I park at the end of the block and walk back, rehearsing casual greetings in my head. The December air is crisp and clear, and the yards on this block have inflatable decorations with kitschy homemade paper snowflakes in the windows. This was set up by the actual people who live here, not hired professional decorators aiming for classy one-upmanship.
It looks like a Christmas card, the kind of family gathering I’ve seen in movies but never experienced.
I’m halfway up the front walk when Eliza’s voice carries through the storm door.
“I think it’s a mistake,” she’s saying, her tone sharp with frustration. “Getting involved with someone like him. Someone who holds that much power over my life.”
My hand freezes inches from the doorbell.
“Someone like him always gets what they want,” she continues. “And when they’re done, people like us get left with the wreckage.”
The eggnog suddenly feels impossibly heavy in my hands.
15
Eliza
The Storm Chalet is in full chaos when I hear the doorbell, which means Reed is twenty minutes late. I’m balancing three different conversations—Eva asking about goat cheese photos, Ben explaining municipal composting regulations to anyone who’ll listen, and Koa trying to convince Esther that her gingerbread recipe needs rum—when Esther opens the front door.
“You must be Reed,” she says warmly. “Come in, come in. We’re just getting started.”
I turn from where I’m arranging cookies on platters to find Reed looking like someone just told him his hydroponic system caught fire. Of course, he probably heard me talking about him before he walked in. Now I feel like shit and stole the sparkle in his smile.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, offering Esther a carton of eggnog. His voice has that careful, polite tone people use when they’re trying very hard not to show they’re upset.
“No worries at all,” Esther says, but I catch her glancing at me with raised eyebrows. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
Reed nods and follows her into the living room, but something’s wrong. His shoulders are tense, his smile looks painted, and when Eva bounces over to hug him—because Eva hugs everyone—he accepts it like he’s bracing for impact.
“Reed!” Eden beams. “Perfect timing. We’re about to start the gingerbread house competition.”
“Great,” Reed says, and it’s the least enthusiastic ‘great’ I’ve ever heard.
I abandon my cookie arranging and approach him, studying his face. I should apologize. I should pull him aside to talk. What comes out of my mouth is, “Hey, you okay?”
His gaze meets mine for just a second before sliding away. “Fine. Just tired.”
He’s lying. Reed’s a terrible liar—his jaw does this twitching thing when he’s not telling the truth, and it’s twitching now like Morse code. He’s acting like he did when his father was ruining his investor pitch.
“Are you sure? You seem?—”
“I’m fine, Eliza.” The words come out sharp, and now everyone in the room is looking at us.
Ben, bless his awkward heart, chooses this moment to launch into an explanation of sustainable packaging, giving me cover to pull Reed aside.
“I need to talk to you,” I whisper.
“Everything’s fine.” Reed straightens his shoulders, transforming into the polite, controlled person I met at the permit office. “Are we doing the contest?”
Before I can press him further, Eva appears with a toolkit of decorating supplies and an expression of pure competitive joy.
“Reed, you’re on my team,” she announces. “We’re going to destroy Eliza and Koa.”
“Teams are already decided?” Reed asks, and I swear there’s relief in his voice at the distraction.
“Eva’s been planning your strategy for an hour,” Koa says with a grin. “She’s taking this very seriously.”
“Good,” Reed says, and this time his smile looks almost genuine. “I like winning.”
