Chapter 1

Charlotte Donovan was cursed.

She'd been trying to ignore the signs all day long, but now, three weeks before Christmas, she found herself stuck in a vintage cage elevator between floors four and five having a panic attack, and denial was no longer an option.

Granted, she'd known the truth since she was a kid—December was the month the universe conspired against Charlotte and rained down an amalgam of mishaps, everything from a mundane red wine spill on a white blouse to the disaster five years ago she wouldn't even let herself think about anymore.

Except here she was, clawing at the latticed elevator door of Elle's Upper West Side building, thinking about it.

"We'll get you out of there, sweetie. Just stay calm."

This was from Sloane, her colleague at the Manhattan School of Music and cofounder of the Rosalind Quartet, which they'd started together two years ago. Charlotte couldn't see her—well, she could see Sloane's booted feet standing on the fifth floor, cuffed jeans just above her ankles—but her friend gave off a decidedly relaxed air that made Charlotte want to scream.

"Easy for you to say," Charlotte said, bouncing a little in hopes the elevator would take the hint and do its goddamn job.

"I don't understand it," Elle said from next to Sloane. Charlotte could also only see their feet, which were covered in socks featuring tiny cellos and Christmas trees.

How wonderfully festive.

Charlotte's lip curled as she turned her gaze away, looking up at the elevator's ceiling as if it held a clue to escaping this hell.

"This has never happened before," Elle said.

"Of course it hasn't," Charlotte said through her teeth.

"What do you mean by that?" Sloane asked.

Charlotte exhaled, closed her eyes, tried to breathe through her frantically pounding heart. For all intents and purposes, Sloane was her best friend, though Charlotte never thought about her in those terms exactly. Sloane was definitely a friend. A good friend. They drank nice wine together. Arranged music for their ensemble, for their students. They'd even cowritten a few original pieces that had ended up on the quartet's debut album, Evergreen , just released this past October. Charlotte also knew that Sloane's parents had divorced amicably, and she had an older sister who lived in Nashville, who, according to Sloane, was the butch lesbian complement to Sloane's femme bisexual style.

Best friends, though?

Charlotte balked at the term, even though she was pretty sure it was the one Sloane would use. Still, best came with expectations, a ride-or-die sort of commitment, and Charlotte hadn't felt that for anyone in a long time.

Five years to be exact.

Not that she missed that kind of closeness. If anything, its absence was a relief, which was probably why Sloane knew nothing about Charlotte's December curse. Last Christmas was their first in each other's lives, and Charlotte had managed to avoid any and all disasters in Sloane's presence. Clearly, this year, the universe was upping its game.

"Holy shit, that's why the elevator isn't working?"

This London accent belonged to Manish Sahni, the fourth member of their quartet—he played viola—who had obviously just arrived on the fifth floor safe and sound via the marble staircase Charlotte had been too tired to take.

Oh, December, you fickle little bitch.

"It's fine, Manish," Sloane said in that tone she used when she was trying to keep Charlotte calm during rehearsals. Charlotte hated that tone, like she had to be managed. She was the manager, not the managee, goddammit.

The elevator's walls seemed to close in on her then, as if to say, Oh, really? Charlotte hugged her violin case to her chest and whimpered.

"Sweetie, it's okay," Sloane said softly, which only made Charlotte's panic rise like lava inside a brewing volcano. She hadn't meant for that whimper to be audible, but in her defense, she'd been stuck in this cage for a good fifteen minutes, and she was about to lose her shit.

Maybe she should give in, let December win, because it was only the seventh, and the jammed elevator was already the third mishap of the day.

The first misfortune was easy to chalk up to coincidence. It was New York City in December, after all, so when Charlotte had stepped off the curb at the crowded street corner by her apartment early this morning and been promptly jostled so vigorously she'd ended up ankle-deep in a slushy puddle, her tea upturned and mixing with the snow and ice, she'd tried to shake it off. Sure, her brand-new leather boots didn't appreciate the dip, but maybe that was just what she got for wearing them the day after the season's first snowfall, light as it had been.

The second calamity happened hours later, while she was grading finals for her Arranging for Strings class in her office at the Manhattan School of Music. It was the last day of the semester before break, and grades were due by four o'clock that afternoon. Her vision had started to blur, and she realized she hadn't yet had a single drop of caffeine. She got up, calm as could be, exited her office for the small faculty kitchenette down the hall, turned the corner, and was very soon wearing what seemed to be a giant smear of jam all over her black cashmere turtleneck.

