Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Alex
Eloise is coming for Christmas! Suck it, bro!
“Grant, you damn bastard,” I mutter under my breath.
I’m in line at the Beans to Go, the coffee shop on the ground floor of my Atlanta office building, with my business partner Roland Greer at my side. He’s scrolling through his phone as are most of the people in the line in front and behind me.
Festive holiday music is playing on the overhead speakers.
The shop has floor-to-ceiling windows on two of the walls.
One faces the street, and through the painted glass I see people hurrying to wherever they seem to be heading.
The other glass wall looks into the three-story lobby.
A giant fifteen-foot glass bobble chandelier hangs in the lobby, making the dark marble floor gleam.
The coffee shop is always bright and cheerful, with live plants and comfortable furniture.
But from November to January, when it’s decorated for the holidays, the place transforms into a holiday wonderland.
It reminds me of Christmas at home, so some days I’m down here twice, even if lately it makes me more homesick than usual.
But I’m going home in five days—a trip I’m equally excited for and dreading. And now that Eloise is coming, dread is winning out.
The woman in front of me must have heard me swear, because she glances over her shoulder, giving me a dead-eyed stare.
Clearly, someone needs her caffeine fix.
I’m about to ignore her, but she looks so much like my Aunt Sylvia—from her widow’s peak hairline, the bump at the bridge of her nose, and the way her eyebrows seem sunken over her eyelids—that it’s damn spooky, and there’s no way I’d blow off my aunt.
So, I cringe and say, “Sorry, ma’am. I just got some bad news. ”
She turns to face me, her irritation replaced by concern. “And at Christmas time too, you poor thing.” She shakes her head. “What happened? Did you lose your house? Your job?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did Grant run over your dog?”
I’m taken back that she knows my brother’s name, then remember I used it when I swore. “What? No, nothing like that.” I take a breath, trying to figure out the shortest way to explain it. “Grant stole my bed.”
Her eyes widen, and she eyes me up and down, clearly appraising me.
I’m used to it from women of all ages, but they’re usually more sly about it.
Finally, she tilts her head and narrows her eyes with a venom I don’t expect.
“Grant could do worse, so you must be a downright bastard yourself if he left you.” Then she turns around and begins whispering to the older woman next to her.
Roland bursts out laughing. “She thinks you’re gay.”
“No shit,” I grumble. “I got that.”
I’m not irritated that she thinks I’m gay. Curtis, one of my best friends from high school, is gay, and if I swung that way, he’d be the first man I’d hit on. But I’m still pissed at Grant, and becoming more so by the second.
“So, Eloise is coming to Christmas after all?” Roland asks, still chuckling.
Given his narcissism, I’m surprised he figured that out without me spelling it out.
“I’m so glad you find this amusing.” I give him a dark look.
“You’re not the one who’s going to end up sleeping on a sofa bed for eleven days.
And on top of that, my mother said my Aunt Jean is coming this year and bringing her three grandchildren.
” I narrow my eyes. “Who are sleeping in the rec room.” I level my gaze. “Where the sofa bed resides.”
The line moves forward, and Roland breaks out into another fit of laughter. My Aunt Sylvia doppelganger has reached the register, and she and her friend are placing their order, some complicated mash up of syrups.
Roland can’t seem to let this go. “You’re bunking with three little kids? Dude, that’s insane. Just get a room at a hotel or rent an Airbnb.”
“Have you ever been to Hollybrook, Vermont, at Christmastime?” I ask.
“It’s like a Christmas Hallmark movie. Hotels and Airbnbs sell out by February for the next year.
And even if I wanted to stay somewhere else, my mother would have a fit.
She insists we all stay in the same house, especially since it’s the only time she can see some of us.
” Last time she said it, she’d looked me dead in the eye.
Guilty as charged, though. I don’t see them enough. The start-up takes nearly all my time and attention. But that’s an excuse, and I know it.
“So don’t go home,” Roland says.
Don’t go home. Part of me leaps at the thought. Another part panics. As much as I’ve hated going home the past six years, I’m somehow even more homesick than ever. Still, fear they’ll discover my secret outweighs everything else—even my longing to be there.
Fake Aunt Sylvia hands her credit card to Maggie, the woman who’s working the register. Sometimes Maggie makes drinks, but during the morning rush, Finley or Bethany usually work the espresso machine.
