“Missiles?” I ask flatly, though it comes out closer to a growl.
“More like heat-seeking rage drones at this point,” Nick corrects. “Hence the financial wellness check.”
I let out a long breath, dragging my gaze away from my father and taking a slow pull of whiskey, the burn a poor substitute for the fire building in my chest.
“You’ve been on edge all night, Chance.” Nick’s voice drops, less teasing now. “What’s going on?”
My gaze snaps to Holly once again to find her holding open her jacket just enough for him to peek inside.
Gut churning, I count in my head, if I reach three and he’s still a hair’s breath frommy breasts—he’s done for.
Just shy of three—his death knell—he throws his head back, laughing at whatever he sees.
Eyes locking on something overhead, his laughter dies, to be replaced by a shit-eating grin. The kind of a man who just stumbled on the goddamned jackpot.
With a playful tug of my hair—yes, mine—Holly glances in the direction of Everetts's finger, her brows pinching together.
And there it is. Red bow, white berries.
By tomorrow? Everett’s official cause of death.
This fucking thing breeds faster than Nick Cannon.
I see the moment she catches on, her lips parting to argue, but it's too late. Someone in the cluster of people passing by shouts, “You gonna kiss her or what?”
“Or what.” Shoving my crunched cup at Nick’s chest, blood roaring in my ears, I eat up the distance to them.
Her head whips toward Everett, eyes shot open wide—Jesus is that good or bad—doesn’t matter because, again—mine.
The bastard lets out a self-deprecating laugh that ends with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
This is stupid, stupid, stuuuupid.
My boots crunch against the snow as I charge across the clearing, the buzz of the crowd fading to a low hum. With it, the music takes on new life, the melody distinct, the words clear.
“Oh by gosh, by golly… it’s time for mistletoe and holly…”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. Even the songs are in on the goddamn joke.
My brain kicks into survival mode, dropping warning after warning, with the frenzy of dropping abort codes as the seconds dwindle down on a bomb.
You’re supposed to hate her.
Stay the course.
You promised.
Yup, I did.
I made a lot of promises… but you know what, I did not promise I’d stand by and watch some other guy put his lips where mine belong.
It’s not just the usual Everett smirk, either. No, this one is smug. Calculated. He glances at the mistletoe dangling conveniently overhead, then at Holly, and back to me. That bastard.
Holly’s head snaps toward me, her expression unreadable—except for the flicker of something in her eyes.
Evidence shows you can become an addict after one hit.
You got that right.
