Page 87 of Holly Ever After

I’m three steps in when the door swings open again. I spin around, my hands balling into fists.

“I knew not fixing those locks would come in handy.” He smirks at me, and I suddenly feel like weak prey in a lion’s den.

He strides toward me with purpose, his long legs eating up the distance between us. Before I can react, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. The heat of his touch seeps through the thin fabric of my sleeve.

“Why the hell do you have to be so stubborn?”

Instead of pulling away or arguing back, I find a mischievous smile tugging at my lips. Looking up at him through my lashes, I let the silence stretch. The tension between us is palpable, like a live wire, and every second I remain quiet, I can see the irritation growing in his eyes.

That seems to annoy him even more. With a swift motion, he pulls me in the direction of my bedroom.

“Get dressed,” he orders, releasing my wrist and giving me a little push toward my closet.

Taking a deep breath to steady my racing heart, I whirl around to face him. “You can't just manhandle me into doing what you want.”

“Don't do this,” he murmurs, his voice gentler now. “Not for me. Not for anyone. Get dressed and you can fight me in the car on the way. You can fight me all day if you want. Just fucking fight me, baby.”

I hate admitting he’s right, but he is. I fight. It’s my nature, but I’ve been wallowing, and I probably stink.

I yank my hand away. “Fine. Give me twenty minutes. You can wait in the car.”

I’ve only gotten his scent out of the place. He can’t be here again.

The slightest smile tugs his mouth upward, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he dips his chin and walks away.

I’ve noticed he’s quite good at that.

Thirty-Five

“Gather 'round, folks!” My mom, dressed in a criminally ugly Christmas sweater, shouts above the din.

Before I can blink, we’re all sporting them. Elves on parade.

Mark nudges me, “She bought these right after her first email, didn’t she?”

Speaking of those emails. I’ve been dodging daily reminders and pep talk messages for weeks. My mother’s got every little detail planned out, including color-coded charts and schedules. Seriously, if she put this much effort into a military operation, we’d have world peace by now.

The town square is a sea of people, swept up in the chaos of the annual Christmas Games.

Suddenly, Sean's next to me, way too close for comfort. My clarity from the past week is replaced by anger.

One look at his face, and there's a rogue butterfly in my stomach. God, he looks good, but fuck him and his sad, gorgeous smiles.

“We've got some warmup games to begin with. Something to get us in the mood,” Mom starts, her eyes sparkling. It’s like watching a pressure cooker about to burst.

I'm pretty sure these games are supposed to be fun before everyone gets too competitive, but my mother is already there. She's fit to kill one of us if we mess this up.

“Don't look at me like that, Holly,” she warns, reminding me how she used to scold me as a child.

“This is my face, Mom. I look like a bitch to everyone. I can't help it.”

“Try. These games are my Olympics.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sean mutters under his breath as my mother prepares herself.

Three games in, she's at Mrs. Johnson's throat over whetherDie Hardis a Christmas classic. (It is. Fight me.)

After some minor hiccups with carol names and movie quotes, Mom's competitiveness has ignited a feud with the Johnsons. They’re throwing daggers so severe I almost feel them. Fuck it. The Johnson's kids were always little shits growing up. This is war. They glare. We glare. It's the most festive standoff Pine Falls has ever seen.

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