Chapter 13
Wren
The Christmas Committee has assembled in my apartment like a disaster response team, if disaster response teams were run by people who think glitter is a food group and committee meetings require themed snacks.
"We need a strategy," Delia announces, spreading blueprints of the community center across my coffee table. Actual blueprints. With measurements and emergency exits marked in red.
"Why do you have blueprints?" I ask, still clutching the fire extinguisher from the Great Pasta Fire of ten minutes ago.
"I have blueprints for every building in town," she says matter-of-factly. "You never know when you'll need to stage an intervention."
"Or a heist," Giuseppe adds hopefully, examining the plans. "Look, there's a service entrance by the kitchen!"
"We're not robbing the gala," June says, though she's also studying the blueprints with interest.
"We might need to extract Wren if Malcolm gets too insufferable," Finn points out. "What's the extraction protocol?"
"There's an extraction protocol?" I ask weakly. I’ve managed to have lost complete control of my life.
"Page seventy-two of the binder," Delia says, flipping through her massive committee handbook. "Though it was designed for medical emergencies, not ex-boyfriend encounters."
"Same thing," Mrs. Patterson mutters. "Malcolm causes hives."
"That's not medical," June says.
"Emotional hives," Mrs. Patterson clarifies. "Very serious condition."
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. Reading it, my stomach drops.
Unknown: Looking forward to seeing you at the gala. I'll save you a dance. -Malcolm
"Malcolm’s going to ask me to dance," I announce to the room.
"Unacceptable," Delia declares. "You'll dance with Holden."
"Holden's a corporate spy who lied about everything!" I remind her.
"Yes, but he's OUR corporate spy who lied about everything," Teddy says, like this makes perfect sense. "Besides, his dancing scores were excellent."
"What?" I ask.
"His foxtrot rated eight point seven. Malcolm's waltz never exceeded six point two." Delia reminds me.
The door bursts open, and Iris rushes in, phone in hand. "Emergency update! Sterling's car won't start! He stopped at the light at Maple and Main, and now it won’t go."
"Did the sugar work?" Giuseppe asks innocently.
"What sugar?" Iris asks. "His battery died. Mysterious corrosion."
"How mysterious," Mrs. Patterson says, hiding her sugar bag behind her back.
"Very mysterious," Delia agrees.
"That's definitely illegal," June notes, but she's smiling.
"Allegedly illegal," Mr. Jackson corrects. "No witnesses, no crime."
"There were twelve witnesses," June points out.
"Eleven," Mr. Jackson says. "I'm the town lawyer; I can't witness crimes."
"But you can commit them?" Finn asks.
"Allegedly commit them," Mr. Jackson clarifies.
My apartment door opens again—does no one knock anymore?—and my cats, Amelia Dyer, and Lizzie Borden, race in followed by my neighbor.
"Your cats were in the hallway," she explains. "They seemed upset about the smoke."
"The smoke has been handled," I assure her.
She turns, shaking her head, and walks away.
"Can we focus on the actual problem?" I plead. "I have to go to this gala tomorrow, pretend everything's fine, face my ex-boyfriend with his yacht and his teeth, all while the man I thought I was falling in love with is actually a corporate raider named after his own evil company?"
"Pierce is a family name," Finn says reasonably. "He didn't choose it."
"He chose to lie about it," I counter.
"True," Finn admits. "But his callus is real."
"One callus doesn't fix this, Finn! Nothing is going to fix this!" I exclaim.
"It's a very impressive callus," Teddy says supportively. "I saw it up close. Definitely earned through actual work."
"Are we really defending him based on a callus?" I ask the room.
"We're defending him based on how he looks at you," Delia says quietly.
The room falls silent. Even Giuseppe stops whatever he's doing with the pasta remnants.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I've been documenting facial expressions for the committee records," Delia explains, pulling out another binder. This woman has more binders than an office supply store. "Look at this."
She opens to a page of photos, all apparently taken during committee meetings. Holden's in most of them, and in every single one, he's looking at me.
"These are creepy," I say. "You've been secretly photographing us?"
"For the archives," Delia says defensively, "but look at his expression."
I look closer despite myself. In every photo, Holden's watching me with this soft expression I've never noticed in real time. Like I'm something precious. Something worth protecting.
"That's just his face," I say weakly. “His corporate-spy face.”
"This is his face when he looks at other things," Delia says, flipping to another page. Photos of Holden looking at cars, food, and the committee members.
"He has different faces," June observes. "His Wren face and his everything-else face."
"People don't have designated faces," I protest.
