Two
Isla
T heo Thorne —that’s what.
Or, more accurately, who .
My nightmare before, during, and after Christmas.
I skid to a stop in the entryway, breath catching, mouth parting in surprise. My heart slams against my ribcage, and my mind short-circuits as too many thoughts crash into each other and overload the grid.
Almost an entire year had passed since I last saw him, but Theo hasn’t changed much.
Same broad shoulders and neck-craning height. Dark, wavy hair that triggers finger twitches. A full bottom lip, framed by a jawline sculpted from a mold not readily available to mere mortals.
Then there’s his presence—calculated control layered with a curated kind of dominance. It precedes him. And does torturous things to my nervous system.
As a creative, I should wield a sharper vocabulary for the visual impact of him, but his nearness pummels rational thought to pulp. Even after all this time, I can’t brand him properly. Cliché ads for luxury cologne, top-shelf whiskey, and cold, cruel regret are all much too tame for Theo.
Why is he here?
What am I supposed to do now?
For the last five years, his pointed boycott of all things merry spared me from his detached glory. My holiday survival guide never needed a chapter on how to survive him .
Now he’s here. And I’m unarmed. Completely and utterly defenseless.
I blink, praying the scowling tower of a man in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans is a hellish hallucination brought on by exhaustion and peppermint fumes.
All hope shatters the moment he steps forward and locks eyes with me. That deep green holds the same pull as the wild forest surrounding us. The intensity of his stare steals every molecule of air from my lungs.
Shit .
He’s real. Very, very real.
As his gaze cuts deeper, a flurry of snowflakes erupts in my stomach. One charged heartbeat later, the blizzard flash-freezes into a block of ice that plummets straight into my gut.
Uncomfortable, yet also— no.
Nope . Absolutely not.
My best friend’s older brother is off-limits .
Firmly and forever.
Six Christmases ago, I made the mistake of confessing my very real, very messy feelings to a man who undoubtedly saw himself as way out of my league.
Spoiler alert: it did not go well.
At all.
Theo didn’t just turn me down. He erased himself from my life. Severed a bond over a year in the making. One I’d allowed to settle somewhere permanent.
Our connection was genuine. Unexpected, sure —but real.
It started with kindness. Morphed into mentorship. Then, without warning, slipped into something deeper. A friendship that crawled under my skin and tattooed itself across my soul.
He’d seen me at my most vulnerable and chose to stay.
Until…he didn’t.
The odds were stacked against me from the start. At twenty-eight, Theo was brilliant and accomplished, already building an intimidating reputation at an elite advertising agency. I was a grief-stricken nineteen-year-old with nothing to my name but ghosts and a guest room under his parents’ roof.
His future burned bright. Mine was reduced to ashes by one bastard’s selfish choice to drive drunk. He was thriving while I fought for survival.
I knew better. Was well-aware I’d never measure up.
But I threw my whole heart at him anyway. Gave him everything I had.
Back then, I believed he was worth it.
The rejection struck. And stuck.
If nothing else, it cured me of my naive crush.
My feelings are now filed away in a folder labeled Failed Pitches and Other Disasters , stamped with a big, bold: Do Not Resuscitate .
“Isla,” Theo greets as he steps back to let us into the foyer.
“Theo.” I force my voice into cool, calm, collected territory.
Now if only my stupid heart would fall in line.
A beat of silence lags.
Nonchalance personified, he folds his arms across his chest with a calm authority that crackles through the room. The motion disturbs the air between us, sending a faint pulse of his scent my way.
Sharp pine. Crisp mint.
Warning swathed in want.
It ghosts over my skin, dragging old memories out of their graves.
Pressing my lips together, I hold my breath hostage, bracing against the sucker punch of déjà vu.
“ Whoa . You’re here!” Asher shakes his head, voice hitching mid-exclamation like his brain is buffering the shock of his older brother’s presence. “Great. You can be the first to hear the exciting announcement.” His arm snakes around my waist—a second too late and a lot too tight.
If the move throws Theo, he doesn’t let on. He lifts a single eyebrow, wordlessly signalling Asher to keep going.
My golden retriever of a friend has many qualities. Subtlety isn’t one of them. The grin he flashes is as piercing as a Breaking News banner. “Isla and I are dating!”
Theo’s eyes storm the spot where Asher’s fingers dig into my hip bone. “Dating.” The word is flat, but there is a hint of an edge under it.
He drags his gaze up, bypassing Asher with a slow blink, before leveling me with an achingly intimate glare.
The shudder that rocks through me is instant and entirely involuntary. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as heat and history ripple down my spine .
Steeling myself, I square my shoulders and compose my features into something that hopefully resembles mild disinterest.
His jaw ticks. My pulse trips.
Neither of us looks away.
We’re stuck in a silent stand-off until Asher’s loud, jarring hand clap snaps me out of the spell.
“We finally took the leap and gave in to our will-they-won’t-they tension.” He turns to me and winks. “Right, Mistletoe Munchkin?”
“Uh-huh.” I clear my throat and plaster on a smile in lieu of an eye roll. “A true holiday miracle. The kind that hits you out of nowhere. Like a rogue snowball to the face.” Summoning fake pep, I deliver every line straight to Asher like I’m starring in some chipper ad for fake dating.
“Suppose it was inevitable.” The words drag roughly from Theo’s chest, but his expression remains impassive. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I inch closer to Asher, leaning into his easy warmth, seeking refuge from the frigidity of his brother’s indifference.
Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together.
The thought loops like a cursed holiday jingle.
Maybe this relationship charade with Asher is exactly what I need to get through the week unscathed.
I’ll be under the same roof as my heart-wrenching crush of Christmas past, but I’ve built up immunity over the years.
I can play nice. Be civil. Act unbothered.
I’m fully prepared to unleash an arsenal of bland, beige, emotionally sterile coping mechanisms if it keeps me from stumbling back into mistake-riddled quicksand and humiliating myself twice in one lifetime .
My holiday strategy is simple: fake date the crap out of my best friend and stay the hell away from his big brother.
No slipping into old habits.
Or— even worse —Theo Thorne’s orbit.