Probably.
Yes, okay. The answer is yes. How uncouth of him to point it out.
I flip him the bird, complete with my tongue out. Gotta get in character and all that. Apparently, diapers are in order if my souring mood is any indication.
“Charming.”
We cross the lobby, the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air. It should be comforting, but the knot in my stomach only tightens.
As we approach the archway leading to the great room, I slow.
"Remember—"
"I know, I know. Pretend to hate your guts. Got it," he mutters, his voice tight.
Before I can say more, the synchronized squeals of the Sentimental Squad—otherwise known as our mothers—pierce the air.
"I've seen this before," I whisper, nodding towards the room full of holiday cheer and family drama waiting for us. “The Last of Us, episode five?
“A horde of fungus zombies. Yup. Didn’t they use Molotov cocktails? Because I’m fresh out."
“What a tragic misuse of overly tactical cargo pants,” I smirk, letting my gaze drift to his legs—an immediate mistake. This pair is somehow even tighter than the last.
"Chance! You made it!" His mother's voice is shrill with delight, her designer boots clicking rapidly across the polished hardwood floor as she rushes towards us.
Mrs. McAdams swoops in, enveloping Chance in a hug so fierce it practically redefines parental guilt trips. The kind of hug that screams:I missed you so much, how dare you leave me alone with your father for this long.
Right on cue, my mom hovering like a caffeinated hummingbird, wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a warm, perfumed embrace that somehow manages to both comfort and smother me at the same time. "You look too thin. Have you been eating? Are you taking vitamins?"
Charlie breaks away from where she's wrapped around Nick to shoot me a knowing look that makes my cheeks flame.
Eve’s got that hawk-eyed, forensic glare of hers primed and pinned on us. Nothing’s slipping past her radar. Eve—AKA the family chaos engine—is already revving, and honestly, I don’t know whether to cheer her on or start building a bunker. She’s the perfect storm of brilliant and devious—a real asset when the wheels come off until she’s the one lighting the fuse.
Charlie better keep her mouth shut—she knows precisely which skeletons I’ve got stashed, and I’m not in the mood for a surprise exorcism.
"Oh, look at that!" Mrs. McAdams gasps, pointing skyward like she’s just uncovered the lost city of Atlantis. "Mistletoe!"
Frozen to the spot, a buzz vibrates to the roots of my hair, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
Chance stiffens beside me, every muscle taut like he’s preparing for battle.
And really, he should be. Because, of course, there’s mistletoe. Why wouldn’t there be mistletoe?
The universe clearly decided I needed one last kick while I’m down. And naturally, Chance had to be so freakishly tall forcing his mom craned her neck and spot that little sprig overhead.
Taking a strategic step back, he flashes a tight smile full of forced cheer. “I’m good.”
His tone is so perfectly casual it’s almost suspicious. Like he’s rehearsed sounding indifferent just for moments like this.
“It’s bad luck to ignore tradition,” she adds, throwing me so far under the bus I can practically feel the tire treads on my back.
Charlie’s eyes gleam. My brain kicks into overdrive, trying to calculate just how many gift-wrapped grenades I’ve handed her in text by mentioning Chance.
And Nick? Oh, Nick isn’t even pretending to play it cool. His focus is laser-locked on Chance, his shoulders tense, jaw tight, and his mouth forming a grim line daring Chance—Try it, bro. I dare you. Just give me a reason to deck your fucking halls.
This is my nightmare.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
