Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Holly
Nothing screams ‘tis the season for existential dread quite like a family brunch at the lodge. The mimosas are mercifully strong—bless the gods of overpriced orange juice—but I swear the fireplace is in on the joke. Every crackle and pop of the logs sounds like a cackle, as though it’s rubbing its sooty little hands together, gleefully awaiting the implosion.
Well, not today. Nope, I’m the picture of calm, buzzed on spiked champagne, with just enough clarity to watch our parents and ask— what the fuck?
"Remember the scavenger hunts?" My mom's voice drips nostalgia, "The kids spent hours running through the lodge..."
"Gingerbread house competitions were my favorite," Chance’s mom sighs. "Until Though the hot glue gun incident?—"
"It was one time," Charlie interjects. "His eyebrow grew back eventually. Let it go."
Nick rubs the aforementioned eyebrow. "Eventually is the operative word."
The dining room preens its perfection, from the polished wood beams to the antique sideboards.
Martha Stewart cheer meets rustic luxury.
I take another sip of my mimosa. I’ve got a lovely little zing to maintain.
“Mom, we’ve outgrown this,” I say, minus the instinctive whine I would have used as a kid. “You can’t shove us back into our footie pajamas with nostalgia and hot chocolate."
Mrs. McAllister’s pointed look sweeps through the lot of us. "Well, this is all we've got until one of you finally gives us grandchildren."
"Shots fired," I mutter, earning a sharp look from my mother.
Nick looks at me and jerks his head toward our moms— You want to help us here?
"Don't look at me. You and Charlie are the ones trying to make breeding an Olympic sport."
"Holly!" My mother gasps.
I wiggle my glass in the air and shrug. “Weren’t you the one who ordered the alcohol?”
"Maybe we could resurrect some of the old traditions. The snowshoe race, the sleigh ride…"
Those trips to the ER…
"Stars overhead, the blankets, the hot chocolate?—"
That time Nick fingerbanged some redhead in the back row right up against the pile of gifts for all the good little boys and girls.
Yes. Magical. The very embodiment of the Christmas spirit.
Ho-fucking-ho-fucking-ho.
"Are you trying to guarantee we avoid all being here at the same time again for the next decade?" Eve asks.
The ensuing back and forth fades away with another sip of my emotional support cocktail.
My father holds court at the head of the table, all margins and projections, oblivious to the child abuse by our mothers shoving us into a candy-coated hellscape.
Wildly different topics of discussion unfold all at once, with everyone taking part.
Except Blake. Because fuck that guy.
We’re Phantom of the Opera without the chandelier crash—dramatic and polished—ignoring the cracks just beneath the surface.
"The market's primed for aggressive growth," he announces to Chance's father. "Particularly in emerging tech sectors?—"
"Actually," I murmur into my mimosa, "tech's showing signs of correction. Third quarter earnings were down twelve percent across the board and haven’t rebounded in the fourth quarter.”
He doesn't even pause. "—and with the right positioning?—"
Am I really supposed to let the opportunity that wording provides slide?
Fiiiinnnnnneeee.
I better get points for that, Santa, you jolly bastard you.
"Supply chain disruptions in Asia indicate further volatility," I add, keeping my tone light, my answer PG.
See, I’m a good girl. Send me a big dick. Make him pretty. Bonus points if he’s silent.
Chance presses his leg against mine.
You work quick, Santa. I should have been more specific, though. A man with a big dick, not a big dick of the walking variety. He is pretty. And silent. I’ll give you that. Two out of three ain’t bad, but what’s your return policy?
"Healthcare's the real opportunity," Blake chimes in, clearly trying to impress. "Particularly biotech startups?—"
"Regulatory hurdles are increasing," I say to no one in particular. "But hey, if you want to sell your soul?—"
"Precisely why timing is crucial," my father continues like I'm not even here.
Nick's expression softens across the table. "Holly?—"
“It’s fine. Really.” I wave him off with a genuine smile. And surprisingly, it is. Thanks to a few late-night words from Chance.
