Page 69 of Not Home Alone

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Grant giving me a look, like Shut it down, Tucker.

“What are you saying?” Todd asks, with a big, dumb grin on his face. “That he has a secret van stereo repair business?”

“Actually, what I’m saying is⁠—”

“Okay, Sunshine!” Grant takes my hand and pulls me away. “Time to go.”

He gets our coats from the coat check, and we wait for the valet to bring his car around.

It’s just us out here now. He doesn’t seem upset. If anything, he’s amused by me. But I am. I’m upset. “Is this how they always treat you?”

“I don’t take them seriously.”

“Why not? They don’t have any respect for you and they should. No wonder you don’t like coming back to Holly Grove.”

“It’s just half-sibling dynamics. My dad cared more for my mom than he did for theirs. He never remarried after her. I was a little brat when I was a kid, and after she died, I was a jerk.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s impossible for them to see me any other way, so I don’t waste my time or energy on trying to change that.”

“But you aren’t like that anymore. Not all the time, anyway.”

“I don’t care what they think. I know the truth. That’s what matters.”

“Is that all that matters?”

“It’s fine.”

“Don’t say it’s fine if it isn’t fine. I know that trick. I invented ‘it’s fine’ and guess what—nothing’s ever fine. Things are either good or bad. What you said to me earlier was not nice, but the way your family treats you is bad.”

The valet drives up with the car. Grant gives him a forty-dollar tip and gets into the driver’s seat. Another valet opens the passenger door for me and I climb inside, thanking him. As I put on my seatbelt, I can’t stop myself from asking, “Who was that Patrick Voss person in there? What did your father mean about giving him an answer?”

Grant scrubs his face with his hands. He seems genuinely upset by that man. Sighing, he says, “I’d really like it if we could just not talk about it, okay?” He looks at me, his beautiful eyes as close to pleading as I’ve ever seen them. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

He reaches over to give my knee a squeeze and then drives out of the parking lot.

I guess that’s the end of our big night.

TWENTY-TWO

GRANT

Merrily’s words from earlier this evening are still ringing in my ear. In the good way—not in the shrieking Mariah Carey kind of way. No one has ever stood up for me like that before. Not since I was a kid.

Now Merrily’s curled up on the sofa, staring at the fire. I’ve been in the kitchen, putting something together. I leave it in the front hall by the living room door and go back into the living room to join her.

She looks like the poster child of wholesome Christmas traditions that everyone expects her to be. Sitting there in the long chunky knit sweater, leggings, and thick socks she changed into as soon as we got back. Sadly, she has removed her fancy jewelry, but her face and hair are glowing in the firelight and the light of the Christmas tree. But I know what a naughty little elf she is. Just for me.

I’m not drunk, but my head is spinning.

She smiles and blows out a breath. “Stop staring at me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Fine. Take it all in. Eat it up!”

“That’s what she said,” she says, as I say, “That’s what he said.”

Laughing and shaking her head, she goes back to staring at the fire, but I can tell she’s feeling self-conscious. Sad even. And I want to turn things around. I’m not going to let my family or Patrick Voss determine the tone we end this night on.