1. Laramie

CHAPTER ONE

LARAMIE

T he ferry lurched, and my stomach followed suit. I stumbled against the railing, clutching my carry-on like a life preserver while tourists bumped and shoved past to get their first glimpse of the island.

Fuck this entire trip.

Twenty-four hours of travel hell had left me a wreck. After holiday crowds packed like sardines, a freak snowstorm delaying my first flight, and mechanical issues on my connection, I half-expected locusts to descend the moment my feet met solid ground again.

I squinted against the bright Mediterranean sun and grimaced as tinny holiday music assaulted my ears. Clearly, someone thought blasting “Jingle Bells” at ear-splitting volume was the perfect welcome to this godforsaken island.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ithara!” The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, far too chipper for my liking. “Home of the world-renowned Sunrise at Elysia resort!”

I grunted something vaguely resembling “thanks” and shuffled off the ferry, joining the throngs mobbing for the lobby. The wheels of my suitcase caught on every cobblestone, each jolt sending fresh waves of nausea through my body.

I trudged through the revolving door, the sudden blast of air conditioning raising goosebumps on my arms. Gaudy decorations screamed cheer from every surface—twinkling lights spiraled up columns, shimmering tinsel dangled from counters and picture frames, and enough fake snow piled in the corners to bury a small village. It was like Santa’s workshop had vomited all over a Greek postcard.

And the line at check-in stretched to infinity. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

Humans and monsters alike milled about, their excited chatter creating a dull roar that did nothing to soothe my pounding headache. I joined the queue, fishing my phone from my pocket to review the partnership proposal one last time.

“...but have you tried MythMatch?” A middle-aged woman’s voice cut through my concentration. I glanced up, spotting two ladies a few places ahead in line.

Her friend nodded eagerly. “Oh yes, but I always double-check my matches against the Monster Registry. You can never be too careful.”

I snorted. If they only knew the headaches that stupid registry caused our legal team. But hey, that’s what happens when you try to catalog and control an entire population of magical beings. Humans never learn.

“Smart,” the first woman agreed. “Though I hear that minotaur who founded MythMatch is quite the catch. What was his name again?”

“Kotos Mavridis,” I muttered under my breath, unable to help myself. My boss’s name had been splashed across every tech blog and gossip rag for years now. And why not? The last minotaur alive was a media darling even before developing a dating app to help myths and legends bump uglies.

The friend’s eyes lit up. “That’s it! I heard he might be here this week. Can you imagine?”

I could, all too easily. He was the whole reason why I was in this holiday hellscape instead of nursing a bottle of wine in my pajamas back home. Andreas Vasilakis, Elysia’s owner, was getting cold feet about the partnership between the resort and MythMatch.

Kotos demanded someone from his marketing department make the trip to schmooze at his side. The head of the department decided that someone should be me.

Only because everyone else had their holly jolly holidays stuffed more than Mrs. Claus, while I remained spitefully single and unwilling to mingle. Especially with department heads.

“Next, please!”

I shuffled forward, plastering on my best approximation of a smile. The concierge beamed at me, either oblivious to or politely ignoring my disheveled state.

“Welcome to Sunrise at Elysia! Name, please?”

“Laramie Scanlon,” I croaked, my voice rough from lack of sleep and too much recycled airplane air.

“Ah yes, Ms. Scanlon. We’ve been expecting you.” Her smile somehow brightened further. “Mr. Vasilakis asked that you be given one of our premium suites.”

Great. No pressure or anything.

The concierge handed me a key card, a small sprig of mistletoe dangling from the end. I stared at it, wondering if I could get away with “accidentally” dropping it in a toilet.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked.

I attempted another smile. It felt more like a grimace. “Thanks. Is there a coffee shop nearby?”

“Of course! The Siren’s Song Cafe is just down that hallway.” She pointed to my left. “They brew the best espresso this side of the Aegean.”

I muttered my thanks and made a beeline for caffeinated salvation. The sooner I got some coffee in me, the sooner I could start pretending to be a functioning human being again.

