Chapter 6
PIPER
“Thank you, Lord, for bringing our Brody back to us!”
My mom’s a regular churchgoer, but I’ve never heard her invoke God so openly.
Brody’s still as Mom touches him, but I notice the tension in the lines around his eyes.
I should have known this would happen. How could it not? My mom’s the most loving and forgiving person I know. Not that any of us need to forgive Brody. We know why he wanted to go, even though it cut like a knife.
My feet finally get the memo, and I rush around the hood to rescue him.
“Mom—”
“Brody, Brody, you sweet boy. You’re back. You’re finally home!”
Tears are ruining my mom’s makeup. Still caressing Brody’s face, she reaches her free hand to my shoulder, pulling me closer.
“My baby. My baby and Brody. Oh, thank you, Lord. Thank you!”
“Son?”
My dad is still as strong and straight as an arrow. His face is severe under the porch light, but I know it’s because he’s holding back his own emotion.
“John! Look! Look who our baby girl has brought home!”
Brody clears his throat and holds out a hand stiffly as my dad approaches.
“Mr Locke,” he begins. “Sir.”
Dad takes his hand and pulls him into a hug that lasts long enough for me to know he’s struggling to keep his own feelings in check.
“Call me John.”
Tears flow fresh down my cheeks as Dad clears his throat. I’ve never loved my parents more than at this moment.
“I can’t believe it! You’re both here! This is going to be the best Christmas ever!” Mom continues, pulling Brody away from Dad so she can hug him again. “You’re the most perfect gift!”
She wipes her eyes. “Oh, my, just look at me, crying on the street! John! Get their bags. Let’s go inside. I need my glasses and a proper light to check that Brody’s still as handsome as ever.”
“Mom. We’re not—”
“I can’t see through these tinted windows.” She peers into the back of the SUV. “Or are your bags in the trunk? Isn’t this fancy, John?”
She’s got one hand gripping Brody’s arm, the other gesturing at the car as if Dad wouldn’t have noticed it before.
“Mom—”
“Did you choose black to blend in? Avoid the paparazzi?”
Dad opens the trunk. “Let’s get you both inside.”
“Stop! We’re not staying here!” I yell, a little too loudly.
The silence that follows is deafening. I swear I can hear each tiny snowflake falling around us.
“What was that, baby?”
Brody’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He still looks frozen with shock.
“We’re not staying here,” I repeat.
Mom looks utterly confused, as if their house is the only building for a thousand miles. “But … where are you staying?”
“The Hideaway Hotel.”
Her jaw drops like we’re electing to sleep in a barn, and not the fanciest place in town. “But why?”
Good question. “Because …”
“But your bedroom has a big enough bed for the two of you,” she continues. “We bought a new one, especially.”
Oh no …
“And it’s right at the end of the hall, so there’s plenty of privacy for snuggle time. We won’t hear a thing.”
I cringe. Mom’s euphemism for sex is “snuggle time,” and she’s been using it since we were kids.
I remember putting two and two together with Mia when I was about fourteen and shrieking for half an hour at the thought of what my parents were actually doing when Mom talked about needing “snuggle time” with Dad.
“Er …” Brody tries, his voice scratchy.
“It’s because of the press,” I say quickly. “We don’t want them camped outside the house. If we stay at the hotel, it’s easier for everyone.”
And we’ll have separate beds …
“Oh,” Mom says, her shoulders drooping like she’s a deflating floatie. Then she straightens and forces a bright smile. “Are you heading to check in now?”
I nod.
She glances between the house and the car. “Why don’t I come with you? Show you the way.”
“It’s okay, Mom. We won’t be long, and we know where it is.”
Dad takes Mom’s hand, and she reluctantly releases Brody’s arm, like she doesn’t really trust us to return.
I give her a hug and whisper in her ear, “We’ll be home within the hour. I promise.”
As Brody drives slowly away from the curb, the silence is deafening. It’s only been a couple of minutes back in Hideaway, and I’m worried it’s already too much for him.
It only takes a few minutes to get to the hotel, but the parking lot is almost full. God knows how Marv managed to get us adjoining rooms so close to Christmas, and rooms for him, his assistant, and whoever else he’s going to spring on us.
Maybe he planned this months ago …
Inside the hotel, a huge artificial Christmas tree fills one corner of the reception area, and Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire plays softly in the background.
Between us and the front desk is a couple in their thirties, the man arguing with the receptionist as his wife jiggles a fretful toddler on her hip and tries to soothe two smaller children who are tugging on her coat for attention.
“But that can’t be the case!” the man says. “I booked the rooms months ago.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t find any record of that,” the young receptionist replies. Her cheeks are red and a film of sweat glistens across her forehead.
He taps on his phone, then shows her the screen. “Look, there’s the booking confirmation for two adjoining rooms.”
My heart sinks. Marv.
Brody’s gazing at me, looking torn, wanting me to make the decision. Our conversation is wordless, but when I nod, he knows exactly what I want him to do.
He takes a breath. “Excuse me, sir, ma’am?”
The couple twist to face him, instant recognition making them freeze as if touched by the Snow Queen.
Brody gives them a reassuring smile, then turns to the receptionist. “There should be two adjoining rooms booked under the name Marvin DeVille?”
She taps on the screen, then nods like a bobblehead toy.
“Please give these rooms to this couple, but still charge Mr DeVille for them, plus any other charges that are incurred. You have his card on file?”
The woman nods again, her eyes bulging as she stares at him.
Brody gives the couple a heart-stopping smile. “My girlfriend and I were just coming in to say we didn’t need our rooms anymore, so this is perfect timing.”
