Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Holly
Well, shove me in a snow globe it’s a goddamn Pinterest-perfect holiday scene, complete with snow-dusted pines, steaming hot chocolate, nostalgia-soaked parents, and a steady loop of kiss replays so incessant, I need a restraining order.
"All aboard!" the driver calls out, adjusting thick leather reins while three massive draft horses stamp their feet impatiently.
Charlie and Nick are already snuggled up like they're posing for a Hallmark card.
My parents naturally gravitated to Chance’s parents.
Eve unapologetically took an entire bench and is now studying the wood.
And I am conjuring up my own Christmas miracle in this modern-day, Norman Rockwell holiday hellscape by doing everything possible to forget Chance and his magic alpha—fucking—swagger… the motherfucker.
Hic.
That’s right, folks, I meal-prepped for this ride to holly-coated hell.
Let's just say when I got in the sleigh, all blood boiling and clit throbbing, I flashed back to the last time I got in the sleigh and welp—turns out the last time was Nicky boy’s get-it-on-bang-a-gong ride with the redhead—which is bad enough. But there was the buffet after, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t wash his hands so—drunk.
The sleigh’s runners creak under the shifting weight as people take their dear sweet time loading for the ride. Cold seeps from the bench through my jeans, biting into my thighs. But I don’t move.
I stare straight ahead, the snow-packed path blurring into a smear of white, sucking down the Devil’s cocoa like it’s happy hour in hell, and I’m searching for salvation at the bottom of my cup.
Hic.
Every hiccup—a Band-Aid on my existential crisis.
No replaying the way his breath ghosted over my skin. No remembering the tension in his jaw or the way his scent—warm, rich, infuriating—wrapped around me and settled as though it belonged there all along. Definitely no thinking about the way my pulse betrayed me, fluttering against him like some kind of goddamn secret handshake.
Shut it down, Holly. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.
Like my drink.
It’s a good drink.
“Tradition’s tradition,” he’d said.
More like a kiss stolen straight from the movies—clit-activating, life-ruining perfection you lean in for more of—hungry and desperate for just a little more.
Someone needs to punch him in the pouch and knock him down a peg.
Another sip.
Hic.
Between my clit and Nick’s fingerbang from Christmases past—two things that should never share a sentence—I’m working up a case-study-worthy brand of PTSD.
But for now, my therapy comes with an octane rating. Way more affordable. The bargain-price for this perfect little blur of reality... Let’s just check the damage, shall we?
I drag out my own little Love Potion #9 repellent, squinting at the sticker. There’s an “S”… I think, actually, give me a minute, it’s still moving.
Nope, it’s… a goat?
That can’t be right.
Focus. Numbers. Okay, $20.99! Wait, no—50% off! Jackpot. That’s a grand total of… two goes into nine four times, carry the one but the one is sooooo heavy … Holly’s had too much to math.
The sleigh shifts, or maybe that’s me, and Everett flops down beside me, his face the picture of innocence. “Well, that was unexpected.”
Yup. Unexpected.
I catch sight of Chance, the muscle jumping in his cheek as he watches us.
Who the hell does he think he is dropping an Oscar-winning kiss like that on me?
And after two nights of falling asleep curled in his arms while he cracked his stupid, stubborn heart wide open about Noelle and his disaster of a marriage—answering every question I have without hesitation.
Now everything between us is… raw.
Like sushi.
Probably gonna get worms.
His fault. Completely.
But at least he’s waaaaayyyyyy over there, stuck sharing a bench with Blake and Sierra.
Right in the middle. Nice and cozy.
Well, isn’t Karma just a bitch wearing jingle bells.
I kinda like her.
Karma that is.
Sierra… I’m still on the fence about. Because she’s different.
Zippety-do-fucking-da.
She got sparklers for nipples or something?
Another gulp and when I lower my travel mug of amazingness, I lock eyes with GI Jackass.
I jut my chin, nodding in bro speak, raising my cup right at him. Judging from his glare, he spots the subtle middle finger. Good. Choke on it.
Am I different enough for you yet, soldier man?
Everett nudges my arm with his elbow, yanking me out of my Chance-and-Sierra death spiral.
"You okay? Because you’ve got a look.”
"Yeah, pretty boy, what look is that?"
"The one that says you’re about to drop-kick someone into a snowbank.”
My gaze flicks to Chance again before I can stop myself. He’s angling slightly away from Blake, which has him leaning into Sierra, and welp, check—fucking—mate.
Bottoms up.
"I’m fine.” Too fine. Totally fine. Definitely not replaying a kiss like it’s on a goddamn loop or wondering how Sierra conveniently ended up right next to Chance.
