“Good advice, my love.” Dad entered the kitchen, last year’s bottle of Jameson in his hand. Frugal to the core, he only brought it out on special occasions.
“Hi, Dad.” I kissed his cheek.
“Bridget, love.” He lowered his voice. “How’s the job search?”
“I’ll start next week. The good news is one of my connections got me an interview as an executive director of a foundation.” I bit my lip. “It wouldn’t be as much money as I was making before, but I’d be helping families who are new to the country.”
“The money doesn’t matter.” Mom patted my cheek, and my heavy heart lifted. “What’s more important is not being unemployed for long. At your age, it’s harder to find a new job than to find a husband, and we know how that’s gone.”
“Mom!” I gasped. My stomach plummeted to somewhere around the cuffs of my jeans.
“Don’t worry, Deirdre,” my father said. “Bridget’s much better at finding work than men. She’ll get a job.”
“Dad, you can’t say that!” As much as I loved my family, I was regretting coming tonight. Thank Jesus I’d never told them about Cole. The humiliation would be more than I could bear.
He rubbed my back as if it would ease the hurtful things they’d said. “What? I said you were a good worker. And I like the idea of you working to support immigrants. Your grandparents would’ve liked to have a firecracker like you on their side.”
Slightly mollified, I said, “The immigration system is even harder to navigate now. I’d love to support the organization’s mission of helping newcomers.”
“A toast.” He unscrewed the cap from the bottle and produced a pair of shot glasses from the pocket of his cardigan. His sweater was dotted with sparkly white pom-poms to represent snowflakes. “To new beginnings.”
I held the glasses as he poured. “To new beginnings.” We each raised a glass.
“Bridge.” Ciara ran into the kitchen, the bell on her Santa hat dancing. “There’s a guy at the door. Big. Like, The Rock big. Dark hair. Dreamy blue eyes. He says he wants to see you.”
The whiskey went down the wrong way, and I coughed for at least thirty seconds. Dad nipped the glass from my hand, tossed back the rest of my shot, then whacked my back.
When I could breathe again, I said, “Send him away.”
“Wait, you know him?” Ciara asked. “I thought he was one of those stripper-grams. I wanted to see what was under that tux. Except…” She scrunched her nose. “He has a little girl with him. That’s weird for a stripper, right?”
“A stripper on Christmas Eve?” My dad took another shot and wiped his mouth. “Those girlfriends of yours are trouble, Bridget.”
“No, Dad, he’s not a stripper. Is the little girl around eight? Curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a sharp look to her?”
“Cute as a button,” Ciara said. “Already ran off with Ashlyn.”
I sighed. “Then I guess I have to talk to him, at least until you can extract Caitlyn from the house.”
“Who is he?” Mom asked.
“Cole Campion.” The hairs on my arms lifted when I said his name. Who was he to trespass on my territory on Christmas-fucking-Eve?
“Fuck, Bridget.” Ciara’s eyes went wide.“That’sCole, your nemesis? I could forgive a lot if it came in a yummy package like that.”
“Jesus, Ciara. Language,” Mom said. “But let’s go take a look.” She and my sister turned toward the front of the house.
By the time I made it to the front door, all four of my sisters and my mother circled Cole, who was still on the doorstep. He wore a crisp black tuxedo, like Ciara said, wide at his broadshoulders and tapering to his narrower waist and hips. A shiny black cuff link winked at his wrist when he scratched his eyebrow. Although he looked fabulous in a suit, a tux was next-level, and the steel walls I’d erected around my tender heart melted a little. I wanted to peel the formalwear off him piece by piece.
No, I didn’t! He was an asshole for working with Ned behind my back.
I rubbed my hands together to warm them with the cold air creeping inside. “Why are you on my parents’ front porch?”
He opened his mouth, but Megan spoke over him. “He won’t come in until you invite him.”
“What are you, a vampire?” I said. “Come in. You’re letting the heat out. But I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Fair.” He stepped inside, his polished shoes as shiny as my mother’s prized collection of Swarovski figurines. He cautiously skirted the display case in the narrow foyer, and Denise closed the door behind him.
