Then, I glance at the thermometer reading twenty-six degrees outside. And my gaze flicks back at him.
“Bobby. We live in New Jersey. It’s freezing. I am not going to a goddamn luau.”
He clutches his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him.
“Bro, you can’t keep working yourself to death! You need to have some fun, meet people—preferably ones who don’t have stock tickers for personalities!”
“Bobby,” I sigh, “I have to get these numbers to reconcile before close. You’d know that if you spent any time in your office instead of whatever tiki hellscape you’ve got planned.”
He waves me off.
“Fine, fine. Be a grouch. But before you lock yourself in your cave again, check your email. Or your texts.”
Suspicion crawls up my spine.
“Why?”
“Let’s just say,” he drawls, “your Christmas gift came early this year.”
I squint at him. “Define gift.”
He smirks—the kind of smirk that means trouble—and starts backing out of my office.
“Oh, you’ll see. Just don’t skip it, yeah? The contract’s magically binding.”
I blink.
“What?”
“Magically enforced,” he repeats, still grinning. “So if you don’t go, you’ll regret it. Merry Christmas!”
And then he’s gone.
Whistling Mele Kalikimaka down the hall.
I stare at the doorway for a full thirty seconds, waiting for the punch line.
It doesn’t come.
“Bobby!” I roar, storming out of my office. “What the hell did you do?”
He’s already halfway down the hall, laughing like a lunatic.
I swear I’m going to throttle him—just enough to knock some sense into that sun-bleached brain of his.
I’m sure our father would approve wherever he his—Gods rest his soul.
Then my phone dings.
I stop mid-stride, glare down at the screen.
Congratulations, Ebenezer Rogers!
Your exclusive invitation to Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate Holiday Gala has been magically confirmed.
Attendance is required.
Click here to confirm your registration.
