This is stupid. It’s mistletoe. And like they say aboutdoth protesting too muchor something like that. Look, I’m better with numbers.
Point is, the longer we stand here, the bigger the deal it is.
Screw it.
Curling my fingers in the front of his shirt—firm grip on both dog tags if you know what I mean—I yank him down.
Rising onto my toes, I press a hard, decisive kiss to his mouth.
There’s no hesitation, no softness—just bold, take-no-prisoners action to shut everyone up and get it over with.
Only... his lips are soft. Warm. They part slightly in surprise, and something electric zips through me, making more than my toes curl.
My nipples all of a sudden dress up like Mr. Peanut, complete with top hat and cane doing a broadway number worthy of a Tony Award.
His hand grips my hip, firm and steady—whether to keep me balanced or to keep me there, I can’t tell. My pulse stutters. A whimper pounds its little fist in my throat, demanding to be set free. Before I go from zero to screwing the proverbial pooch less than five minutes into my grand plan, I jerk back.
The rest of our families surge forward with hugs and greetings, but their voices barely register. They’re blissfully normal, passing us around for the obligatory forced affection like the world didn’t just tip on its axis.
My lips tingle where his mouth touched mine, every nerve ending alive and buzzing with dangerous awareness.
"Holly!" My dad's booming voice slices through the chaos, jolting me out of my haze.
My eyes snap up to the direction of his voice and—called it!
"There's someone who can't wait to see you!"
Can't wait, my ass.
Blake stands at my father's side in an impeccably tailored suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His smug smile has me fantasizing about wiping it off with a well-placed elbow.
"You remember Blake." He claps Blake on the back, beaming with the kind of pride I can only dream of earning—pride currently wasted on this walking Ralph Lauren ad with the personality of a doorknob.
"This young man is single-handedly responsible for breaking the record for new accounts in a single year."
Translation:Look how perfect he'd be running my company while you play the dutiful wife.
I paste on a saccharine smile. "How could I forget? Though I hear it's not the number of accounts that matters—it's the profit they bring in."
Blake's smirk doesn't falter, like I didn't just insult his... performance. "You're looking lovely as ever, Holly. I hope we can catch up later."
I'd rather have one of Charlie's "toys" stuck in Tab C and spend the night explaining my life choices to a hot proctologist thanks.
I cock my head, my smile sharpening like lethal icicles I picture driving through his eye. "Oh, I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to… compare numbers."
Beside me, Chance coughs into his fist, poorly concealing a laugh.
Blake's eyes narrow.
“Don’t get the kids started, William. No work at Christmas. That’s the rule. You can talk numbers at home.”
Blech—I will never be talking about my father’s numbers in any capacity ever, Mom, but you do you.
Mom gives my father a pointed look and presses a room key into my palm. "Your room key, dear. Though I'm sure you'll spend more time on the slopes than in it."
More like buried in spreadsheets, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Dad waits until my Mom's attention is firmly fixed on greeting Chance before his hand settles on my shoulder, the affectionate squeeze making his habit of repeatedly dismissing me cut all the deeper.
