Chapter 5

5

TRISTAN

There is nothing private about Nina’s conversation with her brother. As I lean against the cool wall of the Thompsons’ entryway, the chaos of the confrontation echoes down the stairs as loud as if I were in the room with them.

“You really had to invite him, didn’t you? Of all people!” Nina shouts, her voice dripping with venom. I can almost picture her vibrant green eyes flashing with anger as she delivers one insult after another. Dylan’s muffled replies are barely audible.

“If I wanted to spend my holidays with the Prince of Darkness, I’d have gone to a Black Sabbath reunion, not our living room!”

At least she’s creative. I should probably be offended. But as I listen, I can’t shake the image of Nina in that white T-shirt, the fabric leaving nothing to the imagination. That image, along with the memory of her unexpected reveal the other night, lingers uncomfortably in my mind, painting every curve and shadow of her fit body in vivid detail. It’s a mental picture I have no business entertaining, not about my best friend’s little sister. But it’s there, taking center stage in my thoughts. Has been for a couple of days now.

“Insufferable jerk,” Nina spits out, her words hitting me like a series of tiny punches.

“Ah, come on now, sis,” Dylan counters, his voice briefly rising above the fray. “He’s not that bad.”

“Right,” I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes. My gaze slides over to a framed family photo on the wall—a much younger Nina stares back, hair a frizzy mess, jug ears sticking out from beneath. She must’ve been about that age when I first met her, a tiny whimsical pest, for sure. But she’s no gremlin now.

Two nights ago, watching her stare right into my eyes, bold as she dropped that wretched towel, has re-wired my brain. I can no longer see her only as Dylan’s younger sister. At present, she’s filed away as a hot-as-fuck woman who happens to hate my guts.

I drag a hand over my face. Maybe coming here was a mistake. I should’ve stayed in New York. Work. I try not to be sentimental about Christmas. But Dylan insisted so much. He couldn’t stand the thought of me abandoned in our apartment for the holidays. And so I came.

“No. No!” Nina’s protests keep ricocheting down the stairs. “You brought Satan himself to our doorstep. What’s next, a holiday dinner with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

I wince, sorry that Dylan has to take the heat for inviting me over. Nina sounds even more aggravated than usual by my presence. She’ll make us both pay for it. If anyone can hold a grudge, it’s Nina Thompson.

My thoughts scatter as Mr. Thompson appears in the hallway, his genial smile undeterred by the cacophony above us. “Thought I heard someone come in.” He greets me, extending his arm. The sound of Nina’s ongoing tirade lends a bizarre soundtrack to our handshake.

“Hey, Mr. Thompson.” I clutch his hand. “Good to see you.”

“Please, call me Greg,” he insists, as always. “You’re practically family.”

“Thanks, Greg.” I try to sound grateful, but it’s hard to focus on pleasantries with Nina’s verbal assault still going strong upstairs.

As her voice crescendos with a creative string of insults aimed at me, Mr. Thompson winces playfully. “Ah, are those my daughter’s dulcet tones?” he quips, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

I can’t help but chuckle, even as Nina’s verbal daggers keep flying down the stairs. “She certainly has a way with words,” I admit.

“Always has, ever since she was little,” her dad reminisces, a twinkle in his eye. “I remember when she argued with her kindergarten teacher about the correct pronunciation of ‘tomato.’”

“Sounds like Nina, alright.” I nod, trying to picture a pint-sized version of her standing up to authority with the same fiery determination she shows me.

Mr. Thompson tries to reply but is stopped short by Nina’s increasingly agitated tones.

“Christmas is a celebration about Jesus being born, and you literally brought the Antichrist in a business suit into our house. You’re forcing us to spend the best time of the year with the man who probably inspired every villain in holiday movies. What, was the Grinch too busy?”

Mr. Thompson jokingly lowers the corners of his mouth and tilts his head as if to say, impressive.

I shrug. “Guess I can add holiday villain to my resume now.”

“Next to Antichrist in a suit,” he quips. “I’d say you’re moving ahead, young man.”

I glimpse Mrs. Thompson’s reflection in the hallway mirror just before Lisa enters the hall, her brow furrowed with concern as she takes in the commotion. “What on Earth is all this noise about?” she asks, her eyes darting between me and the stairs. Embarrassment colors her cheeks as Nina’s rampage continues, but she doesn’t let it affect her composure.

“Tristan, dear, it’s so wonderful to have you with us again.”

Her warm welcome instantly makes me feel at ease despite the chaos.

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. It’s great to be here,” I reply, returning her smile. Her presence has always had a calming effect on me, even now amid Nina’s tornado-like outbursts.

