Chapter One
November 28th
Nellie
“What kind of sociopath signs up to run three miles on Thanksgiving morning?”
My older sister’s teasing words instantly warmed my heart, a much-needed antidote for the forty-something-degree temperatures. Leighton had never been one to mince her words. On the contrary, she had the kind of bold bluntness that made grown men quiver with fear . . . or attraction, in the case of her British behemoth of a boyfriend, Killian. It had been nearly a year since she’d moved in with theformer soccer star, and he still looked at her like she was the strawberry jam to his scone.
Fuck, I could really go for a scone right now.
I probably should have eaten something before my Lyft ride over to 3rdStreet, but it was too late now. Besides, three miles was a drop in the bucket for a seasoned runner like me, and there would be plenty to eat later. That didn’t make me want a scone any lessnow, though. Just the thought of Bowie’s turkey pot pie made my stomach growl.
“Aw, thanks, princess,” Killian cooed against my sister’s neck. “That’s sweet.”
“A donut would be sweeter,” she grumbled.
A smile crept across my face as I bent forward to adjust my compression socks—brown with orange stripes to match the cartoon turkey on my race bib. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had shown up hungry to the Santa Monica Turkey Trot.
Killian wrapped his arms around Leighton’s middle, and she instantly relaxed back against his athletic frame. “How about we stop off at Donut King on the way home and grab you a couple of maple bars?”
“What if they’re closed?”
He tilted her chin up with two fingers. “Then I’ll figure out how to make you some at home.”
She leaned up on her toes. “Mm, now you’re talking, killjoy,” she whispered against his lips.
Ugh, I’ve never felt so single in my life.
That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Contrary to public opinion, I thoroughly enjoyed being single. There was nothing quite like coming home tomybed andmysnacks inmyapartment after a ten-hour day of contracts and spreadsheets. Besides, my morning jogs and long work hours—made longer as of late because, unbeknownst to many, the winter holidays marked the busiest time of year for lawyers—didn’t leave muchroom for recreational activities. Thankfully, my bedside drawer full of battery-operated devices filled that . . . hole.
I still dated here and there, but love was not part of my five-year plan. Dick appointments, maybe, but those were easy to come by in a big city like Los Angeles. As one might imagine, the dating pool in Plain, Ohio—a real place, believe it or not—was slim to none, limited to the same fifty people you graduated high school with—half of whom had already married each other by twenty-two—and their divorced dads.
That would have made for an awkward morning while living with my parents.
No, love would have to wait. Relationships took time and energy, both of which I wasn’t willing to spare, especially if they came at the expense of achieving my goals by the time I was thirty.
That didn’t make me any less thrilled that my sister had found her forever person, though. Killian was a Ken doll come to life—British edition—and together, they were sweeter than my mom’s banana pudding. It was hard to believe that just last Christmas, the two of them had faked an engagement to win over our parents, and now here they were, sucking face and living together in a mansion by the beach.
The Hollywood dream.
They made quite the power couple: all-star soccer player turned coach and budding knitwear designer. Just last month, one of Leighton’s designs—a crocheted romper from herCrochellaline—had gone viral on social media after a tween popstar had worn it on stage during a concert. Leighton had woken up the next morning to nearly two hundred online orders, a collaboration offer from a very well-known content creator, and an invitation to participate inSnow Place like L.A., a winter fashion showcase.
“I’m going to go scope out a spot near mile two as soon as Nora gets back,” Leighton said when she came up for air.
“Where did she disappear to?” Killian asked.
I pointed toward the parking lot, set back beyond the hundred or so racers lining up for our run. “I think she went to grab an extra jacket from the car.”
Nora had thin blood, a result of being born and raised in Los Angeles. As far as I was concerned, a brisk fifty-eight degrees was the perfect temperature for a morning jog. To Nora, it might as well have been a polar vortex.
“Speaking of jackets, I need to reschedule our shopping trip to the Galleria.”
The smile fell from Leighton’s face. “Again?”
I shrugged. “Sorry, Leigh. One of the senior partners—”
“The rude one or the one who smells like soup?”
