The Holiday Clause (Hideaway Harbor #5)

Prologue

“Dashing Through the Snow”

“There I was,” Wren began the story as dramatically as she always did, “fumbling for my keys as cats coiled between my legs on the cabin porch, their urgent mewing echoing in the frigid air.”

“Here we go…” Logan rolled his eyes.

She ignored him, sitting up to better reenact the chaos that unfolded one year ago, the absolute insanity they put her through that led her to this very place. She didn’t care that they heard the story a hundred times before. She lived it.

So did they, of course.

But she would never let them forget what they put her through. And each time she made them sit through the recap, she added more flourish and dramatization than the last.

“I bit the tip of my glove, precariously balancing my grocery bags in one arm, so I could dig through my purse,” she continued, still able to hear the rock salt crunching underfoot. “It had been a frigid day. I still remember my breath clouding as I spoke to the cats.”

The rescued strays were why people once assumed she was Hideaway Harbor’s unofficial cat lady at thirty. That was back when she was still single. A lot had changed since then.

“Your stories take forever.”

“Shut up, Soren.”

“Get to the point, Wren.”

She shot Greyson a threatening look, warning him to hush. “The metallic bite of wind promised more snow, and we already had a foot from the storm that rolled in before Thanksgiving that year.”

“There was a northern wind, and the temperature was a biting seventeen degrees. Two blue jays sat on a branch,” Logan mocked.

“Patience, guys.” She narrowed her eyes at the men.

“That’s what I remember saying to Figgy and the other cats as they perched on frost-dusted chairs.

Then, suddenly, the roar of a motor exploded through the silence!

I spun, keys tumbling from my grasp as a black super-duty pickup rocketed over the snowdrifts—an avalanche of ice and slush erupting in its wake as it plowed straight toward me!

I screamed, and the cats scattered like buckshot. ”

Greyson’s deep chuckle rumbled as he lounged by the fire.

“I don’t think it was all that dramatic,” Logan mumbled.

“Get to the good part,” Soren urged.

Wren continued, “Out of nowhere, a snowmobile buzzed from the woods behind the cabin! I plastered myself against the front door in a sorry attempt to avoid a collision as claws scraped wood and the cats scrambled up the walls in sheer terror! My groceries crashed to the ground, eggs exploding, as I threw my hands up to shield my face. The truck slammed on its brakes, spraying snow all over me and my midnight blue siding as it skidded to a halt mere inches from my step. I was terrified. The engine growling like a caged beast as the driver’s door burst open and I screamed, ‘What the hell is going on!’”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Even I know that’s stretching the truth. The snowmobile totally got there first.”

“False.” Logan laughed. “And you can’t start the story there anyway.” He sipped lager from a pilsner glass. “That makes us sound like maniacs.”

Wren scoffed. “You are maniacs.”

“She has a point.” Greyson stretched his thick denim-clad legs toward the raised hearth of the massive fireplace.

“That’s exactly how it started,” Wren continued. “I’m telling the non-fiction version.”

“Your version might be true, but that’s not how it started.” Soren brushed a piece of non-existent lint off his knee onto the oak floor. “You’ve got to give a little background to accurately portray the emotion.”

Wren pursed her lips. “The emotion was fear.”

“Nah, that kind of unhinged urgency can only be provoked by love.” Soren flinched as a balled-up copy of The Almanac pegged him in the head. “What? Love can make a man do crazy things.”

“You’re an idiot.” Greyson rolled his eyes.

Logan settled into the empty chair on the other side of the fire. “I’m with Soren. If you want to tell the story right, you have to go back to the beginning.”

“Fine. You guys tell it.”

The rocks in Soren’s glass clinked as he sipped slowly, his eyes watching Wren like a predator watches prey.

“All right. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving. Dad insisted we all come to the big house to celebrate. We’d just finished feasting on leftovers and were delving into Dad’s bourbon collection as we pilfered his humidor when he dropped the bomb of the century on us. ”

“He always was a master of manipulation.”

Wren cast an empathetic look at Logan. Of the three brothers, he’d had the least time with their father, so his grief always rang closer to anger and resentment than his older brothers’.

The loss of Magnus Hawthorne impacted all three of his sons differently—in ways they would likely unpack for years to come.

