Hope (Holidays in Daisy Hills #6)

Chapter 1 Hope

HOPE

“I thought you were only staying for a few days,” I say to my sister as I drag three heavy suitcases from the trunk of my car. If I didn’t know how much Hillary loathes getting her hands dirty, I’d think she stuffed dead bodies in her luggage. What the actual fuck is in these things?

“Through New Year’s,” Hillary says, tapping away at her phone as I do all the heavy lifting and nearly fall on my ass when my boot catches a patch of black ice. Not that my sister notices. To her, I’m just the busboy—except I won’t get a tip.

“Which New Year’s exactly?”

Hillary lets out her soft, borderline condescending laugh as she drops her phone into her coat pocket—a fancy coat that’s probably worth more than my little car. She glances down my freshly shoveled sidewalk, and her face contorts, as though she’s just swallowed sour milk.

“This is your house?”

There’s the familiar passive-aggressive disapproval I’ve been expecting since I picked her up at the airport an hour ago.

“What’s wrong with my house?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Which, of course, means everything is wrong with my dated little yellow ranch with its covered front porch. It doesn’t matter that I love it. It’s a far cry from the mini mansion she’s used to. Which makes her last-minute visit all the more confusing.

Why, after years of refusing to step foot in Daisy Hills, has she suddenly decided to show up now?

There’s nothing here for her. Our relationship is rocky at best, so I don’t buy her sister bonding time excuse.

She’s also going to hate the guest room, which is the size of a glorified closet. But it was that or the pull-out couch.

Once upon a time, we used to camp out in our living room on the powder blue pull-out couch. We’d hide beneath the sheets and try to scare each other with made-up ghost stories. Back when we used to be sisters who actually liked each other.

But thirty-four-year-old Hillary Michaels would not be caught dead on a pull-out couch.

“I can check with the B&B again. See if they’ve had any cancellations,” I offer, though I already know they’re booked solid. I’ve been calling twice a day since Hillary dropped this bomb about a surprise “sister-bonding” visit on me three days ago.

It’s just until New Years.

“No, no. This’ll do,” Hillary says, heading toward the door.

“Where are you going?” I call after her, surrounded by a circle of heavy suitcases as her heeled boots echo off the pavement.

“Inside. It’s cold out here.”

“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath, hefting each suitcase onto the sidewalk so they’re at least off the street. The temptation to leave them on the curb is overwhelming, but if I have any chance of surviving this visit, I need to play nice.

I shoulder the tote bag Hillary left in the snow and drag one of the cinderblock-filled suitcases behind me.

“Do you always leave your front door unlocked when you’re not home?” she asks when I catch up. She pushes it open and walks right in like this is some kind of hotel instead of my home. “But then again, I doubt anyone’s breaking in to steal your things.”

I take a deep inhale that burns my lungs and silently count backward from ten.

“Hope, why on earth is your Christmas tree still up?”

“Why would I have taken it down?” I ask, tugging the luggage inside and highly debating abandoning the rest as I pull the door shut behind me. My gaze flashes to the massive seven-foot tree in the corner. One covered in nearly a thousand lights and more garland than any sane person should own.

It’s…perfect.

“Because it’s not Christmas anymore. Oh my God, why does it look like Whoville threw up inside your house? There’s tacky decorations everywhere.” She scans my living room, a horrified expression etched on her face. “What the hell? Are those Christmas lights tacked up along the ceiling?”

“It’s still December.”

“December twenty-ninth.”

My heart hurts a little at her harsh judgment.

Growing up, it was always our tradition to leave the tree up through New Year’s Eve.

Mom made January first a celebration of putting away the decorations.

Really, it was her way of making sure she didn’t have to do it all alone.

But as a kid, I remember it being fun. There were always snacks, Christmas music, and laughter.

A small, stupid part of me thought Hillary might remember that tradition and be a little excited to do it with me.

“This is why you’re single, you know that right? Well, this and those extra ten pounds you’ve put on since Thanksgiving.”

“I didn’t see you for Thanksgiving.”

“Of course you did. I invited you—”

“That was four years ago.”

“That’s not possible—” Her easy dismissal of a fact I know to be very true is interrupted by the doorbell. “You have friends?”

“Of course I have friends,” I retort, heading back toward the front door.

I have the very best of friends who’ve gone above and beyond to ensure I’ll be quite busy during Hillary’s visit so I don’t end up in jail for homicide before we can ring in the New Year.

If it weren’t for Ruby’s quick thinking, I might be stuck—alone—with my sister for three whole days.

“You’ll forgive me if it’s a little hard to believe. You were always so shy,” Hillary says, tapping away on her phone.

The doorbell rings again, and a bark echoes.

Hillary jumps, and her phone slips out of her hands.

“What is that?” she gasps.

“A dog, obviously.” I turn to hide my wicked grin as her phone rattles against the hardwood floor and answer the door.

Marshall McCray stands on my covered front porch, his happy German Shepherd—Gram—sitting obediently at his side.

The man’s wearing a smile so potent I’m certain I’ll spontaneously combust if I stare at it too long.

Even in a winter coat, I can easily picture all those glorious muscles hiding beneath it.

Muscles I’ve more than once dreamt about licking with my tongue.

Down, girl.

Have I had a teeny tiny little crush on Marshall since the very first moment I laid eyes on him several months ago? Yes.

Has he tried to ask me out more than once, and I’ve shut him down every time? Also yes.

Do I regret it?

Yes and no.

Because there’s one glaring problem with giving into the man who should be a cover model for my friend Kelsey’s romance novels.

He’s the last single man my age in Daisy Hills—and I’m the last single woman.

Marshall McCray is the kind of man women would leave their husbands for.

The kind of man who could have whoever he wanted.

If there were other options, I wouldn’t be his number one choice. Even if I was, he’d no doubt lose interest in me faster than my sister can hurl a passive aggressive insult—and she’s a black belt in that department.

Despite all that, I’m still a little giddy to tell Hillary that one of my friends owns a gym, if only to see the shocked expression on her face.

He’s the same friend I’ll be spending a lot of time with over the course of her visit because Ruby thought it would be a brilliant idea for her brother and I to take over coordination for the town’s New Year’s Eve party.

“Ready to go—”

“Who is this delicious specimen of a man?” Hillary asks, shoving me into the doorframe so she can step out onto the porch and get a better view.

Never mind that my sister is married.

“I’m Hillary,” she says, extending her hand.

“And I’m here for my girlfriend.”

“Girlfr—” My question is cut off with the firm, delightful press of Marshall’s lips to mine.

My entire body turns to liquid in the span of a single heartbeat, and I sink into the kiss I’ve craved for far too many months.

It doesn’t matter that Marshall playing the part of my boyfriend never once came up during the conversation where Ruby orchestrated this scheme to keep me too busy to be stuck with my overbearing sister.

Every cell in my body responds to the lips that move with mine so effortlessly, so effectively, that it’s as though we’ve practiced for this very moment.

As though a fake relationship was always the plan.

I know the second Marshall allows me to come up for air, I’ll never be the same again.