Page 13 of Mistletoe Mistake
“You’re late—” His eyes move across my face, and I absently raise a hand and scrub it across my jaw. The stubble I didn’t bother to shave when I woke up three hours ago is coarse against my hand. “Jesus, are you drunk?”
“No.” Not yet, anyway.
“Well, you’re not fucking sober.”
He’s got me there.
“You told me to come, so here I am, get off my ass, Brandon.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I bothered. She’s not my sister. This isn’t my family.” My voice breaks painfully on the word family, and I look away, sucking down more beer to stop the burn behind my eyes.
“You’re here because we are family, Nick. I know it’s been hard—”
“You don’t know shit,” I mutter. Refusing to look him in the eye, I let my attention stray to the crowd. When my eyes land on a beautiful brunette walking through the cluster of people, I can’t stop my smirk.
Maybe tonight won’t be a complete waste after all.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Brandon’s harsh voice drags me back to him and I see his eyes glued to where I was just looking. “My sister? You turn up to her birthday party hungover, if not drunk, and then look at her like she’s a piece of ass you’re gonna use for a night before tossing away?”
I glower at his accusation. Holly? There's no way that girl with the tits and ass is the same kid I last saw five years ago. I swing my head back around until I spot her again, determined to find Holly somewhere nearby. Squinting, I spot my girl, and a slow wave of awareness forms into a cold, hard ball of dread in the pit of my stomach. Closing my eyes, I take a second to clear my head before opening them. It’s like a slap to the face when I realize that underneath the curves and the makeup, I was just fantasizing about fucking my best friend’s kid sister.
This is quite possibly the lowest I’ve sunk yet.
A rough hand on my shoulder yanks me back around to face Brandon.
“I know you’re having a tough time right now, but keep your fucking hands off my sister, asshole. You’re not even worthy of looking at her right now.”
He pushes past me harshly before disappearing into the crowd.
I should follow him and apologize. I should put this drink down and sober up for the first time in months. There are a lot of things I should do.
Instead I down the last of my beer and crack open another one.
* * *
The chains of the swing set creak as I push myself back and forth. I’m probably about to break the damn thing but I don’t have it in me to care.
It’s dark back here in the corner of the yard, and I like the feeling of anonymity that blankets me. Like I’m invisible.
Nobody needs to see me, or what I’ve become, right now.
A twig breaking snaps me out of my stupor and I look up to see a vision walking toward me.
I might be drunker than I thought.
“Nick?” Her voice is soft, barely a whisper, and she holds a bulky jacket in her arms.
“Hey.” My voice is raspy, so I clear my throat and try again. “What are you doing back here? You should be up there celebrating your birthday with all your friends.”
“Pfft, my birthday is next week, not today,” she huffs cutely and shoves the jacket at me. “I thought you might be cold.”
For the first time, I notice that I’m in a T-shirt. Probably not the best thing to wear outside in the middle of the night in mid-December.
“Thanks,” I mumble, slipping the jacket on, suddenly freezing.
She takes a seat on the swing next to me, but I can feel her gaze burning into the side of my face.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Brandon didn’t give me much choice.” I chuckle, but immediately wish I could take it back when she dips her head in embarrassment.