"Oh my god, Ms. Donovan, I'm so sorry." Tansy, the String Department's secretary, who changed her hair color weekly and always looked at Charlotte as though Charlotte might unhinge her jaw and devour her at any second, stood there red-faced and purple-haired. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's fine," Charlotte said tightly, the right thing to say, her arms held out to avoid spreading the mess.

Tansy looked like she might cry, and Charlotte fought a long-suffering sigh. Instead, she forced a smile and chose to focus on the pleasant aroma of what smelled like raspberry-pepper jam currently mottling her sweater.

The secretary handed Charlotte her napkin, then retrieved her toasted bagel from the floor, and that was that. It was just a sweater, and Charlotte moved on with her day. She changed into a spare black blouse she kept in her office and surged forward, marked finals, went over her arrangements for the quartet's rehearsal that evening. A normal Thursday if ever there was one.

At least that's what she told herself.

At five o'clock, she turned off her computer, packed up her violin, put on her black peacoat, and tugged a black knit hat over her long salt-and-pepper hair. She headed out into the cold evening, the Upper West Side already bustling with holiday energy—lights framed shop windows, garland curled around lampposts, and there was a group of young carolers just outside Sakura Park—all of which she tried to ignore. She walked with her head down, her violin tucked like a treasure under her arm. She watched her feet, making sure she avoided anything that could potentially trip her, cover her in something sticky, or damage her person in any way.

When she made it to Elle's building on Central Park West, she smiled to herself as she rang the bell, a silly kind of triumph swelling in her chest.

"Come on up!" Elle's voice trilled from the box.

Elle lived alone on the top floor of a historic Upper West Side building called the Elora. Their grandmother, Mimi, the only family member Elle still had a relationship with and who was an actual actress in LA during the latter years of the Golden Age of Hollywood, had owned the large, sparsely furnished apartment since the 1960s but lived in LA full-time, as she hated the cold eastern winters in New York. In her absence, Elle was more than happy to take care of the apartment, a corner of which made the perfect rehearsal space for the Rosalind Quartet.

A buzzer sounded, and Charlotte stepped into the marble-floored foyer, a vast space that sported an ornate chandelier, a set of marble stairs, and one of those vintage cage elevators with a gate you had to pull shut yourself.

It was beautiful and glamorous, and Charlotte always felt like she was stepping into another era when she was inside. And now here she was, trapped—not in some glitzy age of stardom but in purgatory.

"Okay, my super is calling the fire department," Elle said now.

"Seriously?" Sloane said. "He can't fix it?"

"I don't think he's all that handy."

"He's the super ."

"Not so super at fixing shit, apparently," Manish said.

Their feet shifted around at Charlotte's eye level, but she tuned them out. She was going to be here forever. She lived here now. Just send down some bread and water and she'd make it through somehow. Christmas in the Elora's elevator—not all that much worse than her actual plans, which consisted of DoorDash and triple-checking the itinerary for the quartet's European tour their manager, Mirian, had just sent over that morning. One whole month starting in London on December 29, complete with guest lecturer events at the Royal College of Music and the Conservatoire de Paris. It was everything Charlotte had been working toward her entire life—international reach for her edgy interpretations of classics, her original compositions, a chance to prove that Charlotte Donovan was a force in the music world, that everything she'd given up had been worth it.

Every one she'd given up.

A flash of white in her mind.

White everywhere—an intimate space with white twinkle lights lining every crease and curve, white flowers garnished with red winter berries, the crispness of her white suit as she waited…and waited…and waited…

Fuck . She pressed her fingers to her temples before yelling, "Get me the hell out of here!" Desperation clung to her voice, and she hated it, but she couldn't change it either. She pressed her back against the far wall, closed her eyes, and waited…and waited…and waited…

Two hours later, Charlotte spilled out of the elevator and into Sloane's arms. She tried to hold it together. She really did, but she clung to her friend like a kid, pushed to the absolute brink with zero ways to manage herself.

Still, she didn't cry. She wasn't a crier. Hadn't even cried when she'd been left at the altar five years ago. Not right away, at least, and certainly not in front of anyone. No, that lovely response waited until two days later, when the manager at the hotel in Paris had called to see why she and her wife had not yet checked in to their honeymoon suite. Even then, she hadn't let the tears spill over, but had squeezed them back where they belonged. In the years since, she'd learned coping mechanisms for when her moods went dark or stress tugged her edges a bit too taut. But December was always a tricky month to navigate, and the elevator…well, it was hard to hold everything in check when stuck in a four-by-four square of wood and metal.