My father is just like one of those old See 'n Say toys—pull the string, get the same predictable response.
I didn’t have to yank that many times before Nick noticed.
It’s something.
I’ll take it as a win.
And with that, I’m clinging to Chance’s words with the same gusto with which he coveted my peach pouch.
Besides, Chance did say this week was about skiing, booze, and bad decisions.
He definitely was on to something with the drinking.
Soak the dysfunction in a little bit of bubbly. Let chill overnight. Pair with puffed pastries and fresh berries. Problem solved.
Gaze sweeping over our parents one by one, I’m struck by how different they are than us. They live the norms with an effortless ease, like they were made for it—or worse, like they like it there, cocooned in the imbalance of power. Comfortable in the hierarchy, where inequality isn’t a flaw but the natural order of things.
Are they really just thirty years older than us? Because with the mimosa goggles on, the generation gap is less of a gap and more of the goddamned Grand Canyon on steroids: How did these people ever go from posh refinement to bumping uglies?
There is no way our dads got anywhere near our mothers’ slot C’s.
Whatdya wanna bet?
They all went to college, but fuck if I could imagine any of them playing beer pong or pounding shots.
Mmmmm shots. Dancing. Dancing on tables. Man they missed out.
I slap my palms on the table, give it a couple of jerks— not that kind —and test it for durability.
Good ‘ol timeless stability… check.
Could double as a dancefloor in a pinch… check.
Wonder what it would look like holding a buffet of Jell-O shots. Move over gingerbread and carols, yours truly is calling for spiked eggnog and wrecking the halls!
Wooooowwwwww.
Switching to coffee now.
“Problem?” Chance’s clipped tone slices through the general breakfast chaos.
“Not at— Hic.”
Whoops.
Smooth.
Very dignified.
“Uh-huh.” He raises an eyebrow. His deadpan delivery lands like a sucker punch, and I’m the sucker.
“It’s fine. I’m totally fine.” Firmly on my way to better than fine once I find my dignity.
Slippery little bitch has to be around here somewhere.
Hic.
“Then do you think you could pass the syrup?"
“Of course, but first, what do you say?”
His gaze swings to mine, one eyebrow pitched in smug, smartassery form “Now.”
“Dick.”
“You have no idea, Squirt.” He snorts out a laugh that should have the appeal of the ol' lady cave during a sandstorm but, somehow, is charming.
The boob.
With a solid shove, I send the syrup gliding down the table, the pitcher coming to a perfect stop right in front of him. Not too drunk to operate syrup. Sweet. But still… coffee? Where the hell is that carafe?
"Anything else, Your Highness?"
The coffee sits just out of reach, but I’m sure as hell unwilling to ask him to pass it. Shoving to my feet, I reach across GI Jackass while he douses his pancakes in an obscene amount of maple syrup.
"That'll do, peasant."
Peasant. Peasant?
Before I can stop myself—well, not true, I could have stopped myself, I just didn’t feel like it—I give him a slow, theatrical once-over.
“Peasant? Are you under the impression this is a monarchy? Must be hard ruling a kingdom when your biggest—” I shoot a pointed glare at his lap. "— asset —is how much stuff you can cram into sixteen pockets.”
Chance’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth.
Direct. Fucking. Hit.
That’s right bitches!
With my verbal carnage delivered, I pivot dramatically—as dramatically as one can when the room’s leaning a little to the left—grab my waffle, and cram a massive bite into my mouth.
I ignore my mother’s glare and focus on the crisp, buttery perfection exploding in my mouth. Syrup drizzled with finesse. The total opposite of soldier boy’s?—
“Kitten,” Blake’s voice slides greasily across the table. “Would you pass the butter?”
Freezing mid-chew, I barely manage to suppress a snarl.
A spoon clatters to a plate. Whose, I don’t know.
Charlie's head snaps up.
