Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chance
EVE
Mayday!
EVE
Mayday!
EVE
This is not a drill.
EVE
All hands on deck.
ME
What the hell did you do?
EVE
I may have over seasoned the steak, if you know what I mean
CHARLIE
Actually, I don't know what that means
EVE
I promised to loosen up the 'rents, did I not?
HOLLY
I sense a go big or go home situation here.
NICK
Shit.
EVE
It was fine. Going great. Smooth as silk. Everything ship shape.
CHARLIE
We've heard this before
ME
Where the hell are you? The first rule in a rescue mission... COORDINATES!
EVE
Great room. Too close to the bar
HOLLY
Meaning???
EVE
Meaning I might have been too generous spiking the 'ole nog
NICK
I have kiss trauma. Is whatever I'm walking to going to add to that?
HOLLY
I feel safe saying yes
EVE
Man, I Feel Like A Woman just started and I underestimated my powers. HURRY!
ME
We're almost there
NICK
Who's we?
HOLLY
UH
EVE
You didn't tell him???
NICK
Tell me what?
EVE
That Holly's been connecting to Chance's super-secret network.
NICK
Now what the hell does that mean? Give it to me in slots
ME
Nick my man, did you just make a joke?
NICK
It was an accident
ME
I'm a proud papa anyway. My boy got his big boy hairs.
Social hour in full swing.
Yup.
Traumatizing karaoke stealing the show.
Double yup.
And Holly? Well, she's out here trying to finish me off entirely, strolling into the room like some kind of Christmas temptation wrapped in nothing but a sweater and those socks—red and white stripes hugging her calves, looking like they were spun straight out of Santa’s wet dream.
Only, this candy cane isn’t hanging on my tree where it belongs. Nope. She’s put herself right on display for the communal tree.
Like that’s okay.
Like I didn’t come down ahead of her to give her a chance to change.
Like it’s fine for every set of eyes in this room to be dragging over what’s mine.
I pocket my phone and survey the scene, a muscle ticking in my jaw. I’ve hacked computer systems in active war zones that were less daunting than this—the raw chaos of family, holiday cheer, and Holly’s thigh-high sneak attack in full force.
The worst part? The way those socks are drawing more than a few lingering, interested looks.
Each one like a goddamn challenge.
Too bad for them, I don’t play fair. And I don’t share.
Looks like I’ll be handing out some festive injuries. Merry slasher Christmas, assholes.
"Man! I Feel Like a Woman" blares through the lodge's great room speakers, the battle cry of my mother’s latest holiday war crime. Her off-key rendition is loud enough to startle the wildlife outside, and she’s wielding an empty wine bottle like it’s a Grammy.
This is the same woman who once gave me a two-hour lecture on proper dinner etiquette before my first formal. Now, she’s strutting across the room like she’s possessed by Shania Twain, throwing in a shoulder shimmy that would make the devil himself ask for a time-out.
"Let’s go, girls!" she belts out, shimmying right toward my father, who is definitely loosening his tie with far too much enthusiasm. If this is leading to some kind of striptease duet, I’m going to need a support group. I’ve seen combat horrors that haunt me, but this?
This should not be the cure to lingering PTSD.
Holly leans in close, her breath warm against my ear, her voice low and full of amusement that’s doing things to me it shouldn’t.
Not with her brother watching.
"Remember when you said you’d rather face enemy combatants than deal with family drama?"
"Yeah?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend because she’s right there. Close enough that I catch her scent, warm and sweet, and so uniquely Holly. Something I directly associate with late nights, her curled against me, and confessions.
It’s a direct attack on my ability to concentrate.
"I think the enemy just called for backup."
Sure enough, our mothers are in full duet mode now, attempting choreography that makes them look like they’re leading a Zumba class on a sinking ship.
Mrs. McAdams’ once-pristine hair is coming undone, strands sticking out like she’s one wrong move away from starring in a holiday horror flick.
She goes for a spin—bold choice considering the eggnog levels in her bloodstream—and wobbles dangerously close to the Christmas wishing tree. My instincts kick in, but Holly’s hand clamps onto my arm, stopping me in my tracks.
"Should we..." She gestures vaguely at the unfolding disaster, her fingers sliding down my arm to curl around my bicep. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact—every warm inch of her skin against mine—and Nick’s laser-beam stare burning into my side.
"Interfere with a direct order from Command? Not a chance," I reply, forcing myself to take a sip of whiskey and, in the process, casually break her grip under her brother’s watchful glare.
For the best, especially since her sweater has slipped off her shoulder again, revealing just enough skin to make me reconsider my entire moral code.
"Besides," I add, nodding toward the chaos because it’s a hell of a lot safer than looking at her with Nick’s words running through my head on a loop, "your mom just saved that spin with remarkable agility for someone who’s had that much rum."
Give it to me in slots.
And there is your answer, my dude. I’m going to give it to your sister in all of her slots.
