Chapter 1
Harrison
Two Days Before Christmas
Another Christmas song loops over the mall speakers, and I blow out a breath.
Kill me now.
I’m on autopilot, drifting from store to store, my head a million miles away.
Or, 2,451 miles away to be precise.
Los Angeles.
Where my wife is.
And for the record, this whole situation sucks.
For the hundredth time, I roll the silicone ring around my finger, trying, and failing, to get Hollywood’s sweetheart out of my head.
The world knows her as Ava Alvarez.
That is, until she got rebranded as Mrs. Harrison Evans.
We didn’t exactly plan the whole marriage thing. Got blindsided into it like a cross-country Mack truck. But now, whether we asked for it or not, we’re married.
And I miss her like hell.
My Pix.
The woman I haven’t seen in weeks.
And despite all music and lights and overwhelming Christmas cheer, the only thing I feel is numb.
I turn down another aisle, scanning a random cluster of shelves in a cookware store I have no business being in.
My mission when I came to the mall was simple.
Grab the last-minute gifts I’ve been too distracted to handle like a functional adult.
Now?
Now we’ve entered what the hell am I doing here territory.
Because it turns out, without my girl, I’m a useless oaf with zero sense of purpose.
I check my phone, staring at the half-assed Christmas list I slapped together over coffee.
Top of the list of those I’ve neglected?
My twin sister, Hannah.
And, she’s been everything lately.
Around the clock, on-call babysitter. Reluctant chef when I’d rather starve than deal with my feelings. Professional pain in my ass with a favorite morning greeting that isn’t hello.
It’s, “Why don’t you go after her?”
She says it on repeat. Like a broken record with excellent timing.
And me?
I never have an answer. At least, not one I’m willing to share. Not with her, anyway.
And Pix, the one person in the world I need to work things out with most, is in L.A.
While I’m here. In New York.
And I have no idea how to build a bridge big enough to span an entire fucking continent.
“Can I help you find something?” an older woman in a black apron asks.
I wave her off and move along. “I’m good.”
Except I’m not good. In fact, I’m the polar opposite of good.
This is my third kitchen store this morning.
Third.
And I still have no idea what the hell I’m doing. But Hannah’s passion is baking, so I will get her something for that.
When the kids asked, “What did you get Auntie Hannah?” I told them, “You’ll see.”
Like, it’s a surprise.
Which, technically, it is because surprise, I didn’t get you jack shit.
Shopping for a woman who treats cookware like a competitive sport is damn near impossible.
Shopping for Pix? Easy. Walk into a bookstore, point at the romance section, and say, “I’ll take it all.”
Followed by, “Do you gift wrap?”
Getting a library’s worth of romance to her is one problem.
When I’ll see her again is the bigger one.
I rub my neck, staring at rows of bowls, pans, and, I don’t know… sticks? Big sticks. Small sticks. Why are there so many sticks?
And, is this what a kitchen is supposed to look like?
Because mine is a far cry from this. Take this morning. Cereal left out. One sock on the counter for reasons no one can explain. A sink full of dishes I swear I just did….
When Pix is here, the kids keep it neat as a pin. She’s gone, and boom. The torture dad sessions begin.
Speaking of torture, why does every store have to smell aggressively like cinnamon?
It’s as if someone turned all the color down on the world.
My heart’s not in it.
Like a three day old glazed donut that no amount of microwaving will make right.
I grab the biggest stick and swing it like a baseball bat.
A sudden flash of Pix in LA with her douchebag ex suddenly hits my thoughts. What if they’re… together?
It’s all I can do not to snap the solid wood.
“Isn’t that a delightful rolling pin,” an older woman says, in the same black apron as the other lady. What is this? A cult?
I nod. “Delightful,” I say, easing my death grip on the thing before I accidentally commit to buying it.
“It’s fifty percent off,” she adds brightly. Which at this point feels like a compelling argument to hang onto it.
“Thanks.”
My phone buzzes, and I latch onto it like a lifeline, making a quick escape to the next aisle. And I swear, if it’s Ava even hinting she needs me, I’m already on my way.
But it’s not her.
Teen Hulk lights up my screen as Connor sends a picture.
I stare at the picture Connor sent. An advent calendar. Definitely not Ollie’s. That kid annihilated his last week because apparently numbers are more of a suggestion.
But this one still has one tiny square unopened.
A reminder that Christmas is tomorrow.
Connor used to send me these pictures when I was deployed.
I hope he never stops.
The realization lands heavy, straight down to my toes. I huff out a breath and slide my phone back into my pocket.
I’ve missed too many holidays. Too many mornings. Too many traditions. Too many of the little things that somehow end up meaning the most.
I’m not letting them down.
No matter how much I miss Pix.
I push deeper into the store, scanning shelves for something. Anything.
Jesus. Why couldn’t my sister be into cars?
The next aisle feels like a lifeline.
Cookbooks.
Right. She’d love a cookbook.
I reach for one… then hesitate. Because I have no idea which ones she already owns.
Twenty minutes later, after speed dating the Barefoot Contessa, the Hell’s Kitchen guy, and the Naked Chef, who’s thankfully not naked, I officially give up and do the only sensible thing.
I cheat.
Short on time and in over my head, I text the only other man who knows my sister as well as I do.
Me
S.O.S.
What cookbook is on Hannah’s Christmas list?
Deadpool
What do I get out of it?
Me
Wow.
Extortion.
I’m telling Santa.
Deadpool
Tell him I said hi.
If anyone respects the hustle, it’s the guy busting his ass on Christmas.
I huff out a breath, still clutching the half-off rolling pin like the last-ditch gift it is. Then, I text him back.
Me
Fine.
You get one favor.
Anything you want. No questions.
Now, help me help you.
The little dots pop up.
Disappear.
Pop back up… then die again.
“Come on, come on.”
I narrow my eyes and study the rolling pin, weighing my gift wrap options. Hmm… how exactly does this end up under a Christmas tree without raising questions?
“Excuse me, sir?” A voice cuts in behind me. “Are you going to buy that or just keep fondling it? Because if so, we may have to start charging by the hour.”