Even Eve's pierced eyebrow arches with predatory interest.
Our fathers still prattle on like his corporate dingleberry didn’t just march into battle armed with nothing but a pair of knockoff superhero underoos and a helmet with a lower protection rating than a foil hat.
“Pass the butter?” A shiver of disgust crawls down my spine. I fix him with a flat stare, his words obliterating my buzz with the precision of catching your parents mid-grind.
“Sure. Want me to butter your toast while I’m at it, or do you think you can manage that one on your own, champ? ”
Champ ends on a satisfyingly distinct pop, making his jaw tick and the vein in his temple throb.
Jokes on you, Bitch Boy. It’s sexy when Chance does it.
Not that I noticed.
"Princess," he tries again, "perhaps you'd like to?—"
"Listen here, murder muffin." I lean forward, stabbing another bite of waffle. "Unless the next words out of your mouth are 'I'm leaving,' Shut it."
Nick chokes on his coffee.
Our dads fall silent, darting looks between us like they’ve been frolicking through a Mary Poppins daydream, only to realize they’ve wandered straight into a war zone."
“Sooooo, Holly,” Mrs. McAllister chirps, “Remember those winter formal dances we used to host here? You girls would spend hours getting ready?—"
Smooth transition you got there, Dick’s mom. Real smooth.
"And the boys would spend hours avoiding it," Charlie adds with a forced laugh.
"Until Sierra talked them into it," my mother adds with a knowing smile.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees, or maybe that’s the rest of my buzz packing its bags for the fucking Bahamas.
As if summoned by her name alone, a tall blonde appears in the doorway, looking like she just stepped out of a winter wonderland photo shoot.
Because of course she does.
"Has anyone seen Everett?" Sierra's voice carries that hint of cultured polish that makes my skin itch.
Must be clinical. Airborne. Contagious.
Save yourselves, boys.
"That man is impossible to track down when he's—" She stops short, her perfect lips forming a perfect 'o' of surprise. "Nick! Chance!"
Her cheeks flush pink—not the blotchy kind like mine, but the kind that probably comes with its own Instagram filter.
She's distracted, clearly annoyed about something, but still manages to look like a Nordic Christmas card come to life—rosy, ethereal, and so damn perfectly composed.
"Little Sierra Barrett!" Mrs. McAllister practically levitates with delight. "Look at you, just as lovely as ever. Join us!"
"Oh, I couldn't, I—" Her gaze drifts to Chance. "I really need to find Everett. His joke of a grant application… for the renovation—you know—never mind.”
My stomach clenches.
Renovation?
So she's not just here to look pretty in ski pants for the day.
She’ll be around.
Super.
"Such a shame," Chance’s mother sighs. "You know, dear,” She leans in and winks. “Chance has a thing for blondes."
I definitely don't think about how that applies to me.
Or how it doesn't.
Or why I care.
Not at all.
I picked a hell of a time to quit drinking. You know, five minutes ago.
Look—the first step is admitting you have a problem. I’ve got 99, but dragging my father’s legacy out of the stone age ain’t one.
Today anyway.
Statuesque Nordic chick on the other hand…
“Mom,” Chance says with a tone that tells her to shutty, without telling he to shutty.
I need him to teach me that.
“Okay, that’s enough alcohol for you,” Eve says as she swipes the partial mimosa from Mrs. McAllister’s hands. “Jesus, Mom, a little tact.”
“Don’t ‘Jesus Mom’ me, young lady. I’m the one who taught manners in the first place. Every lesson?—”
“Was built on the foundation of ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’ Come on, take a walk with me.”
"Not that his taste for blonds worked out so well with Noelle," Mr. McAllister adds dryly, watching Eve disappear out the doorway with his wife.
Chance goes deathly still next to me, his fork crashing onto his plate. The room fills with a charged silence.
"Who's Noelle?" The words are out before I can stop them.
"Ancient history," Nick says quickly, his tone warning.