"Sweetie, it's okay," Sloane said, freezing for a second but then pulling Charlotte close. "It's over. You're out." She held Charlotte tightly, and Charlotte allowed herself to be comforted.

Just for a second.

Finally, she pulled back, rolled her shoulders straight, and took a breath. "I'm fine. It was fine."

"Fine?" Manish said, holding a glass of red wine, his black hair messy, as though he'd run his hands through it over and over. "I nearly had a nervous breakdown."

Elle patted him on the shoulder, their short, pale-pink locks swooping over one eye. "Yeah, Manny, real tough for you, buddy, what with the couch you sat on for the last ninety minutes and the whole bottle of wine you went through."

Manish sent a brown hand through his hair again, then took another sip. "Half, at most."

" Bottle of wine?" Charlotte said, her limbs still trembling a little. "Manish, we have rehearsal."

"I said half!"

Sloane ignored him and folded her light-brown arms. "Honey, I think we can skip that for tonight."

"What?" Charlotte said. "Absolutely not."

"Char," said Elle, who loved to shorten everyone's name, whether they liked it or not, "how about a glass of wine?"

"If Manish left you any," Sloane said. Manish flipped her off.

"I don't drink when we're playing," Charlotte said tightly. She was out of the elevator, but the panic remained, this feeling that she was slipping, losing control. She never let herself get to this state. Usually, she just spent the month of December hibernating in her apartment and trying not to regret turning down the invitations she'd received back in September to join a symphony's holiday concert lineup.

She didn't play Christmas music.

Hardly played in December at all, lest disaster strike. Her violin alone was nearly irreplaceable, and if anything were to ever befall her hands, wrists, or fingers…well, needless to say, very little was worth that risk. But this year, with the tour coming up and their album just released, she'd had no choice. The quartet had completed a small New England tour over fall break in October and played a number of smaller venues here in New York, all to packed houses. So far, she'd managed to avoid major performances in December, but that didn't negate the need to rehearse.

"I know," Elle said, "but maybe a few sips will take the edge off?"

Charlotte shook her head and brushed past her colleagues toward Elle's apartment. Inside, she went straight for the northwest corner, where four mismatched chairs sat facing one another, a rainbow of color, and promptly set her violin case down on her usual lilac-hued seat.

She opened her case, taking out Rosalind, her violin, so named for Rosalind in Shakespeare's As You Like It . A woman who adapted, who did whatever she had to do to get what she wanted, what she needed. She'd always been Charlotte's favorite Shakespearean heroine, thus the inspiration for her violin's name. She'd had this violin for seven years, since before , and it had seen her through some very low and dark times, her one constant. When she and Sloane met two years ago and started throwing ideas around for a quartet, Rosalind seemed like the perfect name for an all-queer group that took classic string pieces and twisted them just so, creating something new and powerful, something unexpected.

Now she breathed easier just setting her hands on Rosalind's neck, feeling the strings under her fingers. Granted, her fingers still trembled a bit, but that would stop as soon as she started playing.

"Charlotte," Sloane said firmly, coming up next to her and eyeing her shaking hands. "Just sit down for a sec."

Charlotte shook her head. "I can beat this."

Sloane frowned, glanced at Manish, who shrugged. "Beat what?"

"December," Charlotte said. "This whole season. I've done it all my life and—" She cut herself off, pressing her eyes closed for a beat before lifting her violin to her shoulder, more to keep her own mouth shut than anything. She didn't talk about the curse. Never had…

Except with one person.

She zipped her bow over the strings, then adjusted the fine tuners until all four strings sounded perfect.

"What are you talking about?" Sloane asked.

"Nothing," Charlotte said, forcing a smile. "Let's just play, yeah?" She turned around to beam her commanding smile at Manish and Elle as well, only to find the other two members sitting on Elle's giant turquoise sectional, glasses of wine in their hands. "What are you doing?"

Sloane tilted her head, curls bouncing into her face. "Protesting."

"Protest—what?" Charlotte let down her violin and met Sloane's eyes. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Elle said, crisscrossing their jean-clad legs and patting the spot next to them on the couch. "What Slo said."

"We're not playing a note, love," Manish said, "until you sit down and take a bloody breath."

