Page 3 of Christmas With The Kings
Pasha was next, already halfway through a rant before his foot even crossed the threshold. “I get that, Hannah, but I made these plans weeks ago. You said you had practice—oh. Scones. My favorite. You outdid yourself this morning, Mouse.” He grabbed one and bit into and then rolled his eyes.
I didn’t even want to know what was being said on the other end by Hannah. I still hadn’t managed to make any headway with her. She hated me. And he’d used my nickname, so I was 100 percent sure she was talking shit about me again.
Marcel popped in, swiped a croissant, and walked back out with his phone to his ear. Damn it. It was probably the hospital. That would mean he wouldn’t be here to notice. And let’s be real, if anyone was going to notice it, it would be him.
I stared at them. All of them. Eating. Talking. Smiling. Not noticing a single damn thing. All that greeted me was silence. No mention of the cinnamon-sugar Christmas trees. No comments about the fancy plates. Not even a quip about the snowflake doilies I’d fought off two elderly women to snag at a holiday market. Not even a goddamn word about the candles.
I poured myself a cup of tea and cleared my throat. “It’s December first.”
Nothing. Bash reached for another Danish. Alek asked Nik to pass the sugar. I looked at Isabella. She met my eyes with all the warmth of a woman in a hostage situation.
I clinked my spoon against my cup. “You know what that means, right?”
“You’re ovulating?” Alek asked.
It took everything in me not to roll my eyes, but getting my ass spanked this early was not on the agenda. I closed them. Inhaled. Counted to three.
“No, I’m not. I made a themed breakfast,” I said forcing my tone to remain respectful. “Because it’s December first.”
The room quieted for half a second as I took my seat next to Isabella.
Then Alek said, “Is that why there is cinnamon in the butter?”
Yes, old man. That is exactly why. Was he reallythat obtuse?
And then, the moment passed. I felt a soft hand brush against mine under the table. The barest shift of skin against skin. A shared pulse. A silentI told you so,with a side ofI’ve got you, anyway.
I didn’t look at her—couldn’t. I reached for the scones, trying to hold it together. After several deep breaths, I resigned myself to letting them be ungrateful as they ate the beautifully-spiced breakfast I’d spent hours on.
Operation: Jingle And Slay was only just beginning. I would Christmas-ify them if it killed me. Subtly, of course. That was the name of the game.
Kinsley
There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she needs to make hard decisions and choices. As I saw it, I had two at my disposal. Wait for the blind fools to open their eyes long enough to see or take matters into my own, soon to be glitter-stained, tree-sap-sticky hands.
I chose chaos because anything less would be an affront to who I was down to my core. A little chaos with a sprinkle of backup, of course.
“To thine own self be true,” I muttered as I gave myself a once-over in the mirror before grabbing my tote bag and heading down to the garage.
The sweater dress was red. Bright, unapologetically red. Alek would kill me if he saw me in it. He hated red, but you couldn’t very well do Christmas without it on some levels. It had three Christmas trees on the front and white faux-fur trim along the hem and neckline.
Truthfully, if he could set aside the color, and see beyond it, he’d see it hugged all the right places. The tights were green and sparkly, and I’d topped the entire ensemble off with a velvet ribbon in my hair and reindeer earrings that jingled with every step.
Was it a bit much for a tree-scouting mission? Isabella would say so. But she wasn’t who I had to schmooze. She was coming whether she wanted to or not.
No, this outfit was going to help me manipulate a highly trained former MI6 operative into driving me into the countryside to chop down a forest, for fuck’s sake. He would absolutely help, and since my fantasy of the Blade chopping them down was destroyed last week in the dining room, Marcus was the next best bet.
I grabbed a cup of cocoa with extra marshmallows, because morale—and made my way down to the garage where he had his fancy, hyper-organized office tucked behind the rows of black vehicles.
If Isabella was my soul sister, Marcus was our deeply exasperated, emotionally repressed, endlessly tolerant older brother who cared—in all the best ways.
His door was ajar, and I knocked twice with my knuckles before pushing it open.
“Knock knock, Santa’s little helper is in need of a highly skilled individual such as yourself.”
He didn’t look up right away. In fact, he was bent over the desk, snapping Lego pieces into place while he consulted a blueprint that looked more impressive than a four-story, elaborate building. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms tan and scarred in a way that told stories he’d never share.
“Kinsley,” he said flatly, finally looking my way. He tilted his head. “Should I be worried you’re dressed like a bottle of Christmas liquor?”
