Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Chance
The bonfire rages too big. The flames burn too bright. The infernos hiss too fucking loud.
At least, while I’m forced to watch Everett looking like one of those mountain men in Charlie’s romances walking straight off the page and into my business with one goal in mind—hitting on my woman.
Yeah, no. Let’s try that again.
Not my woman—Nick’s sister.
That’s better.
Actually, it’s fucking not.
That little wearer of fuck me socks, cute gold-rimmed glasses, and my shirt— is mine.
Her secrets—the thigh-high socks she wears at night and the power-packed quotes on white cotton, stretched across one curvy little ass— also mine.
And I sure as fuck don’t share.
Otis is the exception.
He can keep being my little Harry Potter-inspired sexpot’s Hermione, as long as he recognizes I’m ass captain and his little, pink ass is riding bitch.
Now, I’m pulling rank on a fucking flamingo tattoo no bigger than a flash drive—I’m losing my fucking shit here.
It’s the boners. Has to be.
Two nights now in her room—a sneak attack case study in how many boners you can get before they kill you.
Every night, Otis mocks me from his front-row seat on her thigh like he called dibs. Best seat in the house to watch the show.
The show?
A goddamned sock.
Where does someone get socks like those anyway? And why? Because I’m convinced they’re not socks at all. They’re the next secret weapon for world domination.
Their superpower?
Striking men stupid and turning us into knuckle-dragging mouth breathers.
This is rock bottom, right? This is how I go out?
Two nights she’s asked to stay, and I do. No protest.
No survival instincts.
Like the mouthbreather in flannel over there right now—my shirt is better FYI—making him goddamned self at home next to her like I won’t stop his heart for doing so.
Yup, there he goes, the casual one-leg stretch, nice and relaxed, letting her know she’s invited. I’ve seen these moves hundreds of times. The leg is only part one.
It’s the happy hour straight out of hell—how about we get this sleigh ride on the road already, yeah?
Ho, fucking ho.
Guests laugh in clusters, their voices rising with every passing round of drinks. The only thing able to cut through them all? The maddening sound of Holly's laugh.
Perched on a bench, cross-legged, cute as fuck, and chatting up the bartender, Cleo, with the heavy pour. I plan to keep her busy this week and on Nick’s tab. The bastard.
String lights sway from above, casting little orbs of light on Holly’s waves. Specifically the ones curing at the ends framing her face. And what the bulbs miss, the firelight catches.
At the moment, it’s one of those tempting, soft sweaters peeking out from beneath her jacket.
Near as I can tell, she owns two varieties of those knit tools of sorcery: the kind that slip off her freckle-kissed shoulders… and the kind that invite a hand to get lost underneath.
If Everett even gets a gleam in his eye in the same zip code of getting lost underneath anything other than a fucking avalanche, I’ll break his arm clean off and shove it up his ass.
Fucking hell, definitely losing it.
And here comes part two of making moves… in the form of slinging his arm along the back of the bench, disappearing behind her.
Part three, he’ll lean in—yup, there it is. A subtle lean, a funny joke… get her laughing and—what the fuck is that?
Pinching a lock of hair between his index finger and thumb, he methodically rubs back and forth.
That’s not part of the fucking play. How do I know? I hold the copyright and taught it to him.
Plastic digs into my skin at the base of my thumb as the cup crunches in my hands.
Jaw ticking furiously, I gulp down what’s left of my drink before I destroy the cup entirely, the tight coil lodged in my chest only getting worse.
He offers her his drink, and with a shrug, she settles the cup on her bottom lip and tips it back.
Oh, we’re so going to talk about that. I don’t care if she thinks she’s safe with Everett. Trust no man. Ever.
Her throat works in a series of subtle, rolling movements that shouldn’t be mesmerizing—but are.
She does that fluttery thing with her lips and tongue, the little move she does when she’s falling at first taste. Then she’s tipping the cup back again.
Everett’s eyes drop to her throat, his look of interest sliding into a half-lidded gaze I’ve seen before.
Unfortunately for him, I now have to knock it off his face.
