Chapter 4

4

NINA

Two days after rescuing Dylan and having to interact with his evil roommate as a result—no good deed goes unpunished—I walk into my parents’ cozy home in Connecticut. As I remove my coat in the hall, I’m greeted by the smell of Mom’s pecan pie and the soft glow of holiday lights. The familiar creak of the floorboards underfoot makes me feel like I’m stepping back into my childhood. To a time when their squeak was my worst enemy on the nights I was trying to sneak in past my curfew.

“Welcome home, honey,” Mom says, enveloping me in a warm hug.

“Hey, kiddo.” Dad joins us, his eyes brimming with affection. “How was your trip?”

“Exhausting, but good,” I reply, breaking free from Mom’s grip.

Dad comes up behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. “Just in time before the storm breaks. Looks like we’re in for a big one.”

“They’re saying two feet of snow,” Mom adds.

I glance out the window at the barren trees, their gnarled branches reaching up into the gray sky. A light flurry has already begun to fall, dusting the ground in white.

“Go into the living room.” Mom shoos us away. “I’m going to make hot chocolate for everyone.”

While I remove my outer layers, my dad brings my suitcase up to my room, making his usual joke. “What did you pack in here? A dead body?”

We settle in around the fireplace, mugs of hot chocolate in hand, as the news drones on about flight cancellations and road closures.

“I hope Dylan will be okay driving up tomorrow,” Mom worries, furrowing her brow. “It’s a pity you two couldn’t come together.”

“Not my fault he’s a workaholic. I wasn’t about to waste a day because he wants to work on the Saturday before Christmas.”

“Oh, you know how it is at his bank,” Mom coos. “But it’s great that with Christmas coming on a Wednesday, we’ll have an entire week together. I love having you kids at home.” She stares out the window with concern. “I just hope the weather doesn’t get much worse before Dylan gets here.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dad reassures her. “Dylan knows these roads like the back of his hand. Besides, that truck of his can handle anything.”

Mom sighs but says nothing more, staring into the crackling fire.

As night falls, I drift off to the familiar sounds of home—the old house creaking, the wind whistling outside, and Mom and Dad’s hushed voices as they watch TV downstairs.

The next morning, I wake to a winter wonderland. Snow piles up against the frost-kissed windows, sunlight glinting off the new icicles dangling from the roof while iridescent flakes swirl in the air.

Reports of JFK shutting down filter through the news as I pad into the kitchen, still clad in my fuzzy green pajama bottoms and coordinated Grinch slippers.

“Morning, sunshine!” Mom greets me. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a log,” I admit, grinning as I snag a piece of buttered toast from the counter. “It’s amazing how quiet it is here.”

“Isn’t it?” She smiles, pouring me a steaming cup of coffee. “No honking taxis or loud neighbors.”

“Exactly what I needed.” As I sink into a chair at the kitchen table, my gaze wanders to the opposite head of the table, where Dad is engrossed in the weather report. “So, JFK’s closed, huh?”

“Seems that way,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. “A lot of people will be stranded for Christmas.”

“Good thing Dylan is driving, then.” I take a sip of my coffee. “Any word on when he’s arriving?”

“He should get on the road soon,” Mom chimes in, glancing at the clock. “Your father already checked, and the I-95 is still open, thank goodness. Dylan should arrive just after lunch.”

Which means I can enjoy another morning of being exclusively pampered by my parents. After breakfast, I curl up on the sofa, losing myself in a book. In New York, I don’t get much quiet time. I work for a climate tech company designing and testing carbon mitigation systems. Our mission is to speed up the shift toward net-negative emissions through our innovative CO 2 monitoring and mitigation technologies, alongside our platform that provides real-time, actionable data.

It’s a rewarding job, but demanding. And living with my two best friends, I’m seldom alone. I’m not complaining. But it will be nice to have a morning of peace and quiet with nothing to do but read and eat the food someone else made for me.

By early afternoon, the storm is in full swing again. Strong winds shake the shutters and rattle the windows, snowdrifts reaching up to the gutters. Still lounging in my pajamas, I rummage through the pantry for a snack. I find a bag of Cheetos and, since Dad is watching a game in the living room and I want to keep reading my book without being distracted by his commentary, I retreat to my room.

Upstairs, I reach a new level of laid-back. I’m eating in bed—a paperback in my lap, a bag of chips on one side, a can of soda on the other—using my white T-shirt as a napkin before I turn the pages so as not to smear the novel with Cheetos powder.

I’ve just reached a juicy chapter when I hear the crunch of tires on the snowy driveway and soon afterward a car door slamming shut.

Dylan!

With a tingle of anticipation, I bound down the stairs, eager to greet my brother. But as I approach the front door, I spot a familiar silhouette through the frosted glass. Tall, broad-shouldered, with tousled black hair. Definitely not Dylan. My steps falter.

It can’t be. Tristan was supposed to fly back to San Diego yesterday. I rub my eyes, convinced I’m seeing things, but when I look again, he’s still there, presumably waiting for someone to let him in.

I’m not letting him in. In fact, I’m considering how fast I can board the door when Dylan’s voice drifts in from the front yard.

“Get in, it’s open.”

The handle turns, and I freeze at the bottom of the stairs as the door slowly opens.

Familiar blue eyes stare back at me, at once puzzled and mocking.

It’s really the Prince of Darkness. In my house, at Christmas. Please, not again!

I stare at him, stunned speechless. And this odd moment passes where I notice every detail of his face—the slight wrinkle of Tristan’s brow, his too-perfect eyebrows, that cruel, luscious mouth. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest as a thousand questions race through my mind and the uncomfortable silence stretches between us. What is he doing here? Why is he not in San Diego?

A cold draft of the winter storm blows into the house and the icy air hits me, providing an answer to my questions. The news about flights being canceled and JFK shut down jumps at the front of my mind, and the horrific reality dawns on me. Please tell me Dylan didn’t invite the Prince of Darkness to spend the entire holidays with us because I’m going to have to commit a fratricide.

But before I can go murder my brother, my first instinct is self-preservation. I reach up and fumble with the hair tie, releasing the messy bun keeping my hair up and allowing my long blonde locks to cascade around my face. I smooth the strands down to cover my ears—no matter that my fingers are still Cheetos dirty—and fluff them a little over my front.

Tristan follows the gesture. Then his eyes flit downward to my chest for a split second, and a hint of discomfort flickers across his face.

I track his gaze to my white T-shirt, covered in orange fingertips, and to where my nipples have gone rock hard—because of the cold air blowing in. No other reason. I can’t believe I’m standing in front of the Prince of Darkness completely unprepared, wearing vomit-green furry PJ bottoms, Grinch slippers, and a flimsy T-shirt with no bra underneath that I used as a napkin all afternoon.

Tristan clears his throat.

“What—how—why are you here?” I stammer, folding my arms across my chest.

He shrugs, shaking snow from his boots. “Dylan invited me. My flight got canceled, so we drove up together instead.”

That’s when the idiot himself enters the house with a boastful, “Merry Christmas.”

Dylan is greeted only by a frosty atmosphere and tense quiet.

“Hey, Dylan.” It takes effort not to grind my teeth. “Can we talk in private for a second?”

My brother stares between me and his best friend and rolls his eyes, but he still nods, following me upstairs to my bedroom.