Charlotte felt her shoulders drop in defeat. It wasn't often that her group rebelled against her—after all, her single-minded ambition had gotten them pretty far—but on the rare occasion they bucked her orders, she knew there was no moving them.

The only way out was through.

"Fine," she said, all but stomping over to the couch and sitting on the edge next to Elle, violin propped primly on her knee. "Fine, see? I'm breathing." She made a show of taking several deep breaths, all of which resulted in a sense of dizziness rather than calmness.

"Oh, yes, very convincing," Sloane said, sitting down on Charlotte's other side and pouring them both a glass of wine from the open bottle on the tufted lavender ottoman. Elle, agender and pansexual, was very into pastels. There was even a pink Christmas tree in the corner, complete with colorful lights and sparkly silver garland.

Charlotte took a single sip of wine. It was the only way she'd get out of this intervention and back to work.

"Okay," Sloane said, tucking her legs underneath her, "no shop talk for a full fifteen minutes."

"What?" Charlotte said. "Preposterous."

Sloane just lifted a brow.

Charlotte sighed. "Ten."

"Twelve."

"Fine," Charlotte said, knowing Sloane was just as stubborn as she was.

Sloane lifted her glass as if in a toast, then held it there until Charlotte set her violin next to her and clinked her own glass against Sloane's.

"Great," Sloane said after taking a deal-sealing sip. "So. What's everyone doing for Christmas?"

Charlotte resisted a groan but was pleasantly surprised when Manish and Elle both released their own disgruntled noises.

"Don't ask," Manish said, gulping back more wine.

"You and Nate aren't—" Charlotte started, then stopped. She couldn't remember if Manish and Nate—his on-again, off-again boyfriend for the last year—were currently together. She didn't usually try very hard to keep up. As long as Manish did his job with the quartet, she didn't pry.

"We are not," Manish said, clicking his teeth together hard on the final t . "He's going home to Maine."

"I didn't think people actually lived in Maine," Elle said.

"He didn't invite you to join him?" Sloane asked.

"Nope," Manish said, popping the p this time.

"Ouch," Sloane said.

"Yeah," Manish said. "So I'll be spending Christmas on my parents' couch in Ithaca eating chocolate-covered pretzels while my brother and his perfect English wife coo and sing to her pregnant belly, and my mum most likely invites every South Asian gay man with whom she's ever crossed paths over for dinner."

"At least you have a place to go," Elle said. "Mimi is taking a cruise with her new boyfriend, which leaves me here singing Christmas carols with my DoorDasher."

"Oh, honey," Sloane said, sitting up and frowning at Elle. "You can't do that."

"It's fine," Elle said, but Charlotte got a familiar lump in her throat. Elle's parents lived in Illinois and were extremely conservative. They'd never quite accepted Elle's queerness, and Elle had left home at the age of seventeen, moving to LA to live with Mimi, their liberal grandmother. They still spoke to their parents, but rarely, and they'd never spent a major holiday with them, at least as far as Charlotte knew.

"No one should spend Christmas alone," Sloane said, still looking at Elle like someone had just run over their cat.

Elle laughed. "Slo, it's fine. I'm used to it."

"Same here," Charlotte said.

Three pairs of eyes swung toward her. She hadn't meant to say it. She'd never really shared the intricacies of her family life with the quartet, and she certainly hadn't shared why she hated December so much.

"What do you mean?" Sloane said, her eyes wide.

Charlotte took another sip of wine to steady herself. "Nothing. Just…Christmas is no big deal to me. Just another day."

Yet even as she said it, her throat thickened. Her body did that sometimes, rebelling and forcing her to feel something she'd really rather not.

"What do you usually do?" Sloane asked.

Charlotte shook her head. "Nothing."

"Wait, wait, wait," Elle said, turning on the couch so they were facing Charlotte. "Nothing?"

Charlotte sighed, looked down at her lap. While Charlotte didn't have a bigot for a mother, she, too, spent most holidays alone. Anna Donovan was a successful thriller novelist who liked to keep to herself and had never wanted kids. When she ended up pregnant at the age of thirty-five—the result of a one-night stand during a book tour—she thought raising a human might be a fun adventure. Something new. Needless to say, the ways in which baby Charlotte fucked up Anna's life were unexpected and unwelcome. Anna took care of Charlotte, provided for her and paid for violin lessons and music camps, but she was never really there . From a young age, Charlotte had always had the sense she was in the way. Her mother was constantly writing, churning out two to three books a year, had had a couple of movies made from her bestsellers, and involved Charlotte in very little of any of it.

