Merry Little Kissmas

Chapter 1

NUTCRACKER BAN

ROWAN

Two words that should not go together—nut and cracker.

But every November there’s an inundation of that cringey combination. Malls, seasonal decor, and the Nutcracker Auction that I’ve been kicking and screaming to avoid.

Because two other words that don’t play nice? Christmas and me.

I don’t deck the halls, I don’t dash through the snow, and I definitely don’t rock around trees, Christmas or otherwise. Trees are for oxygen, not for smothering with tinsel.

Unfortunately, I can’t stop the calendar or the professional obligations that have brought me to the dreaded Nutcracker Auction once again.

Well, technically, I’ve been dragged to The Resort hotel by two Christmas-loving guys I work with.

Tyler and Miles ignored my protests that I’ll be watching the clock the whole time, not the auction.

I swore that holly doesn’t make me jolly, but they still insisted I attend.

Why have enemies when you can have teammates?

Outside the hotel, the world’s most infernal holiday song blasts its false promise that the season will be only twelve days long and not a torturous month of feral festive-ness.

“What kind of gift even is a partridge in a pear tree?” I ask them as we head up the garland-swagged steps of the hotel in the heart of San Francisco. “And why would anyone want a pear tree? I hate pears.”

With an eye roll, Tyler adjusts his Santa hat. “Of course you do.”

“Do you hate partridges too?” Miles asks, adjusting his red tie, which is covered with illustrations of dogs sporting jingle bells on their collars. “That’s on brand for you, disliking an innocent little bird.”

“No,” I grumble. “Birds are cool. It’s just pears I take issue with.”

“Just pears,” Miles repeats with a chuckle. “If only you hated ‘just pears.’ Your burn book must be as long as Santa’s naughty list.”

I yank open the brass door. “Is this the beginning of your seasonal wordplay?”

“It’s more the beginning of Grinch season, isn’t it?” Tyler asks his brother Miles in a way I’m meant to hear.

We head into the foyer, hung with far too many ornaments and wreaths, which is any number other than zero. “Yeah, well,” I grumble, “the Christmases I’ve had, it’s lucky I’m only a grinch and not something worse.”

The reminder of my ghost of Christmas past earns me a moment of sympathy from my teammates, but it only lasts so long.

“That’s why you’re here with us now, man,” Miles says in an upbeat tone that’s characteristic of the guy. He’s all about the bright side.

“That’s why you’re torturing a teammate who’d much rather be home playing board games with his kid than at a swanky auction rubbing elbows with fancy-ass people?”

“Fancy-ass people also known as our team sponsors,” Tyler points out unhelpfully.

“No need to tell me,” I say. “My agent has done that enough.”

Miles finally answers my question. “We’re here to remind you that Christmas doesn’t have to suck.”

Ah, so that’s their master plan. Too bad I’m out of holiday fucks to spend on what they’re selling.

The lobby is festooned with wreaths, garlands, and twinkling lights, and scented with pine.

I bet there’s even mistletoe hanging all over the place, just waiting to trick people into thinking romance and Christmas go together.

I’ve got the scars to prove they absolutely do not.

“It looks like Christmas threw up in here.”

Miles and Tyler exchange knowing looks.

“Well, it does,” I insist, even though neither brother says anything.

Tyler sighs heavily. “Rowan, are you still trying to wiggle out of this?”

“Yes! Yes, I am. Haven’t I mentioned? I’d rather be—”

They interrupt in unison: “Doing anything else.”

“Oh, so you were listening.” We pass a waterfall sculpture spewing red and green water, two colors that nothing should spew outside of a horror movie.

“We got the message,” Miles says.

“We did,” Tyler echoes. “But now the deed is done.”

We’ve reached the entrance to the auction—a white door with glass etched with snowflakes. Beside it, a shiny brass plaque says, The Snowflake Room.

I stifle a groan and follow the brothers inside, where an attendant hands us numbered paddles. I tuck mine into my back pocket.

“You should bid on something,” Miles says. “The money all goes to charity. Didn’t Jason say that was another benefit of coming here?”

Jason Marlowe is my agent and, more importantly, my best friend since college. I trust him with my career, and, well, my life. But I could have donated without attending.

But like Tyler said, the deed is done. Time to venture into this dragon’s lair.

A holiday party can’t be worse than taking to the ice to fend off an opposing team’s vicious forwards.

I train every day to jostle and elbow and, okay, fine, check as many guys into the boards in a game as I possibly can.

