, I head back down the street. I live three blocks from the bakery, and I love my little daily commute. It’s the perfect walk, especially when the weather’s on point like today.

I run into the local grocery store, grab two bulk-sized bottles of vanilla extract, and head on to work.

I turn the corner and spot our bakery—Sweet Talk. It’s housed on the first floor of a renovated Victorian, pastel blue with iconic bay windows and a quaint little porch out front. The white and pink sign above the door is cute but professional, and the little chalkboard sign out front always has some sassy quote of the day.

Today’s reads: ‘Gobble ’til you wobble.’ Classic Claire.

As I get closer, the smell of fresh pastries hits me like a warm hug—sugar, cinnamon, a hint of pumpkin spice. My mouth’s already watering.

With a grin on my face, I open the door, ready to dive into the day.