Stuffing His Stocking (Naughty with Spice Holiday Romance Collection)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

LIV

Five Years Earlier

A re they really arguing again? It’s Christmas for heaven’s sake.

My favorite holiday songs spill from my Bluetooth speaker as I bend down to grab a very shabby-looking gingerbread man from a brown cardboard box. These old ornaments have seen better days, and so has their sad container, which is only held together by duct tape and prayers. All these homely decorations seem out of place in our pristine, elegantly-decorated living room.

My new stepfather has insisted that Mom and I don’t need to lift a finger to decorate anything, that we can just relax and let the professionals turn the house into a winter wonderland , as he calls it. I suppose he means well, and while the house is certainly beautiful, it’s all so impersonal. Everything is too perfect… lifeless . It was nice the first couple of days, but now it just feels like I’m living in a hotel rather than my own home.

So I pulled out the old ornaments that Mom has been collecting since before I was born to give our Christmas tree a little more character and warmth. I doubt Bruce will notice my additions, but I know they’ll put a smile on Mom’s face. Christmas was always our favorite holiday, especially after my dad died. It was just the two of us for so long, and I want to keep some of our holiday traditions going for as long as I can.

As I find the perfect spot for the pipe-cleaner snowflake I made in kindergarten, I hum along with the music and bask in the orange glow of the crackling fire. Our old house didn’t have a fireplace, so I’ve pestered Bruce almost every night—well, every night that he’s actually been home—to light this one for me. Thankfully, he’s typically more amused than annoyed at my insistence and lights it without much complaint.

Right now, though, he’s complaining. A lot.

“Why can’t he be on time for once in his life?” he gripes.

Mom sighs. “Give him some time, honey. There’s probably a lot of traffic coming from the city. It is snowing after all.” Her tone is calm and soothing, but appears to be falling on deaf ears. Bruce grunts, and I hear the tap-tap-tapping of his expensive loafers on the Brazilian walnut floors as he paces in the sitting room.

I gingerly set down the ornament in my hand and creep to the doorway, making sure I remain out of sight. Mom stands off to the side, her forest-green dress perfectly complementing her olive-toned complexion while her dark, wavy hair frames her worried face. She watches my stepfather with his tense gait as he strides back and forth in his slate-gray slacks and starched white button-down. I glance at my ugly Christmas sweater and matching leggings, and wonder if Bruce will want me to change for dinner. Everything we do is so formal and boring.

“You know, it’s just like him to be late, Carol,” he huffs. “I know he’s doing this on purpose just to get under my skin.” Looks to me like it’s working. “And on Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake! He never thinks about anyone but himself.”

I almost snicker at his overreaction until he spins around and I see his lips cruelly twisted into a sneer while his neck and cheeks have turned a deep shade of red.

Mom cautiously approaches him and gently cups his face. She says something too softly for me to hear, and Bruce’s shoulders marginally relax as some of the anger dissipates from his expression. His eyes crinkle with fondness and adoration, and he places his hands on her hips before leaning forward to kiss her. She giggles and moves her hands from his cheeks to the back of his neck.

My gaze snaps to the floor and I swallow hard, trying to tamp down the embarrassed blush working its way up my face. It’s not like I haven’t seen them kiss before, but it feels like I’m intruding on a private moment. I may have had my reservations about Bruce, and to be honest, I still do. But it’s been years since I’ve seen my mom happy like this, and I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to ruin it.

They had a whirlwind romance, marrying this past summer after only a few months of dating. And even though we’ve lived with him for over half the year in this fancy-schmancy mansion, I can’t say I know a whole lot about him. He works all the time and he’s hardly ever around. He has been nice to me, though, so I can’t complain too much, regardless of my gut feeling.

For my eighteenth birthday back in August, he bought me a new car, even though both Mom and I stressed that it wasn’t necessary. And at the start of the school year, he handed me his black card and told me to buy anything I needed. School supplies, clothes, makeup, it didn’t matter. I thought it was pretty cool of him to do that, but I still can’t say I really like the guy. I have my reasons, and because of them, I keep my stepfather at arm’s length.

Bruce comes from old money. He has everything he could ever want, with women literally throwing themselves at him. If the salacious internet blogs are to be believed, he’s indulged in numerous noncommitted relationships and earned himself quite the reputation as a womanizer. So what on earth does he want with a sweet, kind woman like my mother?

