You Better Not Pout (Home Sweet Holidays #4)

Chapter One Juliana

Chapter One

Juliana

Any other demands, mi corazón?”

Eric shifts closer to me after he asks his patently sarcastic question, the arm of his wool coat brushing mine as we stand on the porch of my childhood home.

That wisp of contact between us is a timely reminder that we’ll need to stick together like glue to make this weekend a success; our actual relationship status is neither here nor there.

I turn and stare up at my former fiancé, taking in his strong features, his rich brown skin, his I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this expression.

He’s a ridiculously attractive man, and a genuinely kind and caring person, a mix of attributes that will make our ploy exceedingly difficult to execute given the reality of our situation.

Even so, I’ll try. “Yes, one last thing, my heart,” I say, echoing his fake endearment and narrowing my eyes so he knows to listen carefully.

“Lose the attitude. If we’re going to convince them that we’re still a happily engaged couple, you need to get that sour look off your face.

” I shimmy my shoulders and flash jazz hands.

“Let’s see some adoration, some admiration.

More ‘This woman has me whipped.’ Less ‘I’d throttle her if I could. ’ Otherwise my family won’t buy it.”

He rolls his eyes and fakes a smile. “Better?”

Well, we’re certainly off to a fine start, and you know what?

I just don’t have it in me to get through this ruse on my own.

Not when my head is telling me that Eric and I aren’t a good match and my heart wants nothing more than to forget our problems and hand itself to him on a silver platter.

Dammit. I didn’t think this would be so hard, but now I’m questioning the wisdom of my admittedly shortsighted plan.

With a huff, I spin on my heels, then rush down the steps, nearly skidding on a sheet of ice when I reach the sidewalk.

“Never mind. This was a bad idea,” I say over my shoulder while giving him a dismissive wave.

“I’ll make up an excuse. Tell them one of us is sick and we can’t make it. ”

“Juliana, wait.” Just as I reach our car, Eric catches up, grabs my hand, and pulls me to a stop.

“What?” I say, spinning to face him while swatting away the end of my scarf before it conspires with the wind to smack me in the face again.

“It’s clear you don’t want to be here. Which is fine.

You’re entitled to your feelings. I’ll break the news to them next week or something.

We can always figure out who gets to stay on the lease some other way. ”

Neither of us has a clear claim on our apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, so I offered to step aside in exchange for Eric’s agreement to pretend that he’s still my fiancé for the weekend.

I’m certainly not just going to let Eric have the place.

I mean, c’mon, the building’s rent stabilized.

Plus, technically, he dumped me. Okay, maybe I pushed him to do it.

Still, I was well within my rights to be livid .

. . or hurt . . . or devastated. Instead, I set all my conflicted emotions aside and immediately went into crisis-management mode.

How could I avoid messing up this joyous time for my family?

How could I put off upsetting my mother?

Especially considering she only recently recovered from a lupus flare-up that stole all her energy for months.

I just wanted to ride out the holidays and tell them about the split after the new year.

Except I didn’t think through the repercussions of our deal: Spending the weekend pretending to still be engaged to Eric is going to cause a ton of inner turmoil.

I’d endure it, though. For my family. But if Eric isn’t going to live up to his end of the bargain, there’s no point in engaging in this charade.

My family will immediately pick up on the dissension between us, ask questions, try to intervene.

I’d rather not spend the next two days getting counseling from my mother and our merry band of relatives.

We’ll end up ruining Christmas for everyone anyway, which was most definitely not the point.

“No, you’re right,” Eric says, shaking his head. “I agreed to do this, and I will.” He grimaces, then licks his plump lips—the jerk. “I just need to get into the right mindset.”

I study him, my finger pointed in a scolding gesture. “You better not cry.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “When’s the last time you’ve seen me cry?”

“There’s always a first time,” I say, curling my hands into fists as I try to make a menacing expression. It doesn’t work.

Eric chuckles. “I better not pout, either, huh?”

“You catch on quickly,” I say, unable to hold back a grin.

The truth is, Eric’s a great guy. But after two and a half years together, I need to finally admit that a great guy does not the right partner make.

We’re both stubborn and set in our ways.

Eric says I’m a workaholic who refuses to prioritize our relationship.

