The Promise of Forever (Holly Ridge #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

The brand-new cellphone in a glittery pink case buzzes on the countertop, and I glare at it like the enemy it is.

A cellphone for an eleven-year-old girl. Who the fuck gets that as a gift?

An irresponsible, absent parent trying to make up for not actually being in their child’s life—that’s who, I remind myself, because that’s exactly what Emma’s mom is. Mommy! with a bunch of emojis behind the name flashes along with a new message.

I can’t wait to see you next Saturday!

I groan as I read it, knowing the chances of that actually happening are near zero and already seeing the meltdown that will result.

Running a hand over my face, I decide that will be a concern for next week.

Future me might hate me for it, but current me knows the fact that it’s nearly seven thirty and my daughter is still not out of bed is more concerning.

Last year, I let Emma sleep in during winter break, and the first day back was an absolute nightmare, so I won’t be making that mistake again.

Padding down the hall, I poke my head into my daughter’s doorway and sigh with defeat.

The lavender blankets she begged for last spring, when she decided the pink ones with princess crowns were for babies, are pulled up over her head, blocking out the light I flipped on ten minutes ago on my fourth entry into her room.

“Get up, Emma,” I say for the sixth time. “Aunt Wren will be here soon.”

I never thought I’d miss the days when a tinier version of my daughter would rise with the sun and wake me by jumping on my bed and demanding breakfast, but this phase makes me yearn for the early mornings and long nights.

Now, I find myself constantly battling an almighty stubbornness, intertwined with the attitude my parents have been warning me was impending.

Call me delusional, but I couldn’t imagine my sweet little girl ever being anything but sugar and sunshine.

I have since been proven wrong.

I’m convinced something happened the moment she walked into the halls of the Holly Ridge Middle School, turning my sweet baby girl into a preteen tyrant with more attitude than one small person should be able to hold in their body.

“It’s not even a school day,” Emma grumbles, rolling over and tugging the blankets up higher. Tipping my head back to the ceiling, I take in a deep breath and force my voice to sound neutral instead of revealing the brewing irritation that’s crawling in my veins.

Don’t let her know she’s getting to you. Don’t let her sense your weakness, I remind myself before speaking aloud. “We’re sticking to our routine, so when you go back, you’re not out of the rhythm.” That was my theory, at least, but it’s not going well. Obviously.

“Daaaaaad,” she whines.

“Get up, or I’m throwing you in a cold tub. Again.”

Three weeks ago, Emma refused to get up for school, and eventually, knowing she would miss the bus if she didn’t get going soon, I started a cold tub, then grabbed her from her bed, blankets and all, and dropped her into it.

The water that splashed everywhere was a bitch to clean up, and the shrieks were nearly ear-splitting, but the giggles that were intertwined with them and the fact that she actually got up and out the door on time made it worth it.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like I’ll have to face the cleanup again, my threat seeming to work when her head pops out of the blankets, a burning glare hitting me.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbles, but pushes the blankets down and slowly rolls out of bed.

“Yeah, well, I’m the worst dad ever who happened to steal some cinnamon rolls from Grandma’s yesterday, so get up, get dressed, and head to the table before I eat them all.

” Another glare shoots in my direction, this one less barbed now that my threat of freezing water is replaced with pillowy soft cinnamon rolls.

“Fine,” she says, rolling out of bed and stumbling sleepily to her door before she closes it in my face. I could argue with her about the attitude and rudeness, but she’s out of bed, and I have learned I need to choose my battles.

This will not be mine.

Less than ten minutes later, Emma is dressed and sitting at the kitchen island, picking at the center of a reheated cinnamon roll, when there’s a knock on my front door.

It’s probably my sister, Wren, coming to watch Emma while I start on the decoration takedown at my family’s Christmas tree farm, where I live and whose maintenance I manage, but there’s no reason she’d be knocking.

Not only is the door unlocked, but she also has a key and could walk in at any time.

“Who’s that?” Emma says around a mouthful of cinnamon roll, and I cringe at her.

“Jeez, Em, chew, swallow, then talk,” I say, moving toward the door. I don’t see the exaggerated eye roll she gives me, but considering it’s her newest trademark move, I’m sure it’s aimed my way.