"Everett, don’t you have something better to do?" I follow the question with another deep gulp of Devil’s Cocoa. Sweeping down my throat, it leaves a sting in its wake on its way to deliver a yummy heat simmering in my belly.
"Not at the moment.” His grin sharpens. "Besides, watching this unfold is way more interesting."
"What this? " Like, I don’t know, but still.
He shrugs, all innocence as he leans in, his voice dropping to whisper. “Oh, nothing. Just… whatever it is you and Chance are doing. Or not doing. Your call.”
Mid turn, I lose control of the car— wait —sleigh.
Nope, I’m not driving the sleigh—the dude in the hat is—or will be.
Maybe.
What vehicle am I in anyway—oooh, my body. I catch myself with a hand to Everett’s chest, my eyes zeroing in on his mouth.
The mouth that would have kissed me looks soft. Playful. Like he’d linger just for funsies. He would never be so rude as to?—
A shadow falls over us as Chance looms above, jaw tight, looking like he's ready to go full GI Joe on someone.
His target? From the way he’s taken aim with that glare, I’d say he’s got his sights on Everett.
Otherwise known as Shred Shack powder pup number threeeeeeeeee.
Ha! Sounds like the intro for a bachelor on a game show. Cool.
Hic.
“Well, if it isn’t the Penetrator extraordinaire himself. Nice pants.”
Not that I’m looking at his pants.
Because that would mean I would have to be looking at his Johnny-my-rocket.
Chance’s eyebrows shoot up, his glare morphing to shock. Looming over me, hands on his hips, he looks less like GI Jackass and more like—Daddy!
When there’s not two of him that is.
Now where was I? Lips. Everett. Yeah. I wasn't done with my assessment.
I force my gaze back to Everett’s mouth, but my words are all for Chance. “Problem, rocket man? Powder pup and I are having a stimulating convo, aren’’t we?” I bat my eyelashes at Everett, I think, unless Chance’s twitch is contagious.
Either way, I make my lukewarm interest known.
“And your bulge is crashing the party.” I give the offending organ a suggestive once over. Probably all I’ll ever see of it. But Sierra probably saw it on account of being different.
Hic.
“You’re hammered.”
“And Cyber wizard here (Sorry, ladies, wand not included. Accessories sold separately), gets it in one. Kudos!”
Hic.
The bulge and I enter a stare-down fit for a western. No blinking, each waiting to see who’ll cave and make the first move.
Finally, bulgey boy puffs out his chest, “Ha! I win! Looks like he is happy to stuff your stocking, ho-ho-ho your hoo-ha, jingle your bell, or tweak your Twas the Night Before Christmas with his giant, half-licked candy cane rod thing.”
Hic.
Everett lets out a whistle, a huge grin splitting his face. Not sure what has him so delighted, but okaaaaayyyyyyy.
“Okay, that’s it. Hand it over.”
I lean into the talking bulge, index finger pressed to my lips, “Shhhh—no talking when the ride’s in motion.”
“We’re not moving, yet.”
Hic .
“Says you, Mister-Can-You-Look-Over-My-Security-Upgrades-Penetration-Specialist man.”
Everett barks out a laugh. "And that's my cue."
He winks down at me, so I rapid-reply a wink right back. I think. Hard to tell. Everything went black for a minute. “Toodle-loo, powder pup number three.”
He claps Chance on the back. "Good luck, soldier. She’s all yours."
“I’m not his, you know,” I say, tossing my head back.
I’m mine.
All me— oh —mine.
Chance drops into the space beside me, his thigh pressing against mine despite the abundance of room on his other side. He settles the blanket over our laps, the warmth seeping into my skin almost immediately.
“Where is it?”
“You tell me. I didn’t know you guys could lose it. Isn’t it attached?” I bend down to check under his hood—or do they check under our hoods?
I need my oil changed.
Next thing I know, I slide clean off the bench—almost die—until he swoops his arm around me and plops me right back beside him.
The real world is hard. Let him find it himself.
“The alcohol, Squirt. Where’s the alcohol?”
“Not telling.” A chill races across my neck, sending a shiver rippling through me.
"Knew you'd be freezing," he mutters. "You never did dress for the weather."
"I dress- hic -just fine," my head lolls back with the words, but I catch it before it can fall off. May not be able to operate a motorvehicle, but this body… I’ve got this.
Another sip it is.
“Give me that,” he says, swiping the mug from my fingers.
“Hey, I’m not done?”
“Oh yeah, you are. Did you eat today?” He’s patting me down and now I really do regret my adult sippy cup because I’m too lit to enjoy it.
The sleigh lurches forward, finally getting the damn show on the road. The jerk of the sleigh acts as a power button launching my parents into their regularly-scheduled, Christmas-themed primetime programming.
