Tonight, I map out the lodge's entrances and exits in my head, calculating alternate routes that avoid that damn entryway and its mistletoe entirely.
Mission parameters set.
No more mistletoe incidents. No more kisses. No more testing my control.
I'm a soldier. I can follow simple orders.
Even if I know the war is already lost.
Chapter Ten
Holly
Nothing screams‘tis the season for existential dread quite like a family brunch at the lodge. The mimosas are mercifully strong—bless the gods of overpriced orange juice—but I swear the fireplace is in on the joke. Every crackle and pop of the logs sounds like a cackle, as though it’s rubbing its sooty little hands together, gleefully awaiting the implosion.
Well, not today. Nope, I’m the picture of calm, buzzed on spiked champagne, with just enough clarity to watch our parents and ask—what the fuck?
"Remember the scavenger hunts?" My mom's voice drips nostalgia, "The kids spent hours running through the lodge..."
"Gingerbread house competitions were my favorite," Chance’s mom sighs. "Until Though the hot glue gun incident?—"
"It was one time," Charlie interjects. "His eyebrow grew back eventually. Let it go."
Nick rubs the aforementioned eyebrow. "Eventually is the operative word."
The dining room preens its perfection, from the polished wood beams to the antique sideboards.
Martha Stewart cheer meets rustic luxury.
I take another sip of my mimosa. I’ve got a lovely little zing to maintain.
“Mom, we’ve outgrown this,” I say, minus the instinctive whine I would have used as a kid. “You can’t shove us back into our footie pajamas with nostalgia and hot chocolate."
Mrs. McAllister’s pointed look sweeps through the lot of us. "Well, this is all we've got until one of you finally gives us grandchildren."
"Shots fired," I mutter, earning a sharp look from my mother.
Nick looks at me and jerks his head toward our moms—You want to help us here?
"Don't look at me. You and Charlie are the ones trying to make breeding an Olympic sport."
"Holly!" My mother gasps.
I wiggle my glass in the air and shrug. “Weren’t you the one who ordered the alcohol?”
"Maybe we could resurrect some of the old traditions. The snowshoe race, the sleigh ride…"
Those trips to the ER…
"Stars overhead, the blankets, the hot chocolate?—"
That time Nick fingerbanged some redhead in the back row right up against the pile of gifts for all the good little boys and girls.
Yes. Magical. The very embodiment of the Christmas spirit.
Ho-fucking-ho-fucking-ho.
"Are youtryingto guarantee we avoid all being here at the same time again for the next decade?" Eve asks.