“Who is that, Father?” she asks in a sugary sweet tone.

Glancing over my shoulder, I give her a glare I know will have no impact on her.

Emma, the unexpected gift that arrived when I was twenty-two, is what my mom calls the ultimate payback, given that from ages eight to twenty I was a headache—and then some.

When I found out I was going to be a father to a girl, I thought maybe she’d be like Wren, sweet and cajoling, a daddy’s girl at her finest.

Instead, most days it feels like Emma got my sister’s best friend, Hallie’s, personality—full of fire, snark, and enough attitude to take down a bear.

“Drop the attitude, Emma,” I scold, another common refrain these days.

I turn back to the door to let Wren in. But when it creaks open, letting in a gust of cold air, I wonder if I summoned the woman in front of me.

Long strawberry-blond hair is draped over one shoulder, an oversized brown bag slung over the other, and a puffy coat with a furry-lined hood hides what I know is a perfect figure.

Instead of my sister, her best friend, Hallie Young, stands before me, a smirk on her full pink lips.

Her cheeks are pink, probably from the cold, but maybe because of the pink blushes she loves to wear, and mischief is written all over her face.

Somehow, I know I’m not going to like whatever it is she’s here to say.

“You're not Wren,” I say, the first idiotic thing that comes to mind spilling from my lips and making her smile go wider.

“You really are the smart King, aren't you?”

My jaw tightens as she reaches up to pat my cheek, then turns her body, brushing along mine as she steps into the mudroom.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Jesse. So good to see you,” she says.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, staring outside to see if maybe my sister is coming behind her, but it’s just Hallie’s shitty green car parked right beside my white truck.

Instead of standing there like a moron and letting all the heat out, I close the door and turn to where Hallie is removing her coat and sliding it onto one of the hooks, as if she plans to stay for some time, setting her bag on the bench and toeing off her brown clog slipper shoes.

Hallie is here.

In my house.

Without Wren, my brother, or my parents.

Just Hallie in my house, smiling at me like the last year of us avoiding one another didn’t happen at all.

“What are you doing here, Hallie? Is everything okay with Wren?” She turns to me with that mischievous look, and somehow, I know I’m not going to like what she says next.

“Oh, Wren is great. She’s on a plane headed to Paris right now, so I’m really not sure if she could be any better, you know?” Her smile goes wider somehow with her words, entertained by whatever game she’s playing before turning and walking away from me.

I stare at her retreating back, blinking as I try to decode her words.

“Paris?” I ask, needing just a few long strides to catch up to her short ones, following her as she moves through my house as if she belongs here.

“Yeah, Adam took her to Paris as her Christmas gift. That’s why I’m here bright and early. I’m taking over babysitting duties for Wren,” she calls over her shoulder before turning into the kitchen and out of sight.

“Hey, Hallie!” my daughter says, her lips wide and excited.

I ignore the happy look on her face, instead turning to Hallie with irritation brewing in my veins. “What do you mean you’re taking over for Wren?”

Hallie sets her bag on the counter, then turns to me. “Well, she can’t quite babysit from Paris, so I’m taking over.”

“Aunt Wren is in Paris?” Emma asks with stars in her eyes.

Hallie nods enthusiastically. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s going to bring you back the best gifts. Probably even better gifts, since Adam will probably be paying for them. She has a bigger budget.”

She winks at my daughter, who grins deviously, and I don’t bother to remind either of them that she doesn’t need anything, not after she was just spoiled rotten yesterday. Instead, I choose to focus on the important topic at hand.

“I’m sorry, can you rewind?”

Hallie rolls her eyes at me, and the urge to argue with her moves through me, but if I want to figure out what the hell is going on, I can’t give in to that. Hallie has always been able to irritate me, to get under my skin better than anyone I’ve ever met, and I can’t fall into that trap right now.

“Adam called me…” She purses her mouth as if trying to remember something, the freckles dotted over her pert nose scrunching up before she shrugs one shoulder.

“I don’t know, sometime last week, and said he wanted to take Wren to Paris for a Christmas gift, since, you know, she’s always wanted to go.

But he knew if he just planned the trip and expected her to drop everything and go, she never would. ”