“Dad,” I groaned.
“What? It’s true.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, smiling. “Olivia seems to care about you. And I’ve seen the way you look at her, kiddo. Just don’t let the sport eat up all your space for the people who matter.”
I buried my face in my hands. “Can we please just talk about the sponsorship shoot?”
“Nope,” Bobby and Dad said in unison, both grinning like traitors.
Of course. Why waste a perfectly good opportunity to tease me when they could? I dropped my hands, already knowing I’d lost.
CHAPTER 27
OLIVIA
December had crept up without me noticing. Christmas itself had been in Berkshire. Alex fits into it so easily it almost startles me. We’ve fallen into this unspoken agreement: Holidays are shared. Mine with her, hers with me.
So Christmas is spent in England, and in return, I’m flying to the Philippines for New Year’s, slipping into the warmth and noise of the Cadiz household to ring in the year at her side.
Somehow, it feels perfectly fair.
Alex showed up, suitcase in one hand and a ridiculous amount of presents in the other, like she’d been preparing for it all along. Within an hour she was out in the garden, a borrowed tennis racquet in her hand, running around with my cousins and little nieces and nephews like she’d known them all her life. She let the kids “beat” her in makeshift doubles, pretending to miss volleys on purpose until they were shrieking with laughter.
At one point, she had two of my smallest niece perched on her back like she was giving piggyback rides between points, and I swear my heart had never clenched so hard in my life.
Bianca leans against the doorframe beside me, arms crossed, watching Alex. “You know she’s showing off,” she says, smirk sharp enough to cut ribbon.
“She’s entertaining the children,” I corrected.
“Mm. Entertainingyoumore like.”
I ignore her, but she’s not wrong.
Nan, meanwhile, adopts Alex in roughly three seconds. She presses an extra mince pie into her hand“keep your strength up, dear”and before Alex can blink, she’s being ushered to the sofa with the family photo albums spread across her lap. Nan narrates every page like Alex has been missing from these stories all her life.
Alex seemed to slot in with ease. Dad lit up when she laughed at his terrible cracker jokes, and the uncles roped her into helping carve the turkey like she’d been doing it every Christmas. She didn’t hesitate, just rolled up her sleeves and joined in, chatting about racing, training, and even her worst cooking disasters, which had my aunts roaring with laughter.
“Honestly, Alex,” Dad said as he topped up her glass, “you fit in faster than I expected. I think Nan’s going to adopt you outright.”
“I already have,” Nan cut in, patting Alex’s hand with a twinkle in her eye.
The day stretches long in that distinctly Christmas way. Alex gamely pulls her cracker with Bianca, the bang echoing through the dining room. The flimsy paper crown slides sideways over her ear; she doesn’t bother fixing it, just wears it like it’s part of her race kit.
She reads her cracker joke aloud, something painfully unfunny about snowmen and delivers it with such sincerity the entire table groans. She beams like she’s won an award.
By the time pudding comes out, she’s in a deep conversation with Aunt Caroline about holiday traditions. They’re comparing stories like they’ve been doing this for years, laughing loudly enough that the cousins passing custard bowls pause just to stare at them.
Later, the living room dissolves into the usual Christmas sprawl: Alex and I end up on the sofa under the same blanket, shoulders pressed close. She glances at me, her smile soft and unguarded, her paper crown still crooked on her head.
“This… is nice,” she whispers, voice low enough for just me.
I bite back a smile. “You’re officially part of the tradition now. That comes with perks.”
“Perks, huh? Like what?”
“Like unlimited cocoa refills, permanent blanket-sharing rights, and me pretending I don’t notice how adorable you are,” I murmur.
She lets out that little breathy laugh. “Hmm… think I can handle all that,” she says, tugging the blanket higher around us. Her hand slips into mine properly this time, fingers threading together.
We lean into each other, watching the twinkling lights on the tree, the low murmur of the telly, the cousins arguing over whose toy belongs to who. Alex’s thumb brushes over mine, slow and absentminded, but each stroke feels like it’s writing something across my skin.
