Chapter One
KYRA
Davis
All I want for Christmas is to marry you.
There have been a lot of times in my friendship with Davidson Oswald Barnes—Davis for short, and my best friend since we were four—that he hasn’t made sense.
This, however, might take the cake.
Because I have absolutely no idea what he’s getting at.
Well, I suppose I do. No…no, I really don’t. Because there’s no way that text message was meant for me.
I stare back at the text a little longer trying to figure out just how to reply. Because there are so many appropriate responses. From what the fuck to okay, let’s do this! to you have the wrong person.
But before I can even begin to respond, my phone rings. It’s Davis.
“Hi…” I answer cautiously, still very confused. “Are you drunk? Because it seems to me like you’ve maybe already started hitting the eggnog.”
“Nope, not drunk. It is nine a.m.”
“I am aware, but based off the text message I just got, I’m thinking that maybe you’ve already hit the Tennessee Trouble.”
Not that such a thing would be a first. After all, my family does own the distillery that is home to the renowned whiskey, as well as Ol’ Reverend Moonshine, and our newest line, Wink and Shine, a moonshine specifically marketed toward women, of all things.
All from our small mountain town of Trouble, Tennessee.
So yeah, we have been known to hit it rather early at times.
“No, I haven’t started in on the whiskey this early,” Davis continues. “But…I’m thinking that maybe my text needs a little bit more explaining.”
“Oh, so that was meant for me?” I choke out, crashing back in my desk chair. It swivels a bit from the force, seemingly moving in the opposite direction of my thoughts.
“Of course. Who else would it be meant for?”
Errrr…got me there.
“Then yes, it definitely needs explaining.”
“Okay, well, I need you to marry me.”
Well, if this isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever experienced…
“We went from want to need in about ninety seconds. How did I get downgraded so fast?” I joke, hoping that it comes out as flippant as I mean it.
Davis laughs, the rough, gravelly sound making the butterflies in my chest wake up. Almost as if they know that sound was just for us.
Because there’s something about it that tells me that it was. That’s my laugh. I know that sounds weird, but when he laughs with me, it sounds different. It just does.
“I mean…it’s both?” He recovers nicely, in a way only Davis can.
A smooth-talking, southern boy with a wild smile and a flair for numbers, it surprised absolutely no one when he followed in his daddy’s footsteps and majored in finance, taking over the investment arm of the local Pitman Dean branch here in Trouble.
It’s only a matter of time until he takes over the whole darn bank.
If he can keep the havoc to a minimum. “A want and a need.”
“Mmmmmm…”
“So, shall I explain?”
“By all means, Davis,” I say. My smile widens unconsciously, both my heart and mind already on edge, ready for whatever crazy reason he’s come up with.
Because if nothing else in life is true, Davidson Oswald Barnes is a chaos gremlin. To the max.
If rom-com goddess Pippa Grant is to be believed, all Davises have man buns, live secret lives, and are hotly mysterious.
Only, my Davis is batting zero where those things are concerned.
His light brown hair might be slightly unkempt, just long enough to hide the scar right above his left eyebrow from where I hit him with a Frisbee when we were eleven, but it doesn’t come anywhere close to man bun territory.
He’s never been able to keep a secret for more than about fifteen minutes—including what he’s getting anyone for Christmas—much less leading an entirely separate existence.
And the only thing mysterious about him is how he got this far in life without breaking a bone.
Or requiring major surgery. Because if something weird and wild in this world exists or could happen, it will happen to Davis.
He is hot though. Insanely hot. Like, stop traffic and stare hot.
“So, here’s the deal. I kinda made a boo-boo with an investment—”
“A boo-boo?” I cut him off. A boo-boo? What is he…five?
“Kyra, are you going to let me tell you this or not?”
“Sorry.” I hold up a hand in surrender, my own silent way of apologizing. Not that he can see me.
“Remember when we were in such a hurry to get your personal investments sold earlier this year?”
How could I forget. Six months ago, my parents decided to officially sign over Tennessee Trouble to my siblings and me, giving the four of us ownership and control.
Signing over the family business was always the plan, but one that I had assumed was a someday thing.
Turns out someday came sooner than I thought, and my parents were ready to start their transition into retirement now.
With such came some scrambling on our part. Okay, my part. All three of my older siblings were a little more prepared for this day than I was. Including being armed with the knowledge of certain requirements of ownership.
“Yeah, that still doesn’t make sense to me. Is beer really competition?”
“The clauses in the contract are clear. Any and all companies or corporations that produce a like product, i.e., alcohol, is considered competition and therefore you aren’t allowed to hold any kind of investment in them.”
I sigh, slouching back in my chair. He’s explained this a hundred times, and let’s not lie, he’ll probably have to explain it a hundred more.
The stock market doesn’t make sense to me.
I understand it on a basic level—buying shares and all that—but past that you lose me.
I can market the shit out of anything. Need a social media campaign or catchy slogan?
I’m your girl. But don’t go asking me how to invest your money.
“This is why I hire you, to handle this for me.”
“I know. And I have. Except…”
“Except you made a boo-boo?” I sass back, unable to help myself. He is my best friend after all. If you can’t sass your bestie, who can you sass?
“Because of the quick timeline, I sold them short,” he explains, his voice turning more serious. “Resulting in a bunch of losses.”
“So you lost a bunch of my money."