He came in like a bulldozer and swept her off her feet, love-bombing and showering her with lavish gifts. I’m not saying my mom doesn’t deserve every bit of it, but it just seems so odd, as she’s not the typical woman he seems to be attracted to. I’ve seen countless articles about the tech tycoon and his vapid socialites of the month. They’re nothing like my mother, a hard-working administrative professional with subtle elegance and sophistication.

Although I can’t pinpoint his motives, Bruce does seem to care a great deal about her. Maybe it is love, or as much as it can be for a man like him. And Mom does appear to be in love with him. I just don’t want to see her get her heart broken. Not again, after losing my dad all those years ago.

The other reason I’m leery of Bruce is?—

The front door bangs open, allowing a cold gust of wind to blow into the foyer. I scooch back, pressing my body flat against the wall when a tall figure strolls inside with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He shakes his sandy-blond tresses and snow flurries float into the air. Then he lifts his gaze, and I inhale a sharp breath, catching a glimpse of his startling green eyes.

I clamp my mouth shut so he doesn’t hear me and drink in his appearance from head to toe. His tousled hair is slightly damp at the ends and he pushes the wet strands off his forehead. After rubbing the stubble on his chiseled jawline, he unbuttons his stylish wool peacoat and shakes the snow onto the wooden floor. My heartbeat quickens when he rolls the tension from his neck, revealing cords of muscle that lead down to his gym-perfected physique. Even from my hiding spot in the living room, I can see tiny flecks of snow stuck to his long eyelashes, accentuating his bright, sea-green eyes.

He seems completely unaffected by the weather or anything else with his casual swagger and indifferent demeanor. The man is stunningly gorgeous, but either doesn’t know it or doesn’t give a damn, and I can’t help gawking at my stepbrother.

“About damn time, Dylan.” Bruce hisses his son’s name like a curse, and I flinch despite him not directing his ire at me. But Dylan merely kicks the door shut and gives his father a bored look.

Bruce stomps up to his son and jabs a finger into his chest. “Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is and how long we’ve been waiting for you?”

“It’s fine, Bruce. Just calm down,” Mom pleads.

“I will not calm down, Carol. This spoiled little shit has kept us waiting all evening.”

Dylan rolls his eyes and bats Bruce’s finger away as if it were nothing more than an annoying gnat. “Relax, old man, before you have a stroke. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re three hours late!” Bruce booms, the back of his neck becoming increasingly red.

“Better late than never, right?” Dylan shrugs with a mocking laugh.

“You’re such?—”

Mom steps between the two men, putting her hand on Bruce’s chest. “Honey, please don’t. Let’s not say things we don’t mean. It’s Christmas. So let’s all enjoy the holiday, hm?” She leans forward, causing Bruce to step back from his son. With a little distance between them now, Dylan’s shoulders slump a fraction of an inch. Even Bruce deflates some at Mom’s interference. She’s always been a great mediator.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Bruce keeps his glare locked on his son. “You need to grow up and learn some responsibility. Your family has been waiting for you for hours and you don’t even care. It’s like you’re trying to ruin the holiday for all of us.”

Dylan’s laugh turns almost sinister, but still has a self-deprecating twinge to it that makes my heart ache for him. “ My family? What a joke,” he mutters. “My family hasn’t existed since Diane.” He snarls his mother’s name. “She left you and you started fucking anything with a pulse.”

My mother’s eyes widen and I’m offended on her behalf. But I remain hidden, as I’m too stunned to move.

“This isn’t your second or even third marriage, Dad . Just because this one comes with a kid doesn’t make you some fucking spectacular family man. In a few months, we both know you’ll get bored with her and start ass-grabbing your college interns again. That or whatever insipid gold-digger from the country club latches on to you. Tell me how much family will mean to you then.” Dylan’s handsome features are twisted into a spiteful and cruel expression.

When Mom lets out a quiet sob, we all snap our attention to her. Dylan’s face immediately melts into guilt and remorse and Bruce’s rage begins to boil over.

Before anyone can say anything else, Mom politely whispers, “Excuse me,” and rushes to the kitchen while trying to conceal her tears.

Dylan takes a step forward. “Carol, I’m?—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Bruce roars, and his son stops dead in his tracks. “I think you’ve done enough for one night. You truly are such a disappointment.” His words are scathing and cut even me to the core.

Dylan flinches, and the fight leeches out of him. “I’ve always been a disappointment to you, Dad. Nothing I ever did was good enough, so why even bother?”