“Plotting a murder?” Nick asks, suddenly at my elbow, all casual judgment and dry amusement.
Fucking funny man. Keep the drinks coming, traitor.
I’m fine.” It comes out equal parts growl and snarl. One hundred percent lie—one of many I’m wracking up this week.
Nick snorts. “As a finance guy, I have to ask—did you budget for legal counsel?”
“Yeah, that and the money to get you a few kissing lessons.” I don’t look at him, but the jab lands clean. “Let me know when you’re ready to start.”
“Talking to the guy is a whole lot cheaper,” he fires back without missing a beat.
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“Put him on notice,” Nick says, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Smart.”
“Get him alone, though. It’ll give you the advantage.”
“Yes, it will.”
“The 2-1 odds are bad enough, but they tend to travel as a pack and?—”
“Wait, what? Who?”
Your father. Our fathers.” Nick gestures lazily with his drink, the ice clinking like punctuation. “The four of them are practically joined at the hip.”
I blink at him, my brain still untangling itself. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Nick rolls his eyes as if he can’t believe I’m this dense. “The missiles you’re launching at your dad over there.”
His drink tilts again, and I follow the arc of his hand. Sure enough, my father’s just beyond Holly, deep in some serious-looking conversation.
Stiff and stoic, he wears an expression that never fails to make my blood boil.
“Missiles?” I ask flatly, though it comes out closer to a growl.
“More like heat-seeking rage drones at this point,” Nick corrects. “Hence the financial wellness check.”
I let out a long breath, dragging my gaze away from my father and taking a slow pull of whiskey, the burn a poor substitute for the fire building in my chest.
“You’ve been on edge all night, Chance.” Nick’s voice drops, less teasing now. “What’s going on?”
My gaze snaps to Holly once again to find her holding open her jacket just enough for him to peek inside.
Gut churning, I count in my head, if I reach three and he’s still a hair’s breath from my breasts —he’s done for.
Just shy of three—his death knell—he throws his head back, laughing at whatever he sees.
Eyes locking on something overhead, his laughter dies, to be replaced by a shit-eating grin. The kind of a man who just stumbled on the goddamned jackpot.
With a playful tug of my hair— yes, mine —Holly glances in the direction of Everetts's finger, her brows pinching together.
And there it is. Red bow, white berries.
By tomorrow? Everett’s official cause of death.
This fucking thing breeds faster than Nick Cannon.
I see the moment she catches on, her lips parting to argue, but it's too late. Someone in the cluster of people passing by shouts, “You gonna kiss her or what?”
“Or what.” Shoving my crunched cup at Nick’s chest, blood roaring in my ears, I eat up the distance to them.
Her head whips toward Everett, eyes shot open wide—Jesus is that good or bad—doesn’t matter because, again— mine.
The bastard lets out a self-deprecating laugh that ends with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
This is stupid, stupid, stuuuupid.
My boots crunch against the snow as I charge across the clearing, the buzz of the crowd fading to a low hum. With it, the music takes on new life, the melody distinct, the words clear.
“Oh by gosh, by golly… it’s time for mistletoe and holly…”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. Even the songs are in on the goddamn joke.
My brain kicks into survival mode, dropping warning after warning, with the frenzy of dropping abort codes as the seconds dwindle down on a bomb.
You’re supposed to hate her.
Stay the course.
You promised.
Yup, I did.
I made a lot of promises… but you know what, I did not promise I’d stand by and watch some other guy put his lips where mine belong.
It’s not just the usual Everett smirk, either. No, this one is smug. Calculated. He glances at the mistletoe dangling conveniently overhead, then at Holly, and back to me. That bastard.
Holly’s head snaps toward me, her expression unreadable—except for the flicker of something in her eyes.
Evidence shows you can become an addict after one hit.
You got that right.
I cage her in without thinking, blocking out the rest of the world. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I snap at Everett without looking at him.
His smirk deepens. “Nope.”