"A mistake," Charlie adds, shooting a glare at Chance’s dad.
Silent and unflinching, Chance’s gaze drills into his father with a burning intensity no amount of manifestation panties or mimosas combined could give me the nerve to deliver.
"His ex-wife," Mr. McAllister finishes, giving Chance a look almost as cutting back.
Ex-wife.
My stomach bottoms out, the mimosas roiling. But worse than that is the betrayal. He had a while wife and I’m the only one who doesn’t know?
After I let him in and he held my hand? After trusting him with parts of myself I’ve never show anyone—he couldn't trust me with this?
I don't miss the way Chance snatches his knee from where he had purposely pressed it against mine.
Not that I care.
It's not like it was in the job description or anything.
Just like I definitely don't care that his type is apparently blonde and different and probably doesn't make bukkake jokes at breakfast.
Probably doesn't lie awake at night like a lovesick idiot, mapping his face with trembling fingers, either.
Sierra shifts uncomfortably in the doorway. "I should really go find?—"
"We should do something!" My mother chirps, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the tension. "Let’s start with that sleigh ride. Tonight, perhaps?"
"Can't," Charlie says quickly. "Nick and I have plans."
All eyes turn to me.
"Oh no." I hold up my hands. "I went looking for a man in finance, trust fund, 6’5”, blue eyes, and only found spreadsheets.”
What the hell am I saying?
“The kind of project your mother warns you against falling for.”
My. Fucking. God.
“Thanks to Taylor Swift, I can fix him. No, really, I can.”
Kill me now. I just blurted that word salad in front of the Bombshell Bukakke Queen.
Forget that return request, Santa. You’re probably just going to repossess.
My mother turns hopeful eyes on Chance while I try not to die on the spot. "Surely you're free?"
Surely he’s free?
Woman! Do you not see that he’s Hulking the fuck out here???
Technically, he’s free for now.
Give him an hour, and he might be facing the death penalty.
The weight of his silence speaks volumes. He hasn't said a word since his father dropped the Noelle bomb, and I hate that I notice.
Hate that I care.
Because I told him some seriously private shit, and he told me not one fucking thing.
If his text of encouragement were painted on my panties, I’d set them on fire and roast marshmallows.
"Actually," Sierra pipes up, still hovering in the doorway, "If you're free later, Chance, I could use your expertise on some security upgrades Everett is trying to push through for the lodge. Maybe you can suggest a better way that’s less destructive,” her mouth pinches with irritation.
Of course, she could.
On her, irritation looks charming.
On me, I look like I’m one step away from leveling a tall building.
Something hot and unwelcome curls in my stomach. I refuse to call it jealousy because that would be ridiculous. This is Chance. GI Jackass. The bane of my childhood existence.
The man who held my hand in the dark when I trusted him with my secret, when I trusted him with my fears and dreams and—No.
Not going there.
"I’m going to hit the slopes before those spreadsheets hit me up for some quality time," I announce, pushing back from the table. "Black diamonds to slay. Numbers to crunch. Empires to build. Voodoo dolls to drive nails into."
As I pass Sierra in the doorway, I definitely don't notice how her height puts her at perfect eye level with Chance.
Or how her blonde hair catches the morning light.
Or how she probably knows all about his marriage because apparently, they’re still friends if she is comfortable asking for his help—with security, maybe changing her oil, diddling her bean—whatever.
I definitely don't care about any of that.
Just like I definitely don't care that Chance's gaze follows me out of the room.
Or that when I glance back, Sierra's already sliding into my vacated seat.
None of it matters.
I've got work to do and a point to prove.
Let them have their traditions and their perfect blondes and their secret ex-wives.
I've got bigger plans.
Even if my chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with professional ambition, and everything to do with the man who's apparently been married and divorced without me even knowing.
The man whose knee pressed against mine like a promise. Until he snatched it back.
The man who's probably about to reconnect with Sierra over "security upgrades."