“But the cost?” the woman whispers. “We couldn’t possibly—”
“I insist. It’s a Christmas gift.” He hands the receptionist a credit card. “Please keep a copy of this in case there’s any issue with Mr DeVille’s card.”
The woman stares intently at her husband, as if trying to communicate telepathically, her eyes darting to Brody every tenth of a second.
“Er … Mr King?”
Brody gifts the man another megawatt smile. “Yes, sir?”
The man slowly brings up his phone. “Would you … I mean—”
“A photo? I’d be delighted,” Brody replies, seeming genuinely happy.
The man fumbles to unlock his phone, and I reach forward. “I can take it.”
“Thank you,” he replies, looking relieved.
The couple flank Brody, shyly moving closer as if not wanting to invade his personal space. He throws his arms around them, and the two kids stand in front, looking up at him in awe.
“Kids!” the dad whispers. “Look at the pretty lady!”
I make a big show of looking behind me, which makes everyone laugh, then snap away.
The toddler seems just as enamored with Brody as the rest of his family, stretching his pudgy arms toward him. Brody looks at his mom as if for permission, and she lifts her son into his arms.
Brody pulls a face, the toddler giggles, and my ovaries promptly explode.
Everyone’s laughing now, and the sound makes the little boy laugh even more.
“You need to be in the photo, too!” the mom says, beckoning me forward, then glancing over her shoulder at the receptionist. “Can you take the picture for us?”
The receptionist rushes up, takes the phone from me, and gestures for me to step forward.
I move to the end of the line next to the mom, but she guides me into the middle, next to Brody.
“Say cheese!” the girl says, and I smile, hyperaware of Brody’s hand on my back.
Still holding the toddler, who is now tugging on his hair, Brody takes his phone from his back pocket, unlocks it, then hands it to the receptionist. “Can you get one for me, too?”
Is this the start of our public fake-relationship? Why else would Brody ask for a photo of a family we’re probably not going to see again?
“Sure,” she says, moving back and framing the shot.
The toddler notices me and pulls a face. Obviously, I’m a threat to his one-on-one time with a Hollywood star. His little hand comes up and smashes into my face, pushing me away.
Brody and I crack up laughing as the parents apologize, horrified.
“I hope you got that,” Brody says to the receptionist.
“Sure did!” She hands the phone back to him, and we all crowd around it like we’ve known each other for years as he goes through the photos from the start.
There’s one of all of us, beaming smiles on our faces. Then one where the toddler notices the interloper. Another with me being pushed away, while the parents have comical looks of horror on their faces, and then one of Brody and me laughing, with the toddler looking put out that I’m still there.
“I think that’s the best one of the lot,” Brody says. “If you give me your email, I’ll make sure they’re sent to you.”
“Thank you! That would be … awesome!” the woman says, utterly starstruck.
The receptionist produces a pad and pen as Brody hands the infant back to his mom, and the dad scribbles on a piece of paper, then gives it to Brody.
“Thank you, Mr King. You’ve made our Christmas.”
“Your little one just made ours.”
Ours … As if we’re a real couple.
Brody must have a sixth sense for fans, because he turns to the receptionist and grins. “Want a selfie?”
She nods so fast I’m worried her head might fall off, and Brody moves closer.
“Here, let me,” he says, taking her phone. “I’ve got a longer arm, and we need the distance for my enormous ego, I mean, head.”
This is the Brody I remember. So kind even strangers feel at home with him.
A few more photos, then Brody says his goodbyes and we walk back to the SUV in silence.
Inside, I face him. “That was really sweet of you. You were amazing with them.”
He lets out a slow breath. “It’s the least I could do. Remind me to kill Marv when I see him next, would you?”
“You don’t know—”
He gives me a look.
“Well, anyway, you made their whole life back there.”
He fishes his phone from his pocket and sends them an email with the photos the receptionist took.
“I don’t mind fans like that at all,” he says. “They’re nice. It’s the other ones. Like from this morning. They’re not so pleasant.”
I nod. I was scared witless by the woman trying to get in the car.
“I’ll make some calls,” he continues. “Try to find somewhere else we can stay.”
Finding a place this close to Christmas in Hideaway, which is famous for being the only place in New England to celebrate the season when the Puritans banned it in the 1600s? Not likely.
“I’ll find something,” he continues with determination, tapping on his phone.
I sit in silence, waiting for the inevitable.
Sure enough, after five minutes, he tosses the phone into his lap.
“It’s okay, we’ll make it work,” I say.
“I’m so sorry I’ve dragged you into this.”
“You didn’t drag me into anything. I need you probably more than you need me. And anyway, my room has that pull-out bed Mia used to sleep on when she stayed over. I can use that.”
“No, I’ll sleep on it.”
“Brody,” I begin, in the patient tone of a schoolteacher. “You won’t fit.”
He opens his mouth again, but I hold up my hand. “We can have this argument later. Let’s just get back to my folks and eat.”
“Okay.”
He reverses out of the space, and we drive back to my parents’ house, lost in our thoughts.
No one comes out to greet us, which I see as a good sign. The excitement has worn off and we can all go back to normal.
Leaving our bags in the car for later, we walk up the path together.
The front door is open, but I still knock and call out, “Mom? Dad?”
“In the family room, sweetie! Just come on through.”
I give Brody what I hope is a reassuring smile, and he follows me into the main entertaining room of the house.
“Surprise!” Mom yells.
I stop dead. Along with my parents are my little sister, Harper, my younger brother, Hudson, and my big brother, Ethan, who’s holding his daughter Martha. Ethan’s stony gaze shifts to Brody, and man, he looks pissed.
Oh shit.