Yeah, I know all the employees by name and where they usually work. That doesn’t make me a stalker—it makes me observant. At least, that’s what I tell myself when really, I’m looking for one employee in particular. Watching everyone else makes it less creepy.
Today, Finley’s making drinks. Her mouth is twisted to the side as she concentrates on making Fake Aunt Sylvia’s complicated diabetes in a cup.
Her long dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail that she’s doubled up into a messy bun with a red and white scrunchie.
All week she’s been wearing a vintage-looking gold reindeer pin which has a red stone for the nose.
The reindeer pin’s clipped to her red apron, the one with a snowman over her chest and her name tag above it.
Maggie and Bethany wear the standard brown aprons with the Beans to Go logo, so she must’ve brought hers from home.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cranked-up heat to fight Atlanta’s so-called cold spell—mid-thirties.
Please. That’s light jacket weather in Vermont.
Finley’s layered in a black, long-sleeve shirt under a kelly green, short-sleeve shirt.
“Tell your mom you’re too busy with work.” Roland barely glances up from his phone. “Which is true. It’s a critical time and we need all hands on deck to get this project ready to launch at the end of January.”
He has a point. It’s a bad time to disappear, but I’ve skipped the last two years.
My mother had been understandably upset when I’d cancelled a week before Christmas last year.
We’d hit a snag that demanded my full attention, but the disappointment in her voice nearly broke me, so I’d promised I’d stay at least a week, maybe longer, this year.
Roland had agreed to it at the time, but now that the trip is looming, he’s been trying to convince me to cancel.
If I’m looking for a reason, this is a good one.
But I can’t disappoint my mom again. I hate when I make her unhappy—which has unfortunately become something of a habit. Still, why had I told her I’d come for eleven days? A year ago, this Christmas had seemed so far away.
Now I want to strangle Past Alex.
The truth is, I love my family. Despite my reluctance to go home, I miss them.
Even my damn bastard brother Grant. Roland, on the other hand, can’t stand his brother and sister and barely tolerates his parents.
His idea of skipping a family Christmas is equivalent to a reprieve from a prison sentence.
He doesn’t understand why I want to see my family, and after three years together as business partners, it’s a waste of time and breath to try to explain it to him.
My seesaw of dread and excitement had finally found a balance, but now dread is winning by a landslide. Ten sleepless nights on a saggy, two-inch mattress, springs poking my back and ass, kids screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep.
It’s almost enough to risk my mother’s disappointment and my brothers’ guaranteed texts calling me an asshole for disappointing her again. Which, I’m sure, is exactly what Roland wants.
“We had a deal, Roland,” I mutter, but the intensity of my voice leaves no room for doubt. Part of me can’t believe after putting so much effort into staying away, that I’m now fighting to go.
He gives me a long look, one that makes me nervous before he says, “Okay, so you want to see your family and have your Hallmark Christmas. Tell me again why Grant bringing his girlfriend means you have to sleep on the sofa bed.”
“It’s simple. When we go home, we stay in our childhood bedrooms. Grant and I shared a room, but if one of us has a girlfriend, the other gets banished to the rec room.”
“And if you both bring a girlfriend?”
“The oldest gets the room. I’m eleven months older, so it’s mine.”
“That’s diabolical,” Roland says with a wicked gleam. “I love it.” Not a surprise. But I’ve seen that look before, usually right before one of his big ideas. Which means I should be terrified, because clearly this one involves me. “Sounds like you need a girlfriend.”
And there it is.
I laugh. “You realize I’m leaving in five days.”
“Look at you,” he says, gesturing at my … everything. “You could have a girlfriend by tonight if you wanted.”
I’m not sure about getting a girlfriend, but yeah, I could probably find a woman to sleep with me.
Finding a woman willing to fly to Vermont over the holidays would take more effort, but I might be able to pull it off.
I can’t help that I’ve been blessed with great genetics; I hit the gym to burn off my stress; and I know how to say things women like to hear.
So yeah, there’s a chance I could find a woman who’d go along with a crazy scheme.
But just because I can do it doesn’t mean I will.
No way am I bringing a stranger home to my family—and any woman who’d say yes to that kind of a crazy scheme probably isn’t the kind of woman I’d ever introduce to my mother.
Fake Aunt Sylvia finally moves to the side, opening up the register.