Chapter 3 #2
He’s spent his entire life chasing the wrong women and pushing away the right ones, and will likely die in the midst of another doomed love affair.
Even now, he’s somewhere in Thailand, trying to talk his latest mistake into moving back to the United States with him.
I close my eyes and press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, where my headache is doing its best to bloom into a migraine, suddenly certain I can’t agree to Holly’s bargain.
I can’t spend that much time exposed with one of the tragically na?ve without losing my patience and saying something I’ll truly regret. I was grumpy tonight, yes, but I can be worse.
Much worse…
It’s best for both of us if we find another way to settle this.
I’ll send her a blank check, tell her to hire as much help as she needs, and be done with it.
At the mansion, I make my excuses to avoid “sugar rush decorating” with my siblings, and retreat to my bedroom to nurse my headache.
And my regrets.
Of which there are many…
The next morning, I wake feeling like something died in my mouth and then sent its ghost to punish me, and I instantly swear off eggnog for the rest of the season.
Sunlight streams through the gaps in the curtains with aggressive cheerfulness that reminds me of a certain someone, and despite the ibuprofen I took last night, my head is pounding.
Downstairs, I can hear my siblings laughing.
Loudly.
Too loudly for it to be anything resembling a reasonable hour.
I check my phone: 10:47 a.m.
Christ…
I also have three texts from Elliot:
Are you alive?
Do you want me to send Heidi up with a glass of my handy-dandy hangover cure? I’m telling you—tomato juice, potato chips, and a hint of pickle juice, blended into a frothy cocktail—heals all wounds. My frat brothers are still after me to share the recipe.
Ashton also made cinnamon rolls and coffee when you’re up for joining the land of the living.
I drop the phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, replaying just how much of an ass I made of myself last night.
The peg leg. The lies. The blackmail.
Holly Jo’s face when I pretended to have forgotten all about her…
My stomach twists, and it’s not just the hangover.
I should text her now. Tell her I’ll hire help to meet her holiday needs.
Or hell, tell her to go ahead and release the footage, if she feels so obliged.
I’ve weathered worse scandals than “Drunk Billionaire Attempts Theft of Historical Peg Leg.” My lawyers can manage local law enforcement and any potential fallout in the press.
Except…
Except I can already hear Elliot demanding, ”You tried to steal the captain’s leg? Really? What the hell, Luke? What’s going on with you? You’re not yourself. I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
And Bran: ”This is pretty Scrooge McBuzzKill, brother, even for you. Where’s the holiday spirit?”
And worse than both of them combined, Ashton, whose big, disappointed puppy dog eyes will silently ask how I could have ruined our first family Christmas in years and the Ratcliffe reputation in Silver Bell Falls in one fell swoop.
The house phone rings downstairs. I hear Ashton answer, her voice bright and excited as she catches up with yet another long-lost local friend. More laughter follows, and then Bran’s voice joins in, saying something I can’t quite make out.
They’re happy. Thriving.
Having the Christmas our grandfather wanted us to have.
And I’m the asshole who’s going to ruin it because I couldn’t keep my drunk vendetta against a dumb, dildo tree topper under lock and key.
If Holly releases that footage, the entire Ratcliffe family will take a hit for making a mockery of the town and its traditions, and our grandfather’s name will be forever attached to his oldest grandson’s ridiculous crime spree.
That’s the way things work in rural Vermont.
The people around here are slow to accept outsiders and even slower to forgive their mistakes.
I’ve spent most of my adult life protecting my siblings from Dad’s messes; I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one who picks up where our feckless father left off.
With a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, I snatch my phone from the nightstand again.
I scroll to the new entry I apparently typed into my contacts sometime last night—Holly Jo Hadley: Diabolical. Possibly Dangerous. (Too Cute for her Own Good. Or Your Good.)
I can’t remember exactly how I was feeling when I typed those words, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I wasn’t joking. At least, not entirely.
I hover my thumb over the screen, the dueling sides of myself locked in silent battle.
This is insane. I run a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate. I negotiate with world leaders and corporate sharks. I do not get pushed around by small-town pet photographers with a penchant for extortion.
Another burst of laughter from downstairs.
I steady my hands.
Take a breath.
And type: I’m in.
Before I can think better of it, I hit send and toss my phone onto the mattress beside me, refusing to admit that a part of me is the slightest bit…excited about this development.
“Don’t be a fool,” I mutter, dragging my suffering mortal coil from bed.
This is damage control. Nothing more. I’m protecting my family. That’s all.
I’m absolutely not curious about what Holly Jo Hadley has planned for me.
Not even a little bit.