Repeatedly.
For… oh, let’s say last least the next fifty or sixty years.
Hell, it’s going to be my new business venture.
Retire from the Army and put my skills to work making Holly the single most satisfied CEO in the history of CEOs.
My business plan is solid, on brand, and there’s no way I can lose.
Man on the ground, doing the dirty work.
Horny. Dirty. Work.
Stick with what you know. Utilize your skills.
After corporate hours I’ll fill her slots until she’s a sobbing, gasping, squirting mess.
During corporate hours, your CEO fills your s lots in record-setting abundance.
Free childcare?
Slot check.
Zero deductible health insurance company-wide?
Slot check.
Guaranteed bonuses?
You bet your sweet ass… slot fucking check!
And since I’m a pro at taking care of her sweet ass, she’s going to rain them on you like the candyman… starting with quarterly.
I might be onto something here. The answer to world peace? Penetrate CEOs across the board.
Deliver a virus to the system that infiltrates with 100% precision ultimately delivering exponential employee satisfaction.
Companies, communities, and finally, the world.
Jesus Christ.
I’m. Fucking. Losing. It.
She presents tomorrow morning. I just have to hold it together for one more day.
But with Holly in those socks and that damn sweater? I’m pretty sure tomorrow’s going to finish what today started.
"The best part of being a woman!" My mother belts out, punctuating each syllable with a hip thrust so aggressive it drags me out of all of Holly’s slots.
Nick materializes at my shoulder, his expression one step shy of shell shock.
I guess it’s better than the burning glare. You know, if we weren’t both in serious danger of never sporting wood again.
He gestures to the horror show unfolding, “We need to shut this down before?—"
"The clothes are coming off!" Mr. McAllister announces, already halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.
"—that happens," Nick finishes, his tone grim.
Charlie pops up like an enthusiastic chaos gremlin, phone raised and already recording. "Oh no, this is content.” a case study in overshooting my mark.”
"For posterity?" I mutter, trying to make sense of her enthusiasm in light of the mistletoe kiss gone sideways trauma she’s been wrestling with.
"Blackmail," Eve supplies, flashing a grin that’s pure predator.
Charlie shrugs, utterly unbothered. "Or just, you know, for fun."
Eve nudges Charlie’s elbow. “Send me a copy. Maybe I can figure out where I overshot the mark. Do it better next time.”
Before I can intervene, Holly plucks Charlie’s phone right out of her hands. "Nope. Some things shouldn’t outlive the moment." Her fingers brush mine as she passes me the phone for safekeeping. It’s barely a second of contact, but it might as well be a live wire straight to my nervous system.
And then, like the harbinger of doom, the opening notes of "Suspicious Minds" blare through the lodge's speakers. My father steps up, tie already gone, shirt hanging open, and—oh God—is he trying to swivel his hips like Elvis?
God, this should be on National Geographic.
“Watch as the patriarchs engage in what appears to be an Elvis-inspired dominance display. The loosening of neckties indicates escalating testosterone levels..." Eve begins as though she plucked the thought right out of my head and ran with it.
"Move in," I growl at Nick. "Standard extraction protocol."
He nods, grim and resigned. "You take point on your dad, I’ll handle mine?"
"Wait!" Holly’s hand grabs my arm again, grounding me in a way that has absolutely no place in a family karaoke nightmare. "Give me a minute. I have an idea."
She vanishes into the crowd that’s now forming a semi-circle around our fathers, who are dangerously close to making Suspicious Minds live up to its name.
"The pack seems to be fueled by a potent combination of eggnog and repressed suburban impulses. Scientists remain baffled by this phenomenon,” Eve goes on making me wonder if she didn’t suck down a bit of the nog from hell herself.
Nick stares at her, his expression a strange cocktail of horror and morbid fascination, like he’s watching a train wreck he secretly hopes will derail into another. “You’re disturbingly good at that.”
Just seconds later, as Dad hits what can only be described as a lethal hip thrust, the karaoke track cuts out, replaced by the unmistakable opening bars of Sweet Caroline.
The reaction is instant and almost Pavlovian. Our parents freeze mid-performance before bursting into delighted cheers. In seconds, they’re swaying arm in arm, their previous antics forgotten in the glow of collegiate nostalgia.
"Genius," Nick breathes, clearly awed by the strategic brilliance of the move.
"Pure evil genius," I correct, my lips twitching as I watch Holly, smug as hell. That flirty little hop step keeps her sweater slipping off her shoulder, revealing just enough golden skin to make me forget we’re surrounded by witnesses.
"Get a room," Charlie mutters as she brushes past.
"We have one," Holly fires back, her timing too perfect for comfort. "But someone's mother keeps organizing family activities."
I choke on my whiskey, torn between pride at her quick wit and panic as Nick's head turns with analyst precision.
"We?"
"Super secret network purposes only," I croak, but I'm already calculating how many more slips we can afford before Nick puts it together.