Page 8 of The Christmas Playbook
He seems cool, calm, and collected. His long fingers tap against the desk slowly as he observes the reception area with a content expression. He’s nearly two feet taller than me now, and his shoulders are so much broader than when we were preteens. I feel small beside him.
“Oh my God,” the girl mutters.
That’s never good.
She stares at me with wide eyes. “We did double-book you.”
Why does she seem so panicked by this?
Just give him a different room.
“That’s fine.” Rhys leans his elbow on the receptionist desk. “You can give Mira here a new cabin.” He pauses. “Unless it’s nicer than the one we’re currently in. In that case, I’ll switch.”
I gasp and throw my elbow into his side.
He grunts at the same time a smile slides onto his face.
“You don’t understand,” the girls voice shakes with anxiety. “There are no more rooms available.”
My whole body heats.
“What?”
Rhys makes a face, but he’s quick to brush the issue off. “So, you’re saying we need to share. Do we get a discount?”
I shoot him a glare.
“What? No, we won’tshare,” I argue.
His eyebrows rise. “Do you have somewhere else to stay? Because I’m sure as hell not staying in any of my friends’ cabins. They fuck like rabbits.”
Just then, I hear a familiar laugh.
I glance over my shoulder at my two older sisters and quickly turn back to Rhys. His eyebrows furrow once again.
“Well?” he asks.
To stay with Rhys or to stay with one of my family members?
As I teeter between two impossible choices, I listen for either of my sisters’ voices to get closer.
Shit.
“What are the chances that Mira self-combusts while we’re here, with Mom and Dad asking her what her plans are every five seconds?” one trills.
“Between that and Eliza asking if she has a boyfriend or is interested in anyone? Yeah, I give it two days before she shouts something and stomps off to her cabin.”
“Wanna make a bet?”
Rhys’s gaze shifts from me to my sisters and then back to me. It’s obvious he overheard them, and now I want to die.
My face heats, and I stare at the center of his chest.
This trip has hardly begun, and I’m already having a shitty time.
A bet? They’re literally betting on what’ll make me self-combust first? The implication that I’m unsuccessful in life or the talk of my nonexistent dating life? Both are touchy subjects because it’s obvious that I’m the black sheep of the family.
Anger brews inside my chest, and I grit my teeth together.