What’s three hours of holiday-themed auction items and an infinite Christmas music soundtrack?

Miles pats me on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, man. I have faith in you.”

I scowl. “Niceness will get you nowhere.”

He grabs a mini candy cane from a silver bowl by the door. “Here you go. Something you like. Plus, it’ll shut you up.”

Dammit. Candy canes are my kryptonite. “Fine,” I say, but grudgingly.

“Good man.” Miles pats my shoulder again. “Now, we need to go say hi to our women. Don’t start any fights or throttle any trees while we’re gone.”

“Check out the auction list,” Tyler suggests. “We’ll catch up with you soon.”

I wave them off, satisfied with a candy cane for company for now. I toss the crinkly wrapper in a discreet trash can and scan the room. If possible, it’s even more glittery than the lobby, and nutcrackers are everywhere, even on the edge of the stage.

The one thing I don’t mind about the holidays is the food. I’ve got zero problems with treats or sweets, and I’m pretty sure there are some of those snowball cookies calling my name from a long table draped with a white, mistletoe-patterned tablecloth.

I stroll along the spread of sweet and savory hors d’oeuvres, from chocolate orange ganache cookies to bruschetta with arugula and sundried tomatoes. I ignore the toast points with brie and cranberries, zeroing in on the raspberry thumbprint cookies right next to the punch bowl.

At the end of the table, where I can’t miss them, despite my focus on food, are folded cardboard table tents for the auction items.

A holiday lights tour, chauffeured in a horse-drawn carriage. Pass. No way the horses would like that.

Mistletoe installation service to ensure no spot in your home is without holiday romance. Please. I’d rather take a puck to the eye.

Signed memorabilia from the Sea Dogs, including pucks and jerseys from yours truly, the team’s most badass defenseman. That’s a great gift for anyone, but I can’t bid on that and deny a fan.

A VIP suite for a women’s pro hockey game. Now, that’s cool and maybe worth bidding on. They play their hearts out in every game.

I squint at the next table tent.

Find your mistletoe love.

I snort, but since it’s next to the punch bowl, I read the description.

Looking for the perfect gift this holiday season?

Treat yourself—or someone special—to an exclusive matchmaking package from Cupid’s Confidante.

With a proven history of creating real connections, Cupid’s Confidante will help you find the one who’ll make your holiday sparkle.

Because nothing pairs better than romance and holiday cheer!

I roll my eyes so far back that I could see the door behind me if my skull wasn’t in the way. “That is the most pointless thing I’ve ever seen,” I mutter around the candy cane in my mouth. “Who’d bid on fucking romance?”

A throat clears. A pretty voice, like bells, says, “I would.”

I freeze. Those two words hang in the air like a puck mid-slap shot. I didn’t even know anyone was there, let alone someone with a voice so dangerously familiar.

I look up, and yep, it’s Isla Marlowe, Jason’s sister.

Waves of lush chestnut hair. Bright blue eyes.

Glossy lips. A red sweater with a snowflake right across her chest. She’s the absolute last person I expected to see here.

She’s also the person I’ve had an irritating, annoying, infuriating crush on for longer than I want to admit.

I used to listen to her dating podcast religiously while I worked out.

Then a year ago, I realized I was addicted to the sound of her voice, not just the advice she doled out to callers, and forced myself to stop listening.

Facing her now, I want to say hey. Something casual, maybe even cocky. But I’ve forgotten about the candy cane. When I open my mouth, it launches with a spectacular twang and plops dead-center in the punch bowl.

There’s a long moment of silent horror as we stare at the candy, bobbing like a shepherd’s crook in a red sea of Christmas punch.

My reflexes kick in, and lightning fast, I grab the ladle, scoop the candy cane out, and look for someplace to put it. If no one noticed, then no harm, no foul, right?

I look for a place to stash the evidence, but Isla reaches across the table and wraps a slim hand around my forearm. “Rowan! You can’t just do that.”

“Um, five-second rule. Pretty sure we were still in the window.”

“It was in your mouth! The punch is already ruined.”

I don’t think, I just say, “My mouth doesn’t ruin anything, sweetheart.”

Her gaze drops to my lips for a second, then she snaps her focus back to my eyes. For a beat, the silence stretches between us. Not sure what she’s thinking. But what I’m thinking?

It’s a problem.

Because you can’t do a damn thing about a crush on your best friend’s sister.