Chapter 3 Dane

Chapter 3

Dane

The scent of smoked turkey greets Amanda and me as we circle around back at my grandparents’ house, making my stomach turn.

Roasted meat is not my favorite scent. Turkey might be the worst.

But it’s not a Tinsel cookout if you’re not smoking a turkey.

Probably mashed potatoes and gravy inside. Green bean casserole. Hawaiian rolls.

Definitely fruitcake.

If you can’t do a Tinsel cookout without a smoked turkey, you can’t have more than three Silvers in the same location without also having fruitcake.

“You’re serious about liking fruitcake?” I ask Amanda as my uncle Rob comes into view at the smoker. He’s wiping his forehead with his apron and doesn’t spot us right away. There’s a red-and-green-striped pop-up shelter between the smoker and the back door, set up with folding chairs and two big fans, but it’s empty.

“I am.” She smiles at me, and it’s like staring into the sun. I know I should look away, but I can’t help it.

You’re not seventeen anymore. Get it together. This isn’t about high school fantasies. It’s about leaving Tinsel better than how we found it.

“About time to prove it.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s not a—”

“Amanda?” Lorelei’s shrill whisper from the window to our left cuts me off. “What are you doing here?”

It’s still over ninety degrees, which makes the turkey smell extra nauseating. My shirt is clinging to my chest. Pretty sure my deodorant has failed. The one thing I want most right now is a dip in the lap pool back at my condo building in San Francisco and to not have to do this.

Instead, I wrap my arm around Amanda and tug her close, bringing all her body heat and the scent of cinnamon sugar and the feel of the smooth skin of her upper arm into my personal bubble. “She’s with me.”

Lorelei’s eyeballs go wide, but not evenly.

One goes wider than the other, and then the second goes wider than the first.

They cross momentarily as she gasps, and then—

I stifle a sigh.

My sister doubled over laughing at this announcement was not how I saw this going.

Yelling from my uncle? Yes.

Outrage from my grandpa? Also yes.

Guilt from my grandma? Undoubtedly.

Disappointment from my dad? Inevitable.

“If you wanted coal in your stocking this year—” Lorelei starts.

“We’re engaged,” Amanda says stiffly, clearly offended—or at least faking being offended very well.

She wraps her arm around my waist, crowding even more heat into my bubble.

I wince, catch myself, and make myself gaze adoringly down at her instead.

Too much?

Not enough?

Shit. I’m bad at this.

Also, she can likely feel how wet my shirt is.

“You are not ,” Lorelei whispers.

Chili harrumphs in her direction.

Pup needs a pool too.

“We are ,” Amanda insists so strongly that I believe her.

Even though I know better.

“We kept it a secret because we knew our families wouldn’t approve—and you know it too—but it’s just—it’s just right.” She beams up at me again.

My heart gives another painful thump.

You did this to yourself, dummy.

Pretend to be engaged to Amanda Anderson to end the family feud. Not so I can live out a high school fantasy of being her boyfriend.

Uh-huh.

So much for older, wiser, more confident me.

This was the stupidest idea in the history of stupid ideas.

“If the family doesn’t like it,” I say, sweating more now that I’m actually telling the lie and realizing the very likely consequences, “then that’s their problem.”

Lorelei’s smile drops.

She looks between Amanda and me, studying each of us in turn, before looking down at my dog. “Are they serious?” she whispers.

Chili rolls his eyes and flops to the ground, lying in as much of the shade of the house as he can get his body into.

“Dane wanted to tell you when we started dating, but I begged him not to,” Amanda says. “That’s such a heavy secret to carry, and we didn’t know if it would work out, especially since it was long distance for most of it. The last thing we wanted was the judgment we knew would come, you know? We’re so sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, but—”

“Amanda was right,” I cut in. “We know you can keep a secret, but that doesn’t mean you should’ve had to.”

Ninety-degree sweats have nothing on the blatant lying to my sister sweats.

“Is that one of them gingerdead kids?” Uncle Rob suddenly bellows. “What is she doing here?”

If I never hear the word gingerdead again in my lifetime, it will be too soon.

The animosity runs deep. Sometimes petty and childish too.

“Meeting the family, because we’re getting married,” I reply evenly, looking over Amanda’s head and straight at my uncle.

Pretending to be engaged and lying sucks.

But this feud is stupid. It doesn’t serve the community. It doesn’t serve my family. It doesn’t serve Amanda’s family. And I truly am sick and tired of half of the updates I get from my family about life back home being nothing more than them bitching about something the Andersons did.

There’s a reason I don’t live in Tinsel anymore, and it’s not about turkey or fruitcake or wanting to live someplace where Christmas is only a small part of the year.