I think he should be more supportive of my efforts to establish a successful career.

Plus, he’s apt to try to slay dragons for me whenever they arise.

Which is an admirable quality in theory.

In practice, however, I’m fully capable of being the dragon slayer of my own story, and I don’t need him swooping in to save the day.

No, Eric is not my person—though my chest aches at the thought of the life he’ll eventually build with someone else.

The man I can’t get out of my head clears his throat and waves a hand in front of my face. “Ready to go in?”

I blink myself out of my inner musings before I answer. If he thinks I’m seconds away from a meltdown, he isn’t wrong. But I can also fake it with the best of them to reach a goal, so I take in a cleansing breath and nod. “Sure. Let’s do this.”

Two days. I can pretend for two days.

“Oh, wait,” Eric says, fishing for something in his pocket. “The ring.” He pulls it out and holds it up between his thumb and forefinger; the facets shine like a beacon.

My stomach drops and a rush of heat trails up my sternum. “They’ll notice if I’m not wearing it.” My tone is bereft of emotion; my soul is not.

Eric swallows and looks down at the ring, his features clouded by sadness. “Yeah.”

I take it from his hand before he can even try to place it on my finger. I slip it on, my face an expressionless mask. It’s part of the costume, that’s all. “Okay, then. Now we’re ready.”

My voice is deliberately cheerful. There’s no trace of the nostalgia that swept over me when he pulled out that ring.

No sign of the despair sweeping through me as I think about what might have been.

No hint of the memory that flashed in my mind: the day his best friend asked me to help him choose a ring for his longtime girlfriend, when all along it was a ploy Eric had orchestrated so I could choose a ring for myself.

This is another one of my superpowers: compartmentalization.

My heart will be tucked away in its box for the duration of this visit.

There’s no other way I’ll survive this weekend.

As we’re climbing the porch stairs, I take in the over-the-top Christmas decorations my mother and her wife put up.

So. Many. Lights. And more garland than any single family should ever own.

I gasp when I spot this year’s inflatable propped against the porch swing: Santa bending to warm his hands by the fireplace, his suit jacket riding up so that the leopard-print thong he’s wearing is visible to everyone.

It’s a welcome distraction, albeit only marginally better than last year’s decor: an inflatable Santa reading a newspaper while using a chimney as his toilet.

You have a lot to answer for, Etsy. These gags are meant to piss off the family in the cul-de-sac who petitioned to form a homeowners’ association once my mother staked a pride flag in our lawn.

I get the impetus, I do. But seeing Santa’s butt crack is not how I want to celebrate the holidays.

Eric chuckles. “Priceless.”

“Consider yourself lucky you’re no longer marrying into this family,” I quip.

The humor drains from his expression, and he blows out a long breath. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Before I can apologize for my careless remark, the front door flies open.

“Eles chegaram!” Tio Enoque bellows, a bottle of beer in his hand.

My uncle has only two voice levels: loud and louder.

I’d wear earplugs around him if I thought it would help, but it won’t.

(Yes, I’ve tried.) The mind-boggling part is, he’s a twin.

Yeah, there’s two of them, and the other one, Tio Marcelo, is even louder than his younger (by two minutes) brother.

“Yep, we’re here, Tio,” I say. “Just as we promised.”

He steps onto the porch and wraps me in a tight embrace while never letting go of his precious beer. Then, Tio Enoque releases me and shakes Eric’s hand. “Tudo bem, filho?”

“Tudo bem,” Eric says with confidence.

Eric’s been around our family long enough to know how Brazilians often greet and check in with each other.

And a younger male is always a “son,” no matter if the elder is your parent or not.

In the time we’ve dated, Eric’s picked up quite a bit of Portuguese.

He attributes his facility with the language to his mother, whose first language is Spanish.

Tio Enoque throws his arms around Eric and me, his beer sloshing around in the bottle, and leans toward Eric. “We have a surprise for you.”

Eric’s brows snap together, and his eyes grow wide. “For me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tio Enoque says, waggling his eyebrows. “For you.”

I have no clue what it could be; given that it’s a surprise arranged by my family, I’m not sure I want to know. They’re . . . unique. Yes, that’s the correct word.