"Remember when Holly used to beg to sit up front with the driver?" Mom sighs.
Yup. Cause he was hot—my modern-day Almonzo Wilder. Tall, strong, hardworking, blond, wore khaki work pants with all kinds of stuff tucked away in his pockets—my gaze swings to Penetrator Man.
Uhhhh.
Fuck.
“Eat this.” He doesn’t look at me when he shoves the granola bar in my hand, and that’s fine.
It’s fine.
We hate each other.
It’s how we roll.
Gnawing my way through bite after bite, like a beaver determined to build a damn in one day, I focus on whatever I see that’s moving the least.
He shoves a bottle of water in my hands with a stern look. Like he’s giving me my meds and waiting me out to make sure I don’t hide them under my tongue until I can throw them away.
Fine. Never taking my eyes off his, I guzzle more than half. He’ll regret that in about twenty minutes.
The more alert I become—Mad Libs slipping away by the second—the more I fidget.
And along comes the nervous bouncing.
Being this close to Chance is sensory overload. Pretending we hate each other while his body heat seeps into mine—torture.
If he thinks my just sitting there minding my own business was bad, he should have heard the shit running through my head.
We glide through the woods on a wave of off-key carols. By the time the second rendition of Winter Wonderland circles around, the brooding prick next to me, carrier of granola bars, confiscator of my fucking drink, clamps his hand down on my thigh.
My spine snaps straight.
High on my thigh.
Like high high.
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Way up there.
Right next to—his finger shifts a fraction— aaannnnnddd , he’s on it.
"Stop," he growls, low enough that only I can hear.
His fingers flex—slow and deliberate—the warmth of his palm spreading like fire through my jeans. Rhythmic swipes—gentle but utterly electrifying sending shocks straight through me.
All while in a casual conversation with another guest sitting on his other side, form Virginia or some shit.
He’s the very picture of ignoring his best friend’s little sister.
But under the bunched-up, heavy wool blanket, he’s like his kiss.
Lazily intentional.
Is that a thing? It feels like a thing.
His fingers graze over me now, carrying the same devastating power as when he toyed with the shell of my ear and brushed a kiss over the corner of my mouth.
Edging the fuck out of me without looking like he’s edging me, all in front of a PG crowd.
I bite my lip to keep from groaning, but then Charlie, who has a radar for bad decisions, calls out from the front. "Everything okay back there?"
Her tone says she knows something , and I could die right now if my pulse weren’t currently having an identity crisis
His hand lands even higher on my thigh, if that’s even possible. A casual move that feels anything but.
Suddenly, I’m back in our little room, tracing the curve of his lips with trembling fingers.
The memory rushes in, unbidden and all-consuming, making me shift in my seat as heat creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks.
“All good here. What about you, Holly? Problem?” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—a knowing, teasing challenge.
Yes, there’s a problem.
Because I can’t stop thinking about the way your heartbeat felt beneath my palm, steady and unyielding, grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Because I admitted things to you in your sleep I can never take back—even if you didn’t hear them.
And because the buzz I had going—the one that dulled all the sharp edges for a little while—is gone.
In its place? Your possessive hand, resting like it belongs, making me want to do it all over again.
"Fine," I choke out, but my voice sounds more strangled than confident.
"Just cold," I add, and instantly regret it.
Chance’s chuckle—low, dark, and utterly unholy—rolls through me, wrapping around my fraying self control.
"Should’ve worn a thicker sweater, Squirt," he murmurs, his voice dipping into a timbre that vibrates straight down my spine. “Keep Otis warm.”
With just a handful of words, he transports me to our most intimate moments. Lamplight casting a warm glow, and his fingertip tracing the letters on my thigh.
A fleeting closeness that's not meant to endure, yet it still has its grip on me.
Oh, God. I need air.
Yes, I know we’re outside. Shut up.
My leg bounces, the movements growing sharper, more frantic—like I'm trying to douse the heat crackling between us.
But all it does is make his hand shift again—just a fraction, but enough that my traitorous body perks right up.
"You better stop," he growls, voice low and thick now, amusement softening the edges. Not quite sing-song, but dangerously close.
His hand inches higher, curling with the precision of a predator toying with its prey.
My breath shatters, eyelids sinking shut.
It’s not the words themselves, but how he says them—gritty, almost reverent. The heat pooling between my thighs becomes molten, and my chest rises and falls in shallow gasps. His arm steadies me as I sway, the dizziness stealing what little sense I have left.
“Mmmmm… That’s my girl.”
I’m supposed to be the wrong type of woman.
My eyes flutter open, my vision blurry, but coming into focus, and finding Sierra.
So if I’m the wrong type of woman, why is Chance here with me rather than sitting back there with the right one?