Not that I see the end of the feud making me want to move home, but at least I’ll quit making excuses to get off the phone with my family faster and faster every time we talk and planning shorter and shorter obligatory visits every time.

I don’t even read half their emails anymore.

Uncle Rob’s face does nearly the same thing Lorelei’s just did.

The back door bangs open, and Aunt Teeny charges out, followed by my cousin Esme, who’s a few years older than me.

Uncle Rob’s been the fruitcake master of the family for about twenty years now. Esme’s been his shadow since she moved back home after getting a business degree. Grandpa asked me a few years ago to move home and help us expand into adding an ornament shop—fruitcake doesn’t make the profit gingerbread appears to make, which is also a sore spot for my family—and when I declined, he roped Lorelei into it instead.

“I didn’t just hear someone say that our Dane is engaged to one of those Andersons , did I?” Aunt Teeny says.

Esme catches her six-year-old daughter, Jojo, by the arm as the kiddo darts out of the house too.

She doesn’t look nearly as horrified as her parents.

I glance at Amanda and try to silently telegraph Let’s start with her , but I think she’s quicker on picking these things up than I am.

“No running outside until the smoker’s off,” Esme says to Jojo, but she’s staring at me the whole time.

Lorelei tumbles out the door, too, followed by my grandpa, my grandma, and my dad.

Whole family’s here.

And why am I here?

For my grandparents’ sixty-fifth-anniversary party.

Which is happening this coming weekend.

The day before Vicki Anderson, Amanda’s grandmother, is having her own anniversary party to celebrate half a century of working at the Gingerbread House. Where apparently she’s announcing her retirement.

She planned her party on purpose to steal our thunder, Grandma told me when I arrived in town yesterday. It’s not even her real work anniversary. She started at the bakery right after her honeymoon, and she would’ve been married to that Anderson man for fifty-eight years this year. You know she’s making up that this is her fiftieth anniversary. It’s all a scam to get more attention on her and steal any attention on us.

Don’t care if it’s intentional or not. I care that the animosity stops and my family recognizes me—and Lorelei, and probably Esme too—as more than trophies and pawns.

I don’t know how they can live here. I truly don’t.

I drop my arm from around Amanda’s shoulders and link my fingers through hers instead, tugging her along and ignoring the blip in my chest at the way her tiny hand fits inside of mine.

An hour into this, I’ve decided the next time I get a fake fiancée, she won’t be someone I’ve ever had a crush on.

“Yes,” I say to Aunt Teeny. “You heard right. Everyone, this is Amanda. Amanda Anderson. One of those gingerbread Andersons. And we’re getting married.”

“Next month,” Amanda adds. “In Vegas.” She gives them all a finger wave like it’s totally normal to tell your family’s enemy that you’re eloping with one of them soon. “Nice to meet you all. I can’t wait to get to know you better.”

Objections erupt around the backyard.

“Vegas?”

“Next month?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I thought you hadn’t dated anyone since Vanessa.”

“Does she know about Vanessa?”

“Can I be a flower girl?”

Jojo’s little voice is what makes the adults finally stop.

They all look at her.

Then at me.

“We’re keeping the wedding small,” I say.

That might be the exact wrong thing to say.

Or it might be the exact right thing to say.

Lorelei and Esme share a look.

And I know.

Zero doubt. No question.

The feud is causing more headaches for my sister and my cousin than they’ve let on.

Let’s see if we can win just one of them over. One of them besides Lorelei.

That was our plan.

Looks like all it took to win Esme over was Amanda setting foot on my grandparents’ property.

But I don’t think the rest of them will be nearly as easy.

“We thought it was best to elope since we didn’t want a massive cake fight breaking out between all of you at the reception. Or ... before the wedding even starts,” Amanda tells my family.

“We would never start a food fight at a wedding,” Esme says quickly. “That’s so unsophisticated.”

“Absolutely,” Lorelei agrees. “You don’t have to elope to hide from our side of the family doing terrible things to ruin your big day. We can be the bigger people. You have to get married here. A Silver can’t marry an Anderson and not get married here.”

“I’d love to help you plan your wedding. It’ll be so much fun.” Esme swings her daughter up into her arms. “And of course Jojo will be your flower girl. This could be her only chance. I wouldn’t want to ruin that for her. Ever. Especially when your wedding would be the wedding of the century in Tinsel.”

Shiiiiiiiiiit.

The good news? We have allies who know all the right things to say.

The bad news? They’re both about to steamroll us into something.

Amanda looks at me.

I stare back.

I don’t know her anywhere near well enough to read her mind, but I’ve watched enough holiday movies in my lifetime to know exactly what my line is supposed to be here.

“What would make you happy, my darling?” I say.

“Oh my god, swoon ,” Lorelei whispers.

Amanda’s eyes narrow the smallest fraction of an inch.