Grief was funny like that. It didn’t arrive all at once in a tidy package.

It stretched out over time and seeped into unexpected crevices of life, showing up when you least expected it and teaching lessons that pushed a person to feel things no one would willingly choose to feel.

Heartache moved in phases, and over the last year, she’d watched all three brothers process the stages differently at different times. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, every phase played a part until they finally reached acceptance. Some were getting there slower than others.

“He really was a prick when he wanted to be,” Soren agreed, never one to sugarcoat the truth. “Dad came into that study knowing exactly what he was doing. It was never about the business. It was always about controlling us from the grave.”

“I think you’re being a little harsh.” Wren tucked her legs under the fur blanket as she nestled into the corner of the sofa with her mug of cocoa.

“You weren’t there. I’m telling it exactly as it happened.” Soren swept up the wood shavings by his feet and tossed them into the fire. “There we were, actually believing Dad wanted us there for some quality time that Thanksgiving. Then he dropped the bomb.”

“I still remember the sound of that massive file hitting his leather-topped desk.” Logan laughed without humor. “He shoved Soren’s feet right off the edge and gave us a look of pure disappointment.”

Greyson grinned and quietly recalled, “He always got pissy when you stole his cigars.”

“Well, I still have the one I nabbed that day. A nice Cuban. Never even got it lit.”

Wren looked at Greyson, noting the introspective way he stared into the fire.

As the eldest of the three and by far the most reclusive, he never followed his brothers’ lead.

But he observed everything, depending only on himself, his presence like a silent shadow in the background of all their family drama.

Of all the boys, Magnus had the least control over Greyson.

Soren retrieved the bottle of bourbon from the thick oak mantle. “Dad thought he was so slick, dangling that carrot over our heads only to snatch it away as a last hurrah.”

Logan laughed bitterly. “He always knew how to tease the line to get the fish to do exactly what he wanted.”

Staring into the flames, Soren shook his head. “He loved finding his opposition’s Achilles heel.”

Another gruff, humorless laugh escaped Logan’s throat. “Opposition’s the perfect word.”

“Your dad loved you,” Wren reminded.

“Sure—in his way. But he still saw us as the enemy.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“You weren’t there, Wren. There were times—after Mom died—that I swear he wished we’d been in the car with her.”

Her heart clenched. “That’s not true, Logan. Your dad, just like mine, never expected to be a single father. He did the best he could with what he knew.”

“He knew how to pit us against each other.”

“Well, lucky for the three of you, he wasn’t very good at it.”

Few brothers could claim the loyalty Greyson, Soren, and Logan shared. Sable Hawthorne would have been proud of the men her sons had become.

Soren refilled his glass at the wet bar. “The company was the perfect bait to get one last emotional response from us. He lured us in, and once he knew he had our balls in a vice, he couldn’t wait to tighten the crank.”

“You gave him that power.” There was something primal about Greyson, something wild and wise his brothers lacked. Maybe it was because he was older, or maybe it was his years at sea that had hardened him.

Not to say Logan and Soren weren’t formidable—they were. But Greyson was different. He didn’t need anyone.

Wren smiled at his stubbornness. Magnus could never manipulate Greyson the way he manipulated his brothers.

He didn’t need his father’s wealth to feel content.

He didn’t crave his father’s approval like his brothers, nor did he waste time antagonizing the man over their endless differences of opinion.

Greyson created his own security and kept to himself most days, so it made sense that he hadn’t reacted when his father dropped the ultimatum that fateful Thanksgiving.

As if sensing her thoughts, he met her stare, flames flickering in his dark blue eyes, his mouth a flat, unreadable line hidden by the stubble of his beard.

Those devilish blue eyes smoldered, and Wren dropped her gaze—familiar heat spreading through her belly the way it always did when he fixed her with that knowing look.

All of the Hawthorne men possessed a potency that was impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t easy sitting in a room surrounded by such raw masculinity, but she’d been around it her entire life.

Despite their history, when any one of them drilled into her with that shameless Hawthorne stare, she was as defenseless as every other red-blooded woman.

Even now, after everything they’d endured together, that intensity could still overwhelm her.

Mercifully, Greyson turned his attention back to the fire.

Wren faced Soren. “Finish the story. What happened next?”