“Please, call me Lisa,” she insists, as she’s done countless times before. I nod, same as I did with Mr. Thompson.

“Excuse me for a moment, will you?” Dylan’s mom eyes the staircase with determination. “I need to speak with my daughter.”

“Of course,” I respond, watching as she gracefully ascends the stairs.

As she reaches the top, she puts an end to the argument, her voice carrying sufficient authority to make even the most stubborn of children listen.

“Nina!” she calls out firmly. “Enough with the shouting! This is not how we treat guests, especially not one who’s been a friend of the family for so long.”

Instead of being subdued, Nina yells even louder. “Did you know about this?”

“Of course I knew.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because your father and I didn’t want to spend the morning hearing you complain. And I’d hoped you’d be more mature about it.”

“But Mom, he—” she starts, only to be cut off.

“No ‘buts,’ young lady. You will apologize to Tristan and behave yourself for the rest of his visit. Is that clear?” Mrs. Thompson’s voice is unwavering, leaving no room for argument.

“If he stays, I go!”

“Nowhere to go, darling, we’re snowed in.”

“I hope you’re happy,” Nina yells, presumably at Dylan. Then a door slams.

My best friend hops back down the stairs next, a sheepish expression on his face. “Don’t worry, man, she’ll get over it.”

I seriously doubt it, but, as Mrs. Thompson pointed out, we are snowed in. Dylan and I barely made it here. I couldn’t go back to New York even if I wanted to—at least not tonight.

Nina seems to vanish off the face of the Earth for the next hour, leaving behind only the echo of her outrage. I contemplate the possibility of clearing the air between us, but who am I kidding? Nina Thompson and peace talks go together like oil and water. I drop the silly idea, focusing instead on the warmth of the Thompson household—a sheer contrast to the coldness and disinterest I’m used to at home.

Two days ago, the night I found Nina and her roommates in my apartment, my mom had just informed me with a two-sentence text that they were canceling Christmas as they wouldn’t be home for the holidays. Adding a short “see you next year” at the end of the message. Hard to say if she meant it as in “see you in a few days in the new year” or as in “see you next Christmas.” Probably the latter.

I’m not even sure why I still bother to buy tickets to go home when it’s clear my parents couldn’t care less. Even without JFK shutting down, I would’ve been stranded for the holidays regardless.

But at least the storm has provided me with an excuse to give people as to why I’m spending Christmas with my best friend’s family and not mine. I don’t need anyone’s sympathy or to be pitied. Especially not by a certain green-eyed, sharp-tongued beauty, who regards me as a particularly distasteful bug.

Nursing my second mug of hot chocolate Mrs. Thompson insisted I have, I stare at the blizzard raging outside, feeling slightly guilty that I’m glad about the horrible weather. The gale really came as the perfect excuse to spend Christmas with a family who actually cherishes the holidays and appreciates being together. A family whose members love each other. And even if I’m public enemy number one for a certain member of the household, it’s still better than being persona non grata for everyone back home.

I haven’t even asked my parents where they’ve gone off to. Each new rejection hurts a little less. Maybe I’ll become immune soon.

From a young age—too early for any kid to draw that conclusion—I realized they’d never wanted the bother of taking care of a child. I was raised by nannies until they could ship me off to boarding school and be rid of me altogether. The jury’s still out on whether I was a planned addition to the family they thought would be less troublesome or an unwanted mistake.

Anyway, my Christmases in this house with Dylan and his family are the happiest I remember. And I’m sorry Nina loathes having me here. I honestly have no plans to make this forced cohabitation any more difficult for her than it needs to be. I’ll be a good boy this year; no teasing or riling her up.

I take another sip of chocolate and vow to lay down my arms. I’ll just stay out of her way as much as possible and quit fueling whatever stupid feud has been going on between us.

As another hour rolls in, with still no signs of Nina emerging from wherever she’s holed up, I decide it’s high time to unpack. That’s when I realize my suitcase isn’t where I left it in my room. I call it “my room” because it’s the room where I always sleep when I visit Dylan. Incidentally, it is also the room next to Nina’s. A circumstance that has never bothered me before, but now, the idea of her lying on a bed just a drywall away is… troublesome for reasons I will not explore.

As is the disappearance of my suitcase.

A sweep of the house confirms that my bag is nowhere to be found. I can’t shake a growing suspicion that little Miss Grinch had something to do with the sudden MIA baggage. I look everywhere a second time, and when I still can’t find it, I knock on her door.

She opens, eyes glaring. I have an instant to assess that she’s changed into a cozy knitted sweater that hugs her figure, and dark leggings that sculpt her long, lean legs before the door slams back in my face.

Well, at least she was covered up this time. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d even made an effort.

