Eggnog and Edging (Christmas Cherry Auction #14)

Chapter 1

Ryker

The barber did a great job this morning. Short on the sides and longer on the top. I run the comb through my hair one more time, then tousle it just a little. I’ve seen the difference in the way Starla looks at guys with perfect hair versus the casually not giving a fuck look.

Working beard balm through my facial hair, I turn my head to each side for one last look in the mirror.

My fate will be sealed in about an hour.

I fumble the lid to the beard balm. Crap. I thought I’d feel more prepared.

Shaking my hands, I attempt to get rid of some of my nervous energy. It doesn’t work.

I grab my phone and refresh the courier app so I can watch the delivery’s progress. Thirty-five minutes before my stepsister finds out who her secret admirer is.

Taking a deep breath, I make sure I didn’t get anything on my t-shirt. All good. Starla will appreciate the Def Leppard logo. I’d appreciate my stepsister pouring some of her sugar on me—and licking it off.

First things first—calm the fuck down and arrive at her house right after the gift is delivered, giving her time to read my note. It’s a small window of time though because I have to get there before her dad, my stepdad, gets home.

I rethink my plan and decide to leave a few minutes early in case there’s a delay on my way over. I can park down the street and watch the delivery in person.

That’s smarter. With my new departure time, I reset my alarm for ten minutes.

Pacing through every room in my house, I confirm that everything’s tidy, fluff the pillows on the bed, and decide to turn the top edge of the freshly washed sheets back. That’s more inviting.

Rolling my finger over the circular ignitor, I test the lighter I’d placed on the dresser. Still works—same as thirty minutes ago. Then I hold it up to check the fuel gauge and make sure I haven’t tested it so much it’s empty.

I lit each of the candles yesterday to test the wicks. They all work. Have wicks ever not worked?

If my plan works out, Starla will receive the gift, read my confession of love, and jump into my arms. We’ll laugh about how long we’ve repressed our feelings, agree that our five-year age gap is nothing, then I’ll bring her home to claim her.

I’ll only have to leave her in the living room for a minute to get the candles lit to set the romantic mood.

It’s hard to be sure, but if I’ve kept proper tabs as a good older brother does, she’s still a virgin. This evening must be perfect.

She means everything to me.

But so does her dad. Getting his approval for us being together will be the hardest, and final step.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

My heart stops at the sound of my alarm. Showtime.

Turning the bedside lamp on and the overhead light off, I grab my keys, get in the car, and commit to this pivotal step. Images of her crooked smile and bright eyes when she realizes that I’m her secret admirer have me throwing the car into reverse so fast, I almost forget to open the garage door.

Fuck!

I press the button. Watching the panels slowly rise, I question why it feels like hours for the garage door to open. I remind myself it’s only a few seconds and force myself to take a deep breath.

Bringing Starla home to a splintered garage door, or worse, picking her up in a car with the bumper hanging off are not ways I want to surprise her.

The twelve handpicked gifts I’ve been sending her over the last eleven days are the good kind of surprise—all specialty foods she can experiment with and talk about on her food vlog.

And of course, the biggest surprise with today’s gift—my handwritten confession that I’m in love with her.

The note is my safety net in case I don’t make it for some reason. Or if I chicken out.

That’s not going to happen. I’ve waited for this day for far too long.

But fate is being a bitch. Every traffic light is red. Every person who ever wanted to drive below the speed limit is in front of me. And the unmistakable crunch of metal comes from behind as my car lurches forward.

I’m dazed but recognize that a car just hit mine. The airbags didn’t deploy, but I’m too pissed to consider that a small victory.

Is it a hit-and-run if I get hit and drive away?

I consider finding out, but with the line of cars in front of me, I don’t have anywhere to go.

Agonizing over how fucked my plan is, I pull to the side of the road to inspect the damage. The note I included with the gift will have to cover for me after all.

“Why the fuck did you slam on your brakes, old man?” the hotheaded teenage boy says as we meet between the cars. Defending that twenty-seven isn’t old is the least of my problems.

“I didn’t.” Did I? Shit, I don’t know.

