Chapter 1

Chapter One

Holly

If you’re seeing this, congrats!

Amazon, in all its algorithmic glory, has delivered you the placeholder file instead of the full, steamy masterpiece. But hey, the first 6 complete chapters are here, so if you want to edge yourself while waiting for the updated file to show available in your manage your devices section of your kindle account, I fully support your decision. After all, isn’t pleasure always better when you have to wait for it?

(Spoiler: It absolutely is.)

Now, here’s the deal: the full file—the one with all the good stuff—is apparently hung up in their system loading. It happens. To me it happens a lot. But at some point on release day, you will see an available update. If, for some reason, you find yourself trapped in a Murphy’s Law loop of frustration trying to locate the update, fear not. Just shoot an email to my amazing PA, Ashley, at [email protected] .

She, unlike me, can absolutely find her ass with both hands and is happy to help you out.

Until then, enjoy the appetizer and hang tight for the main course.

I promise, the wait will be worth it.

Thanks for rolling with me and my ongoing comedy of errors. You’re the MVP here, truly!

Every bit of zen I try to channel evaporates on a frustrated growl at the sound of my brother’s smooth, recorded voice for the third time.

"Nick, I swear to God, if you forgot—" The automated voicemail cuts me off mid-rant.

A sharp twinge pulses behind my left eye—nature's warning shot that a migraine is locked and loaded. Thanks, Santa. Really feeling that Christmas magic. Right now, I'd take a sleigh full of reindeer droppings over the ice pick about to lodge itself in my skull.

My fifth voicemail in twenty minutes hits his inbox with the fury of a woman trapped in airport purgatory. "Nicholas Andrew McAdams, I don't care if you're dead in a ditch. It’s not an acceptable excuse for?—"

The automated system cuts me off.

Again.

I spin in place, my heels squeaking against the terminal floor as I scan for something—anything. A forgotten customer service rep. A sympathetic janitor. Hell, I'll take a therapy dog at this point.

One look at the time tells me customer service is closed and according to the sign overhead, the next flight won’t arrive for another three hours.

From Chicago.

Great.

For my sanity, I forgo calling one more time and switch to text.

Me

You better not have left me here.

Delivered.

Me

Cute how "delivered" keeps popping up when I'm literally NOT delivered anywhere.

Delivered.

Me

Fair warning - Santa's not the only one making a list. And your balls just made the naughty one.

Delivered.

Me

Hope you're practicing your high notes, because I'm about to turn you into a Christmas castrato. Deck your halls with that

Delivered.

Me

Silent Night is about to get real literal for you, buddy.

My phone buzzes… Finally. But instead of Nick's face, my mother's lights up the screen, probably calling to critique my travel outfit or remind me to pack my "gathering-appropriate" underthings.

Because God forbid the queen sees a panty line during family photos.

I let it go to voicemail and slump against the wall, watching the arrival board flicker like a horror movie jump scare. One by one, each incoming flight status transforms to "CANCELLED" in festive, sadistic red.

At this point, my brother forgetting to pick me up would be the glitter-bombed middle finger of the night. Trust the golden boy to handle one simple task without?—

“Have a holly jolly…”

The terminal's speaker system that had been playing sedate instrumental music kicks it up a notch, Frank Sinatra's "A Holly Jolly Christmas" suddenly blaring at full volume.

Well Frank , Holly is not freaking jolly. Holly is so devoid of jolly, Fraaaaank , she might actually murder someone with a candy cane.

With the single most important moment of my life looming just days away, this was the single worst time for my luggage to flit off to Narnia.

Boston to Portland. One flight. Fifty minutes. How the hell did the airline screw this up?

My luggage probably found the first bar and sidled right up to all the other things missing in my life—my favorite fuzzy sock, the Tupperware lid I used exactly once, my pride after taking an unfortunate ride on my ex, and my new-found confidence after nailing my last proposal.

Confidence I desperately need to get through my upcoming presentation.

The one at the lodge during our annual Christmas McAllister/McAdams mashup.

Head to head against my father and the company he built from the ground up and still lords over to this day.

The one I want him to pass to me.

You know, if I can get him to stop seeing the bubbly daydreamer I used to be. The one who cranked her music too high, wore her quirky clothes too bright, and laughed too loud.

Okay, I still do that when I’m not in the office. If the music is too loud, well, he’s just too damn old. How about that?

Too much. He’s always seen me as too much. And sure, I’m probably a Roman candle next to my brother, Nick, but I’ve mastered the art of buttoned-up-executive me from nine to five, careful to avoid Elle Woods territory with her glam-infused professional chic style dipped in signature pink.

Unfortunately, the overachiever I am, I shot right past driven, fresh executive territory and skidded straight into some Stepford Wife twilight zone.

Basically, a walking uterus of good breeding who’s prettier when she smiles.

Gag.

What a waste of my perfectly lovely charm.

You’d think my nauseating professionalism in the wardrobe department would give me some clout as a grown woman, right?

No.

And now I’m a grown woman with no clout… and without my freaking wardrobe.

