Page 29 of My Rival for Christmas

Especially if it means sneaking in a few extra hours with my best friend before I fly to Colorado to meet my brother and niece for Christmas, then to his hockey game two days later.

While the holiday has never been a thing for me and Austin, ever since Clover was born five years ago, we’ve tried to make it everything we didn’t get to have.

We bake cookies, leave out milk for Santa and carrots for the reindeer, get a tree that we decorate with sentimental ornaments and pile presents underneath. All for Clover, because even though we both have money now, Austin and I still don’t exchange presents.

Our one rule we’ve carried with us into our new traditions. We do, however, give each other a paperback we’ve already read and annotated for the other to read.

My least favorite holiday is a little better with a kid in the family and getting to see it from her eyes. All the magic we’ve been able to create for her.

Makes me hate my parents a little more each year, though. That they never did it for me and Austin.

“Oh, look, they’ve even decorated for Christmas,” Kylie says, pulling me out of my thoughts in the worst kind of way.

The music gave me a false sense of security.

I tug on her arm. “Noo, I’m Christmased out for the day.” The hat is my maxing point.

“Oh, my beautiful little scrooge, I think you’ll like this one.” She points to the bar and the lone red stocking sitting on top of it. Not hanging off like it’s some kind of mantel. Buton.Held up by the neck of a dark elongated square bottle of alcohol.

I squint at the label, but we are too far away and the place is too poorly lit to really make out the brand. But what isn’t hard to make out is the green paint that spells out TIPS along the white trimming.

“Okay, we can stay.” Color scheme aside, I love it. That’s my kind of Christmas decoration. If only because it’s so pathetically sad, it’s funny. And that’s how my holiday has always gone.

Have I hit a new low if I feel kinship with a tip jar that can’t even be supported without a bottle of whiskey? And is technically a commercialized, impractical sock?

Probably. But I’ll just have a few drinks to forget. I think I’m finally getting the hang of this vacation thing.

Although, anyone would be after a Kylie Carlisle one-day intensive.

I’m a fool for doubting we wouldn’t be able to complete everything on it. From swimming in the steaming infinity pool, to fat tire biking on a snowy trail, taking a scenic gondola ride through the mountains, and participating in a gingerbread-making contest that was for children, and dining at the resort’s Brazilian steakhouse once again for dinner—we knew after eating there last night we’d be immediately returning—I feel like I’ve had a week’s worth of activities in only twelve hours.

I don’t know how Kylie seems to have evenmoreenergy than she did this morning, practically bouncing as she leads me to the bar. But Kylie is a rare beast that often intimidates me in social settings.

She’s an extrovert. This kind of stuff feeds her, while draining me.

But not tonight. I’m rallying, remember?

We finally make it to the bar, where Kylie immediately catches a bartender’s attention with one of her easy-going smiles.

He holds up one finger, signaling he’ll be right over after he finishes opening the beers in front of him.

The jukebox switches over to “Take It Easy” by the Eagles, and once again I start vibing to the beat as Kylie gets sucked into a conversation with the person to the right of her.Thank god it’s her and not me.Small talk with strangers is one of my worst nightmares.

Maybe I should watch Kylie and learn. But before the lesson can begin, I feel the bartender lean across the bar. His brown hair is a little too shaggy to be stylish, and he gives me an easy, if not slightly full of himself, smile. “What can I get you, beautiful? First round is on the house.”

“Tone it down, Casanova. This redhead is mine. Go get your own.”

CHAPTER SIX

paige

Excuse me?What did he just say?

M I N E?!

That’s it. As soon as I land at my brother’s, I’m going to a walk-in to get my ears checked. Because there is no actual way Nate just called mehis.

A roar erupts in my chest at the voice I’ve been trying to forget all day as he sidles up next to me. A little too close for my liking, the sleeves of his shirt are bunched around the elbows, showing off his array of tattoos.

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