Sudden awareness flickers in Bruce’s eyes, but it’s quickly extinguished before he chases after Mom. My stepbrother, who I’ve only met a handful of times, lowers his head and buttons up his heavy coat. Not even the soothing melody of “Silent Night” can dissipate the tension in the house right now.

Dylan sighs, tilting his head back and roughly rubbing at his eyes. Hurt, anger, and regret all radiate from his body and I find myself wanting to comfort him. But I’m sure he only sees me as some dopey kid. The teenage stepsister he barely knows. He probably doesn’t even remember I exist most of the time.

Yet I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

He’s fascinated and intrigued me ever since I first met him at Mom and Bruce’s engagement party. And right now, he’s so tragically beautiful that I’m trying to sear his image into my brain. That is, until he scares the shit out of me.

“You gonna keep hiding there all night or what?” His voice is surprisingly low and steady, but the fact that he even knows I’m watching startles me. I lose my balance, tripping over a box, and by the time I right myself, he’s staring down at me with hard eyes and a blank expression.

“S-sorry,” I squeak, although I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. For spying on him? For eavesdropping on their conversation? For crashing into his life when he clearly didn’t want us here?

He continues to stare at me, and after a few seconds, I start to fidget until his gaze falls to my sweater. Then, his face softens and the barest hint of a smile touches his lips. “Nice sweater,” he quips, jutting his chin toward me.

My cheeks flame when I remember I’m wearing a hideous, holiday-themed top with silver and gold tinsel and glittery ornaments hot-glued to it. I silently curse myself for choosing something so… so… childish .

“Oh, um, my mom and I made it. So, you know…” I trail off and cross my arms over my chest as if I can hide the ugly garment.

At the mention of Mom, an invisible mask drops over Dylan’s expression and he shifts toward the door. When I realize he’s going to leave, I lunge forward and instinctively grab the cuff of his coat sleeve.

“Wait!”

He freezes, looking down at his wrist. I release the fabric as though it burns me and hold my hands up in surrender.

“Don’t leave,” I plead, then cringe at how whiny and pathetic I sound.

Dylan lifts his gaze and raises an eyebrow at me. “Well, I’m not exactly feeling the holiday spirit from Dear Old Dad , and I just insulted your mom.”

I wince at his honesty.

“So, yeah, I’d say it’s time for me to go.”

I open my mouth to beg him to stay but I immediately snap it closed before I can say anything else. We may be stepsiblings, but really, we’re just acquaintances by marriage. He doesn’t owe me anything, and I certainly don’t have the right to ask him to suffer through a holiday with me when he doesn’t want to. I’m just a silly schoolgirl, hoping to spend more time with a hot older guy I can’t have.

“Okay, well…” I swallow down my awkwardness. “Can you wait just a second?”

He doesn’t reply, but since he’s not running out the door, I take that as a yes .

I dart back into the living room and grab a small red package from beneath the Christmas tree. When I return to the foyer, Dylan gives me a confused look until I shove the present into his hand.

“I’m sure you won’t be back tomorrow, so I’ll give this to you now,” I explain.

He stares at the small gift for so long I begin to worry there’s something wrong with it. Then he finally looks up, and I notice the slight dimples in his cheeks and the genuine smile that crosses his face.

His large, heavy palm gently drops onto my head and he ruffles my hair. “You’re cute.” He grins.

Annoyance flashes through my veins and I duck away to fix my hair. “I’m eighteen. I’m not a kid.” I straighten my sweater and glance up to find that Dylan’s head has tilted and his eyes have darkened with something I can’t put my finger on.

He drags his gaze over me, slowly and carefully, inadvertently sending a shiver down my spine. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly, reaching out to push a dark curl behind my ear. As he draws back, his thumb faintly brushes my cheek and goose bumps erupt across my skin. “You’re definitely not a kid.”

My mouth grows dry as my heart pounds almost painfully in my chest. I want to beg him to stay, to touch me again, to do anything but walk out that door. But my brain goes on the fritz and I can’t form a coherent thought.

He watches me, waiting for me to say something else, but the words never come and I’m frozen in place. Then he gives me one last smile, before pivoting toward the door and pulling it open. I don’t even register the rush of cold air when he steps out into the darkness.

“Merry Christmas, Olivia,” he says without turning around, and I’m almost surprised he remembers my name.

“Merry Christmas, Dylan.”

He pulls the door closed and I stay rooted to my spot, watching him from a small window as he climbs into his car. I stare longingly as his SUV drives off into the snowy night.

Who knew this would be the last time I’d see him?