Glaring at the empty, unmoving belt, I check my phone one more time.

This is the kick in the tits I did not need.

No. No! I refuse to believe my bag didn’t make it. There’s no way. My manifestation panties would not do me dirty by galavanting off to some horny happy hour in Narnia.

A flash of movement behind the clear rubber flaps leading to the inner sanctum catches my eye. The only sign of life in this place.

My only hope. My saving grace. My own Christmas miracle?

Dropping my phone onto my carry on, I glance around, say goodbye to my dignity, and hike up my skirt.

The minute I drop to my hands and knees—Jesus, could this be any more humiliating—I hear my mother’s voice in my head.

“That’s not very lady-like, dear.”

Get used to it, mother… I’m the very picture of a modern career woman getting shit done.

My knees grind against the metal plates and I flinch. I bite my lip against the string of curses begging to be set free and wonder again how I got here.

Bruised knees from savoring a well-endowed dick with my tongue? No.

Rug burn earned riding that mythical dick reverse cowgirl? Pfffft.

Nope… my black and blue knees are a direct result of my desperation.

Shoving through the thick, heavy rubber flaps reeking of oil and dust, I wave my entire arm, the frigid air from the loading area raising goosebumps on my skin. "Excuse me?"

A good twenty feet away and surrounded by the hum of machinery, the whirr of fans, and muffled tunes, the guy I spotted continues to adjust carts. Metal scrapes against concrete as he works, his back turned, completely ignoring my presence.

Just as he's about to disappear out of sight behind conveyor belts and machinery, my heart leaps into my throat on a wave of panic.

With two fingers between my lips—a move that would have my mother clutching her pearls—I let loose a piercing whistle that echoes off the concrete walls. "Hey!”

My mother hated Nick and Chance teaching me something so crude, insisting the idea of me ever needing the skill was absolutely unthinkable.

Nick and Chance -1. Mom - 0.

The guy's head snaps around so fast it practically qualifies him for workman's comp, his safety vest swinging with the motion. Disinterested eyes narrow in a glare beneath the brim of his neon orange beanie. "What the hell?"

I straighten my spine, well, as much as one can when they’re on their hands and knees, refusing to be intimidated. "My bag... it never made it out."

He crosses his arms, his safety vest pulling tight across his chest. "And what does that tell you?"

I match his bored expression. "That you're incompetent."

"Lady, all of the bags on the flight were unloaded." He gestures at the empty carousel behind me with a dismissive wave. "If it's not out there, it didn't make it on the plane in Boston. Now get off the belt."

I resist the urge to shift on my knees and maintain my hard stare. “Check. Again.”

His jaw ticks. "I don’t have to. There’s no more luggage back here. There is a booster seat. Yours?"

"Do you really want to have to deliver it to me three hours away tomorrow?"

"I don't deliver bags." He kicks at a stray piece of paper on the ground and snorts. Besides, I’m off tomorrow."

"Cute. You know what I mean."

His eyes drop from my face in a slow, deliberate slide, his attention landing somewhere in the vicinity of my cleavage with all the finesse of a drunk frat boy at last call. The corner of his mouth curls up. "What do you want me to do, whip out my magic wand and alakazam it here?"

And there it is—the eyebrow waggle. The universal signal of male mediocrity that keeps Charlie’s sex toy party side gig thriving.

Why did all guys turn into pigs who thought they had the power to fix all of our problems with a sixty-second ride on their underwhelming dicks?

"Next you're going to make some 9 3/4ths reference. How original. And—" I peruse him from head to toe, my lip curling, "—optimistic of you."

His grin slips and his eyes narrow, two red splotches forming on his cheeks. "You know what your problem is?"

I tap my chin in mock thought. "Awe, a classic from the Old Testament of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Never Getting Laid. You might want to check out the New Testament—I hear they’ve upgraded it from when shoulder pads were considered power moves."

He takes a menacing step forward, his work boots scuffing on concrete. "Listen princess, why don't you go back to your first-class lounge and let the adults handle this? I'm sure Daddy's credit card can replace whatever's in that missing bag."

My fingernails dig crescents into my palms as his words land exactly where he aimed them. "That bag has my entire future in it. I swear to God?—"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Squirt?"

The deep baritone slices through the terminal's chaos, and every cell in my body stands at attention. That damn voice. So familiar, yet somehow grittier, more dominant—nope—commanding—blurgh—than I remember, rolls through me. A shiver starts at my nape and cascades down my spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind while an unwelcome heat blooms in my chest.

Anyone but him, dammit.

My brother's best friend—and the only man who's ever pushed me to the opposite extremes of wanting to climb him like a tree and throat punch him—looms somewhere behind me.

Of course G.I. Joe would catch me like this—on my knees, fighting with airport personnel. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

I resist the urge to snap at him because I know exactly what I'll find when I turn around. Six feet plus of sculpted Army perfection hugged by cargo pants, a henley that hides nothing, and disapproval.

And I'm definitely not ready to face the one man who's always made me feel simultaneously too much and not enough—especially on my knees.

My life is officially a Hallmark movie directed by Satan.