His Holiday Dare Read online

  His Holiday Dare

  Amelia Wilde

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Connect with Amelia

  Also by Amelia Wilde

  1

  Ellie

  “You’re gonna be late to the party, aren’t you?” Gene, the owner of Blitzen’s Burger’s, looks down at me, a big tray balanced on one big hand and one eyebrow quirked.

  I’ve lost myself a little bit in the red plastic booth. Made myself a little too at home. In fact, I’ve got a little nest going on with my parka draped over my lap and my book balanced on a menu holder. This is how I spent most days after school—reading or doing homework with a five-dollar burger and fry combo meal.

  So, fine. It’s less typical now that I’ve been out of college for four years.

  And it’s Christmas Eve Eve. That’s right—two eves. The night before Christmas Eve.

  The night my parents have their biggest event of the year. Most of the people in Mistletoe are invited, though there are lots of other competing parties. That doesn’t make a difference to my mom. She likes to deck the halls and wow with holly. Merriment and joy for everyone.

  “I’ve got time.” I put on my biggest, most winning customer-service smile.

  Gene knows better. “Your folks have been planning this all year. They’re going to want you as the main event. And you don’t want to be late. Remember what happened two years ago?”

  I snort, straightening up out of my parka blanket. “That’s so nice, Gene. It’s really nice. They do put a ton of planning into this. So I don’t see why they need me there.”

  “You’re the main event,” he insists. “Want some more cocoa?”

  “A Diet Coke would be great.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I’ve still got an hour before Blitzen’s closes. An hour before I’ll have to make an entrance at my parents’ party. Yes, I am indeed putting it off. For as long as humanly possible.

  And not because of the noise or the crowd or the intense merriment. I love all of those things. What I don’t love is showing up there alone. And I really don’t love the comments I’ll get from my mom when I’m by myself.

  I know—it sounds pathetic. I should be used to it by now. The last time I brought a boyfriend to my parents’ party was in high school. It was a bad idea. He was perfectly polite. Everyone loved him. But we broke up before Valentine’s Day. This party gives everything in its glow an impressive sheen.

  Things that normally wouldn’t be so important take on new weight.

  Sure, sure. My parents will say it’s just an opportunity to gather our friends and family near, but it’s more than that. It’s always been more than that. Engagements are announced at the party. Pregnancies, too. Weddings. All of those things bask in the silver and gold of tree lights reflecting off ornaments. Especially the barely veiled judgment of anyone whose life path hasn’t taken them straight to the altar or a more high-profile job.

  Back to my book. The book is a fantasy novel. It’s the farthest I can get from reality.

  Gene comes around with the Diet Coke and I sip at it, trying to get my thoughts to lose themselves in the words on the page. It should be easy enough. I’ve been what my mom would call an obsessive reader since I was six.

  Maybe that’s why the party is so hard.

  It’s not that the gathering itself has so much significance. It’s that I want to have that kind of significance, too. It’s just not going to happen while I’m single. And so single. No recent dates. Not even a breakup to blame.

  I spend my days working at the New York Public Library, and I spend my nights in a tiny apartment with my roommate, and I genuinely love that part of my life.

  It’s only when I come back to Mistletoe that it all feels...wrong.

  I nurse the Diet Coke for a cool thirty minutes before the true pressure starts to set in.

  Gene is right—the party will be in full swing by now, and my presence will be missed.

  Will I miss the party? No. In fact, I shouldn’t have come back to Mistletoe at all. And if you’re thinking it’s because I don’t love Christmas, you’re wrong. I love the whole aesthