Flown in for Christmas

Sixteen.

Joy

Everyone has gone to bed when I tiptoe into the kitchen, cell phone in hand. The lights are dimmed, giving the room a warm, homey glow. My hair is still damp and my feet are chilly against the cool hardwoods. Nick is upstairs taking a shower while I’ve…snuck away. I mean, it’s not really ‘sneaking’ anywhere when I was told to make myself at home, right?

Coming downstairs for a late-night treat to soothe my anxiety and call my dad are two things I would do freely in my own home. That’s what I’ve decided to tell myself, at least.

After an awkward, and rather silent dinner, Nick retreated to his room early. I stayed to help clean up before following him upstairs. He’s been quietly moping over his actions. I get the sense he’s disappointed in himself. Even without his cousin and ex at the dinner table, he couldn’t seem to get out of his head.

When I joined him, however, I dragged my newly recovered luggage into his closet and, well, I could tell right away, it was broken into.

I use the term ‘broken into’ loosely since nothing seems to be missing, but it was dumped at some point. Nothing is where I put it, nor folded neatly. Even my toothbrush is out of its case. And, call it what you will, but I have a hunch it was Eric.

Nick claims he caught him actively trying to get inside, but I just… I don’t trust it. And I don’t mention it to Nick, either. With the gross image of his cousin thumbing through my underwear in mind, I dial my father’s phone number.

I know, I know. Nick said to leave it be for now, but how can I stand idly by and watch his family be infiltrated by, well, I’m not sure yet?

“Hello, Joy,” my father’s voice sounds from the other end of the call.

I smile. It’s good to hear his voice. We try to talk once a week at the very least, but sometimes work gets in his way. I don’t mind, though, it’s still more time than I get from Emmett or Mom. “Hey, Dad. How are you?”

“I’m well,” he says. “How’s California?”

Oops. “About that…”

Dad harrumphs on the other end. “You’re not spending Christmas with your brother, are you? ”

I sigh, opening the massive fridge and peering inside. The container filled with Betty’s Christmas tree-shaped brownies catches my eye and I pop the top open, removing two before I close the lid and the fridge. “You know how Emmett is,” I mumble, taking a bite out of one brownie as I shuffle to grab a napkin. “When he sets his mind on something, there isn’t room for distractions.”

“He gets that from his mother,” Dad says bitterly. “He should know how to manage his time wisely by now and leave room for important events.”

“Like spending time with his lonely little sister for Christmas?” I snort sarcastically, stuffing another sad bite of chocolatey goodness into my mouth as I walk toward the breakfast nook.

“Exactly.”

I frown and take a seat by the window. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You know what I meant.” He chuckles. It’s good to hear him laugh, he hasn’t done it often enough since the divorce.

We chat for a bit, catching up on what’s new for him at work, his plans for this week—which are unsurprisingly work-related—and when I might see him again. “After the holidays,” he says. “I’m getting ten times the amount of work done with everyone gone. It’s a wonder I don’t fire the whole office and do everything myself right the first time around.”

I roll my eyes, the action causing my head to feel a bit loopy. Weird .

I shake the feeling off with a small bite into my second brownie and a change of subject, “Well, there is a tiny favor I was hoping to ask of you,” I start, filling him in on the bits and pieces of Nick’s cousin and the odd dynamic that’s built over the last year.

There is a rustle of paper from my father’s end. I have no doubt he’s taking notes. “And you think this…Eric, may have some unsavory intentions?”

I shrug to myself, leaning against the back of the chair. “I feel like the situation speaks for itself, don’t you?”

He hums. “It definitely merits looking into,” he agrees.

I relay the few details I have on Eric and Darcy. He tells me he’ll look into it personally when I say this is more of a favor for my boss than anything else.

“Has he not done his own investigation?” my father asks.

“He did, but he said they didn’t find anything.” At his silence, I add, “It was a local PI, and you always told me anyone with ties to certain people or places are more easily swayed to avoid the truth.”

He chuckles lightly. “You seem very invested in this, Joy.”

I blow out an exaggerated breath, my mouth feeling dry and sticky all at once. Gross . It’s hard to tell if it’s my nerves or guilty conscience that are getting the better of me. I might not be telling my dad the whole truth, but it doesn’t hurt to give him an added incentive… “I like him.”

Dad pauses. “But he’s your boss, sweetheart.”

“I know,” I practically whine. This fantasy of being Nick Davis’ fiancée has me all messed up. It just feels so real . Like he’s really mine. And I’m his. He admitted he likes me back, after all. That has to mean something.

It means he likes you, too, duh!

And he eats pussy so damn good.

My body flushes with heat from my core to my chest to my face.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt, Joy,” my father’s voice rings in my ear, yanking me from the dirty memory of my boss’ thick cock buried between my legs less than twenty-four hours ago. “But, if this is as important to you as it sounds, I’ll find something. Closure or otherwise. I promise.”

I smile faintly. “Thanks, Daddy.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, honey. Merry Christmas.”

I wish him the same and end the call, setting my phone down on the counter in front of me beside a half-eaten brownie and a small pile of guilt.

“Joy?”

I startle, nearly falling off the chair at the sound of Nick’s voice. He grins as he steps into the faint light of the kitchen. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, coming toward me wearing a pair of flannel sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. Yummy as always. “I’ve been waiting for you for almost an hour. What are you doing down here?”

My eyes widen and I check my phone for the time. I squint, trying to see the blurred numbers. “Is that a one or a nine?” I question aloud .

Nick’s hand lands gently on my forehead and I peer up at his furrowed brow.

He really shouldn’t do that. He’ll end up with age lines all over his pretty face.

“You feeling all right?” he asks as I lean into his touch with a sigh.

“Mhmm.” His touch is warm and inviting and— “Are you always this warm?”

Nick leans down, his face level with mine. “Look at me,” he demands, and I do.

He’s so close I want to just kiss, kiss, kiss him all over. But his gaze drifts to the table and he straightens, grabbing the rest of my brownie and bringing it to his nose.

“You can have the rest,” I offer with a smile.

“Joy,” he says, sounding cautious for some reason. “Which container did you get this from?”

“The one in the fridge.”

“Yes, but which one? The one with the Christmas trees on the lid or the one with Santa?”

“I’m…not…sure.” I hum, thinking. Why does it matter where I got them from? Betty said to help myself. “The other brownie had green sprinkles on it if that helps.”

“The other brownie?”

I nod, pointing to the half brownie in his hand. “That’s my second one,” I admit, then start to feel a bit self-conscious. “Don’t judge me, okay?”

Nick’s smile is slow—and devastatingly handsome—as he pulls out the chair beside me and sits. “Have you ever taken edible marijuana before, Joy?”

I guffaw at the very notion. “Me? No,” I snort. “I ran track and field throughout high school and college. My coach used to tell us it would ‘slow us down’ if we ever used it—which, now that I think about it, I’m fairly certain he was lying.” I don’t know how any of this is relevant to his question, but the information spills from my lips without any thought. “Then I got older and all of my friends already had their experimenting phase with recreational drugs, so I was kind of the odd one out, you know?” I shrug. “And at that point, I just didn’t want to do them alone.”

“Joy,” he starts, his tone almost careful as he holds the brownie in front of me. “These are my dad’s.”

“Betty said I could—”

“You ate Dad’s weed brownies, angel.”

Time stops. Or—it doesn’t, but it sure feels like it does!

I’m…high?

Don’t panic . Don’t panic .

I panic.

Gasping, my hands fly to cover my mouth. “Oh my god.”