"Look at the pictures," Delia insists.
I flip through a few pages, then shake my head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. He lied."
"Everyone lies," Giuseppe says philosophically. "I lie about my ingredients all the time."
"That's concerning," June says.
"Not all the ingredients," Giuseppe clarifies. "Just the regular ones. Like when I say there's love in the pasta. It's actually oregano."
"Oregano isn't love?" Teddy asks, genuinely disappointed.
"Oregano is oregano," Giuseppe says. "Love is... love"
"The important thing now is Wren is going to the gala alone," Teddy says. "Malcolm will pounce."
"I won't be alone," I say. "You'll all be there."
"We can't protect you from his yacht stories," Finn warns.
"Can we please focus?" I beg. "I need a plan that doesn't involve Holden."
"All the best plans involve Holden," Delia says. "He scored highest in every metric except automotive knowledge."
"And honesty," I point out. "He scored zero in honesty." I remind her. “Besides, I don’t care about your point system. I can’t afford to care anymore.”
"Actually, he scored six point five," Delia corrects, checking her notes. "Points for eventually admitting the truth."
"He only admitted it because that guy, Sterling, outed him!" I protest.
My phone rings. Unknown number. I answer it against my better judgment.
"Wren! Darling!" Malcolm's voice oozes through the speaker like expensive cologne that's trying too hard. "I wanted to confirm that you received my text about tomorrow."
"I received it," I say flatly.
The committee leans in like they're watching a soap opera.
"Wonderful! I'm bringing Anastasia. You'll love her. She's a yoga instructor with her own Instagram brand," he says, like this is an impressive attribute.
"How nice for you," I manage.
"She has two hundred thousand followers," he continues. "Her handle is YogaWithAnastasia. Very clever, right?"
"Groundbreaking," I say.
Giuseppe makes a gagging motion. Delia charts something in her notebook.
"I heard you're dating someone," Malcolm continues. "Some mechanic? How... quaint."
"He's very talented," I say, which is technically true. He's talented at lying.
"I'm sure he is. Does he have a yacht?" Malcolm asks innocently.
"No," I admit.
"Pity. Anastasia loves yachts. We're taking a Caribbean cruise next month. The yacht needs international waters," he explains.
"How nice that your yacht has ambitions," I say.
The committee gives me silent applause.
"Yes, well, I'll see you at the gala. Save me that dance!" He hangs up before I can refuse.
"I'm going to need so much wine," I announce.
"I'll bring a flask," Mrs. Patterson offers.
The door opens AGAIN—seriously, does no one knock?—and Holden walks in. Just walks in like he hasn't just destroyed my entire worldview and also my heart.
"The door was open," he says.
"The door is always open during committee emergencies," Teddy explains. "It's protocol."
"Since when?" I ask.
"Since right now," he admits. "I'm establishing protocols as we go."
"Holden," Delia says formally. "We were just discussing tomorrow's strategy."
"What strategy?" he asks, looking at me. I refuse to look back.
"The strategy for handling Malcolm," Finn explains. "He's bringing his Instagram yoga instructor."
"Of course he is," Holden mutters.
"She has two hundred thousand followers," I add, mocking Malcolm, still not looking at Holden.
"Bought followers don't count," he says immediately.
"How do you know they're bought?" June asks.
"No yoga instructor has that many organic followers unless they're secretly a celebrity or doing yoga with cats," he explains.
"Yoga with cats exists?" Teddy asks, interested.
"Everything exists on Instagram," Holden says.
"We're getting off track," Delia announces. "Holden, are you attending the gala?"
"That depends," he says. "Am I allowed?"
Everyone looks at me. I finally meet his eyes and immediately regret it. He does have a different face when he looks at me. Damn Delia and her documented evidence.
"It's a public event," I say stiffly.
"That's not what I asked," he whispers.
"I don't care what you do," I lie.
"Then I'll be there," he says. "If Malcolm tries anything, I'll intervene."
"I don't need your intervention," I insist.
"Everyone needs intervention when Malcolm's involved," Mrs. Patterson says.
"Speaking of which, Holden, you need appropriate attire for the gala." Delia adds.
"I have a suit," he says.
“Of course he has a suit,” Finn says. “He’s a Pierce.”
The entire room goes eerily quiet realizing we’re in the company of a very rich man.
"Wren, can we talk? Privately?" Holden asks, looking at me.
"No," I say immediately.
"Two minutes," he requests.
"No."
"One minute?"
"No."
"Thirty seconds?"
"She said no," Finn intervenes. "Give her space."