Prologue
Well,well, well… if you’re here because your Kindle got the equivalent of a drunk walk of shame delivered straight to your library, we need to talk.
You might’ve cracked open the last five chapters of this book only to discover they were served up like a regrettable 2 a.m. drunk text—messy, incoherent, and entirely too bold for their own good. Maybe they danced on a table, confessed their undying love to a stranger, and then face-planted into your literary DMs.
Embarrassing?
Oh, you bet.
But at least no one threw up on your shoes.
Honestly, it was less "holiday cheer" and more "holiday oops," but we’re here now, and the sober rewrite has arrived. Let’s all agree to pretend it never happened.
I know, I know. You’re here for spicy banter and holiday chaos, not to witness the literary equivalent of an ill-advised karaoke session thatdefinitelydidn’t hit the right notes.
And here’s where it gets fun—this shit happens to me all the time.
Haunting levels of chaos seem to follow my manuscripts like it’s their full-time job. Just ask my alpha reader and story extraordinaire, Christiana—you may know her as Concepts by Canea or Canea Cox—she’s witnessed some seriously perplexing shit.
So, hold your Ouija boards, troublemakers—I don’t need ghostwriters ofthatkind. Or any kind, but you’re picking up what I’m putting down.
Problem solvers? Send sage. Preferably in bulk.
Don’t worry—this is the sober, cleaned-up,lesshaunted version. The one that’s had a coffee, taken an aspirin, and is ready to get its act together for you.
Now, onward to the chaos as it was meant to be:
GI Jackass and Holly McAdams going head-to-head (and mistletoe-to-thigh-high socks) in a holiday romcom that’sfinallygot its act together.
Promise.
Well… mostly.
~ Echo
Chapter One
Holly
Every bitof zen I try to channel evaporates on a frustrated growl at the sound of my brother’s smooth, recorded voice for the third time.
"Nick, I swear to God, if you forgot—" The automated voicemail cuts me off mid-rant.
A sharp twinge pulses behind my left eye—nature's warning shot that a migraine is locked and loaded. Thanks, Santa. Really feeling that Christmas magic. Right now, I'd take a sleigh full of reindeer shit over the ice pick about to lodge itself in my skull.
My fifth voicemail in twenty minutes hits his inbox with the fury of a woman trapped in airport purgatory. "Nicholas Andrew McAdams, I don't care if you're dead in a ditch. It’s not an acceptable excuse for?—"
The automated system cuts me off.
Again.
I spin in place, my heels squeaking against the terminal floor as I scan for something—anything. A forgotten customer servicerep. A sympathetic janitor. Hell, I'll take a therapy dog at this point.
One look at the time tells me customer service is closed and according to the sign overhead, the next flight won’t arrive for another three hours.
From Chicago.
Great.
