Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Holly
The circular drive curves past a row of luxury SUVs to the grand entrance of the Morgan Lodge at Ridgewood Peak.
The very place we’ve spent our Christmases forever.
Stone pillars frame massive oak doors, and evergreen garlands drape the archway. Fresh powder sparkles on every surface, picture-perfect and pristine.
Chance kills the engine but doesn't move. "You sure about this?"
No. But I nod anyway.
We grab our bags and head for the entrance looking less like we’re about to hit the slopes for a week and more like we’re—oh, I don’t know—facing down a firing squad.
"You should smile, you look like you're headed for a colonoscopy." I aim for teasing, but it comes out harsher than I intended.
"You think smiling will fix that?" His voice is sharp and mocking at the very suggestion.
"Don't know. I just know that's what you guys tell us. Like it's the goddamn answer to world peace or some shit." The words taste bitter on my tongue after a lifetime of being told every problem could be solved if I just beamed like a little ray of toxic sunshine while I rode a unicorn farting rainbows.
Chance's brow furrows. "Is there some vibration in the air when you get near your dad? Some force that dials you straight to the 'fuck all the way off' setting or something?"
No.
Well.
Maybe.
Probably.
Yes, okay. The answer is yes. How uncouth of him to point it out.
I flip him the bird, complete with my tongue out. Gotta get in character and all that. Apparently, diapers are in order if my souring mood is any indication.
“Charming.”
We cross the lobby, the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air. It should be comforting, but the knot in my stomach only tightens.
As we approach the archway leading to the great room, I slow.
"Remember—"
"I know, I know. Pretend to hate your guts. Got it," he mutters, his voice tight.
Before I can say more, the synchronized squeals of the Sentimental Squad—otherwise known as our mothers—pierce the air.
"I've seen this before," I whisper, nodding towards the room full of holiday cheer and family drama waiting for us. “The Last of Us, episode five?
“A horde of fungus zombies. Yup. Didn’t they use Molotov cocktails? Because I’m fresh out."
“What a tragic misuse of overly tactical cargo pants,” I smirk, letting my gaze drift to his legs—an immediate mistake. This pair is somehow even tighter than the last.
"Chance! You made it!" His mother's voice is shrill with delight, her designer boots clicking rapidly across the polished hardwood floor as she rushes towards us.
Mrs. McAdams swoops in, enveloping Chance in a hug so fierce it practically redefines parental guilt trips. The kind of hug that screams: I missed you so much, how dare you leave me alone with your father for this long.
Right on cue, my mom hovering like a caffeinated hummingbird, wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a warm, perfumed embrace that somehow manages to both comfort and smother me at the same time. "You look too thin. Have you been eating? Are you taking vitamins?"
Charlie breaks away from where she's wrapped around Nick to shoot me a knowing look that makes my cheeks flame.
Eve’s got that hawk-eyed, forensic glare of hers primed and pinned on us. Nothing’s slipping past her radar. Eve—AKA the family chaos engine—is already revving, and honestly, I don’t know whether to cheer her on or start building a bunker. She’s the perfect storm of brilliant and devious—a real asset when the wheels come off until she’s the one lighting the fuse.
Charlie better keep her mouth shut—she knows precisely which skeletons I’ve got stashed, and I’m not in the mood for a surprise exorcism.
"Oh, look at that!" Mrs. McAdams gasps, pointing skyward like she’s just uncovered the lost city of Atlantis. "Mistletoe!"
Frozen to the spot, a buzz vibrates to the roots of my hair, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
Chance stiffens beside me, every muscle taut like he’s preparing for battle.
And really, he should be. Because, of course, there’s mistletoe. Why wouldn’t there be mistletoe?
The universe clearly decided I needed one last kick while I’m down. And naturally, Chance had to be so freakishly tall forcing his mom craned her neck and spot that little sprig overhead.
Taking a strategic step back, he flashes a tight smile full of forced cheer. “I’m good.”
His tone is so perfectly casual it’s almost suspicious. Like he’s rehearsed sounding indifferent just for moments like this.
“It’s bad luck to ignore tradition,” she adds, throwing me so far under the bus I can practically feel the tire treads on my back.