I think she’s silently telling me off for making her make this decision right here, right now.

Tough.

She’s the one who got us into this pickle.

Even if I’m the one who insisted this was a good idea. And I still stand by it.

“It was always my dream to get married at the gazebo in Reindeer Square,” she says. “With the whole town there. And a cake from Reindeer Bakes and in a Mrs. Claus dress like the one your grandma used to wear.”

Fuck.

She’s good.

She invoked my grandma .

My entire family draws a loud, collective breath and looks at Grandma, who’s eyeing both of us like she’s considering the best curse to put on our children.

Someone dialed the summer up to eleven. Sweat’s dripping down my ass now too.

“Who does she think she is—” Uncle Rob starts, but Lorelei elbows him in the gut.

“He’s a man in love despite all the reasons he knows you won’t like it,” she says. “And how are you all going to feel when he comes home for Christmas and the Andersons accept him as one of their own when you have this amazing chance to accept Amanda as one of our own but you’re being dicks purely for the joy of being dicks?”

“I love your sister,” Amanda whispers.

“Mostly same,” I whisper back.

“Her grandmother plays that god-awful country Christmas album—”

Amanda interrupts him. “I love Dolly.”

“Dad. Go check the turkey,” Esme says. She beckons us closer. “Amanda. Dane. Chili. Get in here out of the heat so we can all talk about your wedding without our brains frying. Pia over at the bakery is one of my best friends. I’ll make a call and get a cake arranged. You just tell me the date.”

“Why wait until next month?” Lorelei says as she, too, hustles us into the miraculously cool house. The kitchen is dimly lit, and I smack my hip on the sideboard that’s always been too close to the back door, but we’re in air-conditioning. Beautiful, cool air-conditioning. “This is Tinsel. We can whip up a wedding in a week.”

“And then you can get married on Grandma and Grandpa’s actual anniversary,” Esme adds as she pushes us toward the kitchen table, where all the sides are already set out, including three different fruitcakes beside a plate of sugar cookies that I know will have come from Lorelei. She bakes the best cookies. Which is not what I should be concentrating on considering what my cousin is saying. “Next Monday. You can stay a couple extra days instead of taking time off for Vegas next month, and then it’s an even bigger celebration this weekend.”

Lorelei claps her hands. “Oh, that’s such a poetic date for such a poetic romance.”

“We can’t ask all of you to drop everything to help us plan a wedding in a single week,” Amanda says.

“It’s our absolute pleasure,” Esme says.

Lorelei’s eyes go shiny like she’s about to cry. “We get to be sisters .”

I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this many fuck s in my head in a one-hour time period.

“My family—” Amanda starts, but Lorelei blinks at her as her eyes get shinier and her chin trembles.

Shit.

Shit.

My sister will hate us if she ever finds out this was all fake.

“—will be so excited that I’m not eloping like my brother just did,” Amanda finishes weakly as she casts a glance at the fruitcake.

I swallow.

Hard. “I didn’t want to wait a whole month to get married anyway.”

Uncle Rob appears at the back door. “Do you like turkey?” he barks at Amanda.

She turns on an instant smile that I’m absolutely positive is fake.

It has to be.

How can she not be feeling guilty to the core of her soul at how upset Lorelei will be when we “break up”?

Which is now happening in no more than a week .

“I love turkey,” Amanda says. “But not as much as I love fruitcake.”

Lorelei stifles a smile.

Uncle Rob stares at Amanda. “Someone get her a piece of fruitcake.”

“Am I being selfish if I ask for the whole loaf?” Amanda replies.

Uncle Rob stares harder.

Dad pushes one of the fruitcake plates with an entire fruitcake to Amanda.

Aunt Teeny provides a fork.

Grandma stares in silent disapproval.

And Amanda dives in.

No gagging. No funny faces. No flinching.

Instead, her eyes slide shut, and a smile teases her lips as she chews her first bite.

A soft mewl escapes her lips. “Oh, god, I’ve missed this.”

“When have you ever had it?” Uncle Rob asks.

“I snuck it to her at school all the time.” Lorelei’s wiping her eyes and beaming at us.

“And I sometimes order it under my roommate’s name,” Amanda says as she digs in for another bite.

She doesn’t say I know it’s wrong to love fruitcake .

She doesn’t say This is so embarrassing .

She just dives in like my family’s fruitcake is her oxygen.

Have I been had?

Is this really about her not wanting to inherit her family’s gingerbread bakery, or is this about her wanting easy, free fruitcake.

I mentally shake myself.

It’s not about fucking fruitcake.

But I still think she likes the fruitcake more than she’ll ever honestly like me.

Liking me isn’t the point.

Ending the family feud is the point.

And our timeline to solve this just got cut down to seven days.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

I think we’re fucked.