I do everything I can to look like Cupid didn’t just take a Christmas detour to kick my ass with an evil sprig of mistletoe. Like I didn’t just get leveled by the way she looked at me—wide-eyed and breathless—and now all I can think about is getting her under me.
Worse than that?
The goddamned ring flashing through my head.
Platinum—for the boardroom or for running the whole damn show. Pear-cut—soft on one side, sharp on the other. Just like her. A twisted band, one of a kind, a piece of art cradling a diamond nudged into place by fate.
I’m the last man who should be thinking about rings, not after the disaster with Noelle.
But in two fucking days… here we are.
Stealing a hint of the kiss I want before I gave the one everyone else needed… and I fucking destroyed my whole world.
I don’t look at him. Can’t. Because I have more lies to put on the pile.
For someone who hates liars with every fiber of my being, I’m doing a bang-up job at becoming a goddamned professional.
Nick’s glare cuts through the noise. “What the hell was that?”
“That was my cockblocking service. You’re welcome. Everett’s cock? Consider it blocked.”
His voice drops to a low growl. “And your face buried in my sister’s neck?”
I force a casual shrug. Act to keep up and all. “Acquired consent. Because I’m a gentleman.”
“Chance—
I cut him off with a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’m your man on the ground, remember? Doing the dirty work so you don’t have to.”
Chapter Seventeen
Holly
Well,shove me in a snow globe it’s a goddamn Pinterest-perfect holiday scene, complete with snow-dusted pines, steaming hot chocolate, nostalgia-soaked parents, and a steady loop of kiss replays so incessant, I need a restraining order.
"All aboard!" the driver calls out, adjusting thick leather reins while three massive draft horses stamp their feet impatiently.
Charlie and Nick are already snuggled up like they're posing for a Hallmark card.
My parents naturally gravitated to Chance’s parents.
Eve unapologetically took an entire bench and is now studying the wood.
And I am conjuring up my own Christmas miracle in this modern-day, Norman Rockwell holiday hellscape by doing everything possible to forget Chance and his magic alpha—fucking—swagger… the motherfucker.
Hic.
That’s right, folks, I meal-prepped for this ride to holly-coated hell.
Let's just say when I got in the sleigh, all blood boiling and clit throbbing, I flashed back to the last time I got in the sleigh and welp—turns out the last timewasNicky boy’s get-it-on-bang-a-gong ride with the redhead—which is bad enough. But there was the buffet after, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t wash his hands so—drunk.
The sleigh’s runners creak under the shifting weight as people take their dear sweet time loading for the ride. Cold seeps from the bench through my jeans, biting into my thighs. But I don’t move.
I stare straight ahead, the snow-packed path blurring into a smear of white, sucking down the Devil’s cocoa like it’s happy hour in hell, and I’m searching for salvation at the bottom of my cup.
Hic.
Every hiccup—a Band-Aid on my existential crisis.
