Page 79 of My Wicked Winter War

Our friends groan in unison.

“You are such a nerd.” Holly shakes his head.

“Can we come along?” Birdy asks, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve never been to Phoenix.”

Gabe slams the rest of his eggnog tequila, then pumps his fist in the air. “Road trip!”

“No offense, but I’m not sure I want to be in a van with all of you for a million hours,” CJ says.

Liv nods emphatically. “I love my man, but his taste in music is appalling.”

“Hey!” Hollis protests. “My playlists are art.”

“Your playlists are crimes against humanity,” Sebastian says, launching into a bad imitation of a stripper routine in honor of Holly’s bass-thumping, club-friendly taste in music.

“Road trip or not, I, for one, am absolutely going,” CJ says over the laughter. “Radha promised to tell me about that yacht party.” She turns to me with a grin. “Plus, I want to see my boyfriend present to a room full of retirement fund administrators.”

“Riveting stuff,” I assure her. “Lots of spreadsheets.”

“My favorite,” she deadpans, then leans in to kiss me.

The sun’s starting to set over the cold, wintery golf course, painting everything in shades of gold and pink, and for a moment I just take it all in: my brother and his new wife stealing more kisses, Gabe trying to convince Darby to let him “adjust” the scorecard, Sebastian and Birdy arguing good-naturedly about their next shot, and CJ tucked against my side, warm and solid and mine.

A year ago, I was standing in the Oakwood ballroom watching my boss’s empire crumble while I fell in love all over again with the woman I’d loved and hated for seven years. Now we’re here—all of us—happy and whole and exactly where we’re supposed to be.

“What are you thinking about?” CJ asks quietly.

“Just that I really love Golfmas.”

She laughs, the sound bright and clear in the winter air. “You love Golfmas?”

“I love Golfmas,” I confirm. “And fried chicken. And terrible T-shirts. And you.”

“Well.” She steals a sip of my eggnog. “I love you too. Even if you do drag me to retirement administrator conferences.”

“It’s romantic,” I insist.

“It’s torture,” she corrects me. “Demonic punishment from a hell dimension.”

”But you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She wraps her arms around me and rests her head against my chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”