Christmases were cold and lonely affairs, usually highlighted by a wad of cash from her mother and watching Meet Me in St. Louis by herself in the dark, trying her best not to think too hard about the fact that December always brought with it an irremovable stain on her favorite shirt, a couple of failing grades among her usual straight As, a few slips into muddy puddles during her walk to school. She hated December, hated that it was filled with joy and lights and love for everyone, it seemed, but her.

And then, when she was twelve years old, the Fairbrook family moved to Charlotte's Grand Haven neighborhood on Lake Michigan, right next door. They were a close crew—mother, father, and daughter Brighton, who was exactly Charlotte's age—and Charlotte felt seen for the first time in her life.

Seen and heard and loved.

From then on, almost every holiday—every Christmas, every birthday—was spent with the Fairbrooks. The Fairbrooks loved Christmas, went all out in every possible way, their house bedazzled with lights, their kitchen always filled with something sweet and warm. And for ten years, Charlotte thought she'd finally beaten the December curse.

It made complete sense that Brighton had wanted a Christmas wedding. And Charlotte had wanted to give Bright anything she wanted.

Forever.

Except forever had turned into never, and now here Charlotte sat, five years later, more Christmas cursed than ever and trying to avoid confessing just how sad her life actually was to her fellow musicians.

"I'm just not a fan of Christmas," she said. "I never really…for the past several years, I just…"

"What about your family?" Manish asked, and Sloane and Elle leaned forward a little, their curiosity piqued.

"I don't really have a family," Charlotte said firmly, trying to keep any and all emotion out of her voice. It was more or less true. Anna had emailed last week, sure, but just as part of her monthly "check-in," something Charlotte felt her mother did to avoid being a completely horrible human being. The emails were usually filled with news of her latest book, a benign question or two about Charlotte's music.

"You…you what?" Sloane said, pressing her hand to her chest.

Clearly, Charlotte was going about this all wrong, digging herself deeper and deeper into Sloane's sympathies.

"No, I do have one," Charlotte said. "But Anna—my mom—and I don't really…"

Really what? Get along? They didn't interact enough for even that to be true, particularly after everything with Brighton went to hell. Charlotte hadn't been back to Michigan since.

"Hold up," Elle said, holding out a hand. "Anna…Donovan? The author?"

"Yeah," Charlotte said slowly. "You've heard of her?"

"Heard of her?" Elle said. "Fuck, I love her books."

"Wait, she's that thriller writer, right?" Manish said. "Her book The Wives was just made into a movie, yeah? Came out last year?"

Charlotte nodded.

"Your mother wrote The Wives ?" Sloane asked, her eyes a little glassy with hurt. "How…how did I not know this?"

Charlotte opened her mouth, then closed it again. She had no clue what to say. Because I never tell anyone anything didn't really feel appropriate, though that was, essentially, the reason. Charlotte was painfully aware that her story—her past, her mother, her engagement to her childhood best friend that ended in the worst way imaginable—wasn't exactly happy. She'd rather not dwell on it. She was a successful violinist. She was known because of her talent. Her mind. Her skill. Why couldn't everyone simply focus on the now and move the hell on?

"I'm sorry," Charlotte finally said. She didn't want to hurt Sloane, didn't want to hurt any of them. She just wanted to live her sad little life, thanks very much.

Sloane shook her head, eyes on her lap. Awkward silence reigned for a few seconds, Manish and Elle widening their eyes at each other meaningfully, Charlotte's fingertips going white on her glass.

Finally, Sloane sat up straight, knocked back the rest of her wine, and all but slammed the stemless glass onto the ottoman. "You know what? No. This is not how you three are spending Christmas. I fucking refuse."

She stood up and dug her phone out of her back pocket. "You're all coming home with me."

A shocked quiet hung in the air while Sloane tapped on her phone's screen with enough vehemence to crack the glass.

"Wait, what?" Elle finally asked.

"Um, seconded," Manish said.

Charlotte just sipped her wine, because surely "all" did not include her.

"You heard me," Sloane said, still tapping away.

"To Colorado?" Elle said.

"Clarification: to Bumfuck Nowhere, Colorado," Manish said.

Sloane finally glanced up, a slight smile breaking through her determined expression. "Winter River."