Charlie’s eyes gleam. My brain kicks into overdrive, trying to calculate just how many gift-wrapped grenades I’ve handed her in text by mentioning Chance.
And Nick? Oh, Nick isn’t even pretending to play it cool. His focus is laser-locked on Chance, his shoulders tense, jaw tight, and his mouth forming a grim line daring Chance— Try it, bro. I dare you. Just give me a reason to deck your fucking halls.
This is my nightmare.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
This is stupid. It’s mistletoe. And like they say about doth protesting too much or something like that. Look, I’m better with numbers.
Point is, the longer we stand here, the bigger the deal it is.
Screw it.
Curling my fingers in the front of his shirt—firm grip on both dog tags if you know what I mean—I yank him down.
Rising onto my toes, I press a hard, decisive kiss to his mouth.
There’s no hesitation, no softness—just bold, take-no-prisoners action to shut everyone up and get it over with.
Only... his lips are soft. Warm. They part slightly in surprise, and something electric zips through me, making more than my toes curl.
My nipples all of a sudden dress up like Mr. Peanut, complete with top hat and cane doing a broadway number worthy of a Tony Award.
His hand grips my hip, firm and steady—whether to keep me balanced or to keep me there, I can’t tell. My pulse stutters. A whimper pounds its little fist in my throat, demanding to be set free. Before I go from zero to screwing the proverbial pooch less than five minutes into my grand plan, I jerk back.
The rest of our families surge forward with hugs and greetings, but their voices barely register. They’re blissfully normal, passing us around for the obligatory forced affection like the world didn’t just tip on its axis.
My lips tingle where his mouth touched mine, every nerve ending alive and buzzing with dangerous awareness.
"Holly!" My dad's booming voice slices through the chaos, jolting me out of my haze.
My eyes snap up to the direction of his voice and— called it!
"There's someone who can't wait to see you!"
Can't wait, my ass.
Blake stands at my father's side in an impeccably tailored suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His smug smile has me fantasizing about wiping it off with a well-placed elbow.
"You remember Blake." He claps Blake on the back, beaming with the kind of pride I can only dream of earning—pride currently wasted on this walking Ralph Lauren ad with the personality of a doorknob.
"This young man is single-handedly responsible for breaking the record for new accounts in a single year."
Translation: Look how perfect he'd be running my company while you play the dutiful wife.
I paste on a saccharine smile. "How could I forget? Though I hear it's not the number of accounts that matters—it's the profit they bring in."
Blake's smirk doesn't falter, like I didn't just insult his... performance. "You're looking lovely as ever, Holly. I hope we can catch up later."
I'd rather have one of Charlie's "toys" stuck in Tab C and spend the night explaining my life choices to a hot proctologist thanks.
I cock my head, my smile sharpening like lethal icicles I picture driving through his eye. "Oh, I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to… compare numbers."
Beside me, Chance coughs into his fist, poorly concealing a laugh.
Blake's eyes narrow.
“Don’t get the kids started, William. No work at Christmas. That’s the rule. You can talk numbers at home.”
Blech — I will never be talking about my father’s numbers in any capacity ever, Mom, but you do you.
Mom gives my father a pointed look and presses a room key into my palm. "Your room key, dear. Though I'm sure you'll spend more time on the slopes than in it."
More like buried in spreadsheets, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Dad waits until my Mom's attention is firmly fixed on greeting Chance before his hand settles on my shoulder, the affectionate squeeze making his habit of repeatedly dismissing me cut all the deeper.
I love him, but I don’t really like him.
I miss being the kid who didn’t know better, who could just love him in blissful ignorance. Way back when loving him didn’t hurt.
"Join Blake and me in the library soon, would you? We'd love your input on some projections."
Because apparently, I'm good enough to play the role of the pretty little think tank—here to make their proposals shine before being shuffled off to the sidelines.
Fiery irritation burns under my skin. Let them underestimate me. It’s almost adorable how little they know about what I’ve got in my arsenal—a pitch sharp enough to draw blood and the guts to use it.
I risk one last glance at Chance, and I hear his quiet words once again.
I see you too.
Under the intensity of his stare, my frustration morphs into determination.
Suddenly, I can't wait to show them all exactly how big I can dream.