Ignoring him, I bend down and determine that the damage is minimal—the bumper crunched into the rear quarter panel. Turning to his vehicle, it’s impossible to tell how much of the damage on his old pickup is from today.

The kid continues his pompous rant that I’m at fault, but I stare him dead in the eyes and tell him, “I’m going to make you a deal. We both drive away and pretend this never happened.”

His mouth hangs open, but at least he shuts up.

“Are we good? Or are you going to insist on exchanging insurance information?”

“We’re good.” He rushes back to get in his truck and just before jumping in says, “Thanks, man.”

Impressed that he’s not a total jerk, I smile. He kind of reminds me of myself at that age. But I don’t have time to reminisce about how different I am at twenty-seven than I was at seventeen.

As I get back on the road, I take that maturity as a good thing.

I’m more prepared to give Starla the life she deserves.

It’s only been the last couple of years that I got my shit together—largely due to her father encouraging me to finish my culinary sciences degree and go into business with him and his best friend.

Which is precisely why I worry how her dad will react to me falling for her… or more precisely, me acting on those feelings.

I’ve managed to run off all of her potential boyfriends, but at some point one is going to slip past, especially since I moved away from home.

My stereo system pops up a text message alert and I have it read the message aloud. The package has been delivered.

Everything will be fine, just make it to her house in one piece.

Five minutes later I turn onto her street and spy Cullen, her dad’s best friend and business partner, getting out of his Corvette.

My heart drops. What is he doing here?

I can’t make my declaration of love in front of him. I’ll regroup. Starla probably took the package in already and—

Dammit! Cullen grabs the package off the front porch and steps into the house. How much worse can my day go?

Screeching to a halt in the driveway, I barrel out of my car and bolt inside. I find him in the kitchen holding the gift as Starla enters the room, wearing a tank top and pajama pants with her hair wrapped up in a towel.

She’s perfect like that—freshly out of the shower, her perky nipples making it clear she’s not wearing a bra.

“This is for you,” he says, extending the gift—my gift. Since I used a special courier, the package is gift-wrapped, not a generic brown box delivery and the note is tucked under the bow.

A possessive laugh rumbles in my gut. He has no idea what he’s handing her.

“Thank you,” she says, a little too much swoon in her voice. But I also sense confusion. She didn’t think he was the secret admirer. Good.

I used the same gingerbread-cookie-themed wrapping paper each time so she already knows the gift is related to the other eleven.

It doesn’t stop my chest from tightening with how she looks at him. She wants it to be from him. But it’s my lucky day since this is the gift with the handwritten note.

She pulls the end of the bow, and I try to figure out how to handle this. I don’t want her reading the card in front of him… and yet I do.

That’s when I feel the weight of his gaze boring into me. There’s something knowing in his eyes. Something sinister. I recognize it because I’ve had the same look when Starla had a boyfriend over.

“Oh my gosh, you’re the best.” She throws her arms around him in a hug that should be for me.

I freeze. Where’s the card? And why is he taking credit? “That’s not—”

The front door opens and Dad walks in, clearly uncomfortable with the hug he’s witnessing.

Cullen pulls away from Starla, clears his throat, and says, “Hey, Ross.”

Starla quickly holds up the unwrapped gift. “I love this so much! Look Dad, jaggery powder. I can’t wait to try it out.”

Cullen shoots me a glance and says, “We need to talk.”

Dad waves him off. “You’ll have to talk later; they bumped the interview up. We’ve got to go.”

I can’t exactly breathe yet, maybe after they leave when I clear up the confusion with Starla.

“Why don’t you come with us, Ryker? You might as well see how the selection process works. Get you a little more invested in the family business, son.”

Any other day, I would have been ecstatic. Dad and Cullen run a business helping restaurants improve their marketability. I’ve always been the guy behind the scenes who gives suggestions on how to improve their menu selection.

I can’t go, but I also can’t say no. Dad and Cullen head for the door.

Then I see it… the corner of a pink card sticking out of Cullen’s back pocket. That fucker stole my card. And if he read it, he knows my secret.