"Same thing," Manish said, pouring more wine.

"It's actually really lovely at Christmastime," Sloane said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. "Our town square has this huge tree—the biggest one west of the Mississippi—and there's music and skiing and lights and food. Plus, my mom owns a bakery, been in our family for generations, so there's always something buttery and sugary around. There's even this horrific event they have every year called Two Turtledoves, which is basically a series of holidates for single people to get drunk and hook up. Everything culminates the day after Christmas with an open mic at a bar for people to declare their love…or lust, as the case may be."

"I mean," Manish said, "that doesn't sound awful."

"Shut your mouth," Sloane said. She leaned forward and whispered, "My mother will hear you."

"Come on, Two Turtledoves?" Elle said. "That's fucking cute."

Sloane shook her head. "Forget I mentioned it. My point is that Winter River is Christmassy and homey and my mom is the best cook in the entire world. Plus, my dad and his wife just renovated her family's ski lodge in the next town over. My sister and I always spend a night or two over there—ski all day, cozy up by the fire at night. It's magical."

"Sounds fake. Like a Hallmark movie," Elle said.

Sounds like a Fairbrook Christmas , Charlotte thought. She swallowed, looked out the window at the twilit city.

Sloane laughed. "Exactly. Except with more queer people and extremely liberal politics."

Manish pressed a hand to his chest. "Such a winter wonderland does not exist."

Sloane lifted one brow. "I dare you to prove that."

Manish twisted up his mouth, eyes narrowed. Manish loved dares—reveled in them, concocted them all the time for the quartet. One night this past April, they'd ended up playing in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge at ten o'clock, the result of a bet between him and Elle as to how much money they could make busking. Charlotte had tried to squash this tendency in Manish when he first joined their quartet, but she'd learned it was best to just ride the wave—they got back to work quicker that way.

"Oh, challenge accepted," he said. "I've got the miles for a plane ticket and a fierce need for a cheery, queery Christmas."

Even Charlotte had to crack a smile at that one.

"A cheery, queery Berry Christmas," Elle said, adding Sloane's last name. "But, Slo, is there room for all of us?"

"Totally. We might have to share rooms, but my mom says the more, the merrier," Sloane said, tapping away at her phone. "So we're all set. Elle?"

Elle ran a pale hand through their hair. "Yeah. Sure. Not like I've got anything better to do."

"Yes!" Sloane said, pumping her fist into the air. "Plus, with you all there, the less my mother will harass me about my perpetually single status."

"No, but I might," Manish said. Elle elbowed him in the ribs.

"Wonderful," Charlotte said, standing up. "It's settled. You all will have a lovely time, I'm sure. Now can we please get back to rehearsal?"

Sloane's smile vanished, quickly replaced with that take-no-shit look she got on her face whenever Charlotte got really grouchy. "Oh no. There is no you all . There is only we ." She circled her finger around to include all four of them.

Charlotte blinked. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you fucking are," Sloane said.

"Sloane, I don't do Christmas. You saw what happened in that elevator. And we've still got three weeks to go."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sloane said.

Charlotte pressed her eyes closed. She couldn't say she was cursed . They'd think she'd gone truly bananas. "Nothing. I just…I'm fine here. I promise."

"You are not. You're coming home with me, or I'm not playing another note until our first concert in London."

Charlotte's stomach plummeted. "You're seriously going to manipulate me into spending Christmas with you?"

Sloane just folded her arms. "It's for your own good."

"Agreed," Manish said, then waved a hand around Charlotte's form. "You're like Elizabeth Scrooge over here."

"Ebenezer," Charlotte said.

"Exactly," Manish said, sipping on his wine.

Charlotte looked to Elle for help, always the sweet one of the group, the peacemaker.

Elle just winced. "Sorry, Char, but they're right. I really think you should come."

"This is ridiculously unfair," Charlotte said.

"Think of it this way," Sloane said, standing and setting her hands on Charlotte's shoulders. "The two weeks off I was taking so I could go home for Christmas? Well…now you get it all back."

And that did it. Sloane knew it, they all knew it. If Charlotte went to Colorado, they'd all be together. Sure, maybe she'd have to engage in some Christmas cookie baking and sing a few carols, and she'd definitely have to avoid accident-prone situations—skiing? Absolutely not. But she'd get to rehearse for the tour. She'd get to work, and her work had always saved her in the past.

"Fine," she said. "Now can we please play a fucking concerto?"