“Nina.” I bang on her door again, all my good intentions to keep calm and not engage with her already forgotten. “I need to change.”

The door reopens, and she leans on the threshold, casually checking her nails, an infuriating smirk curling the corners of her mouth.

Have her lips always been this red and pouty?

“Calling me Nina, uh? Did you misplace your pitchfork?”

I don’t know why, but I can’t get myself to call her Gremlin anymore. Not after what her roommate said the other night about the joke not being funny if I’m the only one laughing. I still haven’t puzzled out why the name has gotten so offensive to her, but the hurt I saw flash in Nina’s eyes when I asked for my towel back and called her Gremlin stayed with me, impossible to forget. That brief flicker of pain kept me awake all night. Well, that and the memory of her long legs, luscious curves, and round— I need to stop!

Now’s not the time to get soft—or worse, randy. I’ve vowed not to provoke her, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to let her roll all over me. Even if I could imagine a few scenarios where her rolling over me wouldn’t be half bad. And I shouldn’t. Argh, what is wrong with me?

I tug at my cashmere sweater. “I want to get out of these clothes.”

Nina’s eyes drop to my chest, and when her gaze lifts back to mine, something is stirring behind the icy glares.

“Don’t get too excited,” she quips. “It’s not a full moon yet.”

I ignore the way the word excited coming out of that suddenly irresistible, pouty mouth makes me feel. Yeah, not touching that. “Where did you put my suitcase?”

She looks at her nails again and shrugs. “Try searching in the shadows; I hear that’s where you do your best work.”

Okay, she’s not going to let it go. Message clear. No truce is possible. It’s an all-out war.

My jaw sets. “If this is how you want to do it.”

Her eyes flash, but she keeps quiet.

I rake a hand through my hair. Think, Tristan. Where could she have put the suitcase? Nowhere in the house. At least, not in a place I’ve already checked. And I’ve looked everywhere . Twice.

How else can I find my bag? Did she leave the house unnoticed, bring it somewhere?

I have my iPad in there. Under Nina’s amused gaze, I whip out my phone and check the geotag. But the localization only confirms the suitcase is here somewhere. I could call myself on Skype. Worth a shot.

I open the app and dial my tablet handle. The line connects, but I can’t hear the ringtone from here. My bag is not upstairs or stashed away in the attic.

Ignoring Nina, I head downstairs. Just as I reach the bottom of the stairs, a faint ringing becomes audible. I turn to the kitchen, but the sound turns muffled, same when I try the living room.

With a horrifying realization, I open the front door. Drifts of snow attack me, snowflakes blowing in my face and into my mouth, but the ringtone becomes louder. I follow the faint melody into the storm, wading through knee-deep snow until I discover a rectangular-shaped hole in the white mantle where my suitcase is already submerged by a fresh powdery blanket.

I’d laugh if I didn’t want to cry.

Already half-frozen to death, I plod the last of the distance and retrieve the suitcase from the ground. At least it was a rigid casing and nothing should’ve gotten wet.

Shivering, I lug the case behind me, trudging for the heat of the house.

I stagger back inside, leaving a trail of half-melted deluge. My fingers are numb, barely able to latch onto the handle to close the front door.

As the hot indoor air hits my frozen extremities, the skin on my hands and face burns, making me almost regret the anesthetized sensation of a few moments ago. Feeling like a mix between a ball of fire and ice, I drag the suitcase up the stairs.

Nina is still there, leaning against the doorframe of her room.

She smirks, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “Find everything okay out there, Tristan?”

I glare at her, my cold, wet misery a stark contrast to her warm, smug confidence. “Thanks for showing me the rolling in the snow facilities,” I retort as I shake flakes from my hair like a dog after a bath, sending droplets scattering across the hallway. “Care to show me where the sauna is?”

I relish her wince as beads of melted snow land on her pretty face.

She tosses her head, her blonde hair flipping dismissively as she wipes away the moisture with a flick of her wrist. “Oh, the sauna? That’s reserved for guests who don’t sign their Christmas cards with ‘Best Malevolent Wishes,’” Nina teases, her voice laced with feigned innocence.

With a sly grin, I consider my next move. She’s looking at me with that defiant tilt to her chin, daring me to up the ante. If she wants to play, I can play. “I’ll just have to find other ways to thaw then,” I say, my tone subtly coaxing.

Her cheeks flush. Good to know she rattles.

Nina pushes off the doorframe, all haughty indifference. “Enjoy your frozen change of clothes.” Then, that incandescent green gaze drops to my nether regions. “I hope nothing shrivels.”

And the way she looks back up at me, a little suggestively and with a satisfied, impudent smirk, has the opposite effect of shriveling anything down there.