I ignore him. Or try to. Holly tilts her head, her chin lifting like she’s daring me to say something. I lean in slowly—too slow—and my nose tucks just beneath her ear. My eyelids drift shut as I take a slow, deliberate inhale. Ah, there it is again—cake, smooth and decadent, drizzled with something rich enough to drown in.
White chocolate, maybe—not too sweet on its own, but drizzled with something sinfully sweet that’s all show, it becomes a slow seduction in liquid form—pure temptation.
A total masterclass in edging—delivered by dessert.
There are helplines for this, soldier. Abort.
But I don’t.
Can’t.
I drag the tip of my nose along the shell of her ear, rewarded by the jagged hitch of her breath—soft and fragile.
Don’t tell her that, though. Holly doesn’t do fragile. Not for anyone. Not even me.
The foreign rumble stirring in my throat—low, rough, and far too telling—only exists because she does.
Her pulse flutters against my jaw, a delicate new rhythm, like her body knows something her brain refuses to admit.
And then—just for one brain-melting second—she leans in. Barely. Just enough to make me forget Nick’s eyes are drilling into me from somewhere nearby.
A puff of breath escapes her lips into the intimate space between us, carrying the faintest hint of something chocolate— sweet and dark, with just enough bite to know it’s got a proof rating… all conspiring to drive me over the edge.
“Chance, you don’t have?—”
I steal whatever she intended to say with the brush of my lips along the corner of her mouth. Slow, deliberate—because I’m a masochist, and I need to know how far I can take this before I lose my mind. It’s nothing. A fraction of a second. Imperceptible to the crowd.
But for us—for the two of us—it’s everything. Pivotal. Profound. Shattering the paths we’ve paved, and while we’re reeling, pulling us toward something entirely new.
Staggering from whatever just punched me straight through the chest, I honor tradition and kiss her. Keeping it controlled, chaste, enough to pass for nothing more than a harmless gesture and just long enough to satisfy the crowd.
Not nearly enough to satisfy me.
“Tradition’s tradition, Squirt,” I murmur, my voice steadier than it has any right to be with a storm raging inside of me.
Holly blinks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes wide—looking like I just knocked her off center.
Oh, she won’t like that part. Not one bit.
Join the fucking club.
The haze possessing us fades away when the crowd bursts into cheers.
Clearing her throat, she narrows those sharp eyes and tilts up her chin—untouchable, defiant—pulling off a record recovery. “Don’t look so smug. I give it a five.”
Biggest lie she’s ever told. And we both know it.
I ignore the tremor in my hand as I snag a whiskey from Cleo.
Act normal.
Just head back to your best bro and pretend you don’t want to drag his baby sister somewhere dark and quiet and lose your goddamn mind between her thighs.
The ones haunting me since I woke up with them wrapped around my ears.
I do everything I can to look like Cupid didn’t just take a Christmas detour to kick my ass with an evil sprig of mistletoe. Like I didn’t just get leveled by the way she looked at me—wide-eyed and breathless—and now all I can think about is getting her under me.
Worse than that?
The goddamned ring flashing through my head.
Platinum—for the boardroom or for running the whole damn show. Pear-cut—soft on one side, sharp on the other. Just like her. A twisted band, one of a kind, a piece of art cradling a diamond nudged into place by fate.
I’m the last man who should be thinking about rings, not after the disaster with Noelle.
But in two fucking days… here we are.
Stealing a hint of the kiss I want before I gave the one everyone else needed… and I fucking destroyed my whole world.
I don’t look at him. Can’t. Because I have more lies to put on the pile.
For someone who hates liars with every fiber of my being, I’m doing a bang-up job at becoming a goddamned professional.
Nick’s glare cuts through the noise. “What the hell was that?”
“That was my cockblocking service. You’re welcome. Everett’s cock? Consider it blocked.”
His voice drops to a low growl. “And your face buried in my sister’s neck?”
I force a casual shrug. Act to keep up and all. “Acquired consent. Because I’m a gentleman.”
“Chance—
I cut him off with a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’m your man on the ground, remember? Doing the dirty work so you don’t have to.”