“To be fair, I thought we would have enough time to make up for it with other investments, but that’s not how it worked out. The good news is, tax wise, it works out for you.”
I nod, following just enough of this to hear what I think is him telling me I should see a tax break. Then again, the word taxes alone makes my head hurt, so what do I know.
“However…” he continues, not giving me a chance to confirm what I think I’m understanding.
“Here’s where it gets sticky. I got really lucky on another investment—one that was supposed to remain stable, but ended up splitting and skyrocketed before I could sell.
Which isn’t so lucky when it comes to taxes. ”
I don’t see what that has to do with me. Other than being the one who has the potential to help. But, marriage…really?
“So…if we get married…that would fix it?” I say, pausing along the way, my pulse starting to race.
“Yes.”
Oh boy.
My pulse kicks up again, galloping a little faster now. He’s serious. More than that, the word no isn’t immediately flying out of my mouth.
Technically, we got married once before.
Granted, we were nine, and Maggie Robinson presided over the ceremony in front of the monkey bars on the playground.
She swore to us she was ordained at the time, but legally speaking I’m not sure that moment would hold up in court. We didn’t even seal it with a kiss.
At least not in front of the monkey bars or Maggie Robinson.
Davis did kiss me later that afternoon, when he walked me home from school. Dropped me right at my front door, looked me square in the eyes, and proudly proclaimed he could kiss me now, because I was his wife. He planted one on me, which lasted for all of maybe two seconds, then promptly ran away.
That was the first—and last—time his lips have been anywhere near mine.
What I wouldn’t give for a do-over though.
“Your losses cancel out my gains. And—”
“Davis, you lost me at taxes.”
“But I did have you?”
Huffing out a long breath, I close my eyes. Because yes, he has me. He always has. There is no telling him no. I couldn’t. And not simply because he’s my best friend and he needs help.
But because I might have more than best friend feelings for him.
Truth be told, I think I’ve always loved him. In one way or another. But he doesn’t see me like that. To him, I’m nothing more than Kyra Murray, redheaded sidekick and gal pal. The one who has always been here for him. Who always will be.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
Damnit, Davis…
“Isn’t that what I just said?” I chastise around a giggle.
“I need to hear you say it, Kyra. Full consent,” he charms, in that way only he can. The way that makes me tingle. “Whaddya say? You, me, the courthouse on Friday?”
“Friday is Christmas Eve.”
“Even better! The magic of Christmas. What a better way to start our marriage.”
“Except, the courthouse isn’t going to be open on Christmas Eve,” I point out.
“Oh.”
Disappointment runs off his word like water sliding right off a duck’s back, slippery and easy, making me think for a moment that maybe this could be about more than just his need to avoid writing Uncle Sam a large check. Like maybe it could be about us.
Then I remember that isn’t who we are.
“Even if we went to Knoxville, I can’t imagine that the courthouse is going to be open on Christmas Eve.”
“Okay…Thursday then?”
“It’s already Tuesday.”
“I know, I know…” He sighs, the exhale so heavy I can feel it as if he’s sitting right next to me.
He might as well be. The invisible link between us is strong. So strong, his grandmother used to refer to it as our sixth sense, claiming that he and I were so in tune with each other that we somehow knew what the other needed without even saying it.
Which is how I know he needs me now.
“I’m not saying no; I’m simply pointing out it’s already Tuesday.”
“So, you’ll do it?”
“Of course I’ll do it, Davis,” I acquiesce. As if there was ever any question.
“Kyra, thank you. I owe you one.”
“That one can be a big, fat diamond for my left hand,” I joke. Well, half joke. If I’m going to be Mrs. Davidson Oswald Barnes, I’m going to rock the bling. Big-time.
“You got it, Baby.”
A shiver rips up my spine as he calls me Baby, wishing—not for the first time—that it was real. That the deep rumble of his voice was whispering that word, right along with so many others, into my ear as he held me close, ready to cross the line.
Closing my eyes, I imagine it for a second, letting myself have that split-second fantasy of what it could be like. My breath catches, a rush of heat washing over me.
“Know what we should do?” Davis asks, cutting into my thoughts, disrupting me before I’m too far gone. “We should have a bachelor/bachelorette party. Tomorrow night, at the Post. Celebrate our last night of freedom together.”
I scoff laugh, shaking my head. “Celebrating our last night of freedom together, before we start our life together?”
“Exactly. It’s how we would have done it if one of us were marrying someone else.”
Man has a point. There is no version of either of our weddings that doesn’t involve us celebrating with each other at the local hole-in-the-wall bar.
To be fair, getting to this point in life wasn’t on either of our radars, since neither of us has been in a relationship recently.
Both of us had our last relationship end because the people we were seeing didn’t like said friendship.
Ooops.
“Touché. Then tomorrow night, the Post. For one last hurrah, before our first hurrah?”
Davis chuckles. “Something like that.”
“Well, if we’re gonna do this, I guess I gotta find a dress.”
A soft knock sounds in the background, followed by some muffled voices. I can hear Davis whisper something, although I can’t quite make out what it is, but judging by the tone, it’s something about work.
“Yes, go find a dress,” he replies in a rush. “Dinner tonight to nail down details?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Love you, Kyra.”
Davis hangs up without another word, leaving me sitting here, with nothing but my racing heart and my jumbled brain. That can only think one thing.
I’m going to marry Davis.