Page 2 of Holiday Interference
My phone buzzes. Another weather alert.
Another punch from Mother Nature in passive-aggressive font.
Inside, I walk the room like a slow orbit—checking corners, angles, guest clusters.
My heels click across marble, my dress swishes just right, and the smallest snag in a string of garland catches at the edge of my vision like a loose thread on a hand grenade.
I fix it before the photographer swings around.
Everything here is curated. Controlled.
Sparkling just enough to distract from the fact that I haven’t had a real holiday in six years and my last date ditched me for a fitness coach with a ring light.
This? This is safer.
I adjust a centerpiece, tuck a stray napkin, and smile as a sponsor raises his glass toward me.
I don’t do cozy. I do immaculate.
Until the wind knocks again, just a little harder.
And something in me flinches.
I’m halfway through texting the rideshare liaison when I feel it—that weird prickle at the base of my neck, like I’ve just stepped into the wrong scene in the right shoes.
Not panic. Not nerves.
Just…a shift. Like the room’s holding its breath behind me.
I turn.
And there he is.
Leaning against a column near the back bar, sleeves pushed just far enough to show strong forearms and a watch that probably costs more than my car. Hair damp from snowmelt. Suit jacket open. Tie absent.
And a look on his face like he’s already halfway checked out.
Cal Reid.
The Vipers’ youngest rookie. Quiet. Massive. All sharp edges and no shine.
And absolutely not where he’s supposed to be right now.
With Finn McCade on a tight leash from the front office, Cal’s the one I worried about not falling in line.
Not because he’s a troublemaker but because he’s new at all of this, and he already looks like the type of guy who barely tolerates the off ice things that come with being a major league athlete.
Instead of making rounds or smiling for the sponsor photo op like we discussed—like Ischeduled—he’s standing there like he’s the only person in the building who knows how this story ends.
I exhale once through my nose, check my smile in the reflection of a glass ornament, and cross the floor.
The crowd parts easily, the way it always does when I walk through it like I belong—which I do.
I planned every second of this night down to the final strand of battery-powered garland.
But Cal Reid doesn’t budge. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pretend to be impressed.
He’s not rude. Just…still.