Ten minutes and one triple shot later, I finally made it to my room—less suite than upper floor of a private villa. The door swung open, revealing a space that was equal parts luxurious and festive. A massive Christmas tree dominated one corner, its ornaments twinkling in the sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

I dropped my bags and moved as if in a trance, throwing open the balcony doors. The sea breeze hit me, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone. I had to admit, the view was stunning. Azure waves lapped at pristine white sand, and the balcony offered a panoramic vista of the Aegean.

For a brief moment, my exhaustion lifted. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, and just... existed.

The breeze kicked up, rustling plastic somewhere behind me. I turned to scan the rest of the room, and that’s when I noticed it—an enormous gift basket perched on the coffee table.

I approached warily, half-expecting it to sprout tinsel and start singing carols.

It was, if possible, even worse up close. Overflowing with tacky holiday-themed items, including a stuffed bear wearing a “Santa Baby” t-shirt. I picked through it gingerly, finding a few redeeming items—expensive wine with unpronounceable names, fancy chocolates in several flavors, and a rather nice notebook and pen set.

A card was nestled among the tissue paper. I plucked it out, recognizing the Elysia logo embossed in gold.

Ms. Scanlon,

Welcome to Sunrise at Elysia! We are thrilled to have you as our guest and look forward to discussing the exciting possibilities of our partnership with MythMatch. Please accept this small token of our appreciation. I eagerly await our meeting this evening.

Warmest regards,

Andreas Vasilakis

I tossed the card aside, scowling. A “small token,” my ass. This thing probably cost more than my monthly rent.

With a sigh, I retrieved my bag. As much as I wanted to flop into bed and sleep until my meeting, I methodically started transferring clothes to drawers and hangers instead.

“What the...” I muttered, pulling out a lump of red and green fabric.

A Christmas sweater. And not just any Christmas sweater—this monstrosity featured a grinning reindeer with a light-up nose, surrounded by sequined snowflakes. It was hideous. It was tacky.

It was exactly the kind of thing my mother would sneak into my luggage.

I could picture her slipping it into my suitcase, a sly smile on her face as she imagined me embracing the holiday spirit. As if an itchy sweater could melt my Grinch-like heart.

My fingers tightened on the scratchy yarn. Last Christmas flashed through my mind—Ryan down on one knee, a ring glittering in the twinkling lights of our sad little tree. His promises of forever whispered against my skin as we dreamed up a honeymoon frolicking on the beach of some Mediterranean seaside resort.

Then New Year’s Eve. Stumbling home early, sick of the party. Finding him in our bed. Balls-deep in his coworker.

Red-hot anger surged through me. I balled up the sweater and shoved it deep into a drawer. The slam echoed through the suite, matching the throbbing in my temples.

This week was going to be torture.

My phone buzzed. I fished it out of my pocket, grimacing as I saw the name on the screen.

Kotos Mavridis.

Meeting with Andreas tomorrow, 9AM sharp. Don’t be late. Have you arrived, or should I send for someone capable of overcoming routine travel hurdles?

My fingers trembled as I stared at the screen. That arrogant, condescending?—

I bit back a scream of frustration. As if I had any control over freak storms or mechanical failures. But fuck me for keeping him updated on the delays to my arrival.

Work pressure. Unwanted holiday cheer. My boss’s thinly veiled insults. It all swirled together in a toxic cocktail of rage and sleep deprivation.

My gaze landed on the gift basket. Without thinking, I snatched up a perfectly round orange and stormed to the balcony. I drew back my arm and hurled the fruit with every ounce of pent-up fury in my body.

“Merry fucking Christmas!” I shouted as it sailed over the railing.

For a split second, I felt better. Then a pained bellow filled the air.

Oh, no. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.

I rushed to the railing, my stomach plummeting faster than that damn orange. Please let it hit a chair. Or a potted plant. Anything but ? —

My eyes widened in horror.

There, on the terrace directly below me, lounged the unmistakable figure of Kotos Mavridis. All seven-plus feet of him, muscles rippling and curved horns gleaming in the sunlight.

And he was clutching his crotch, face contorted in agony.

I’d pegged my boss in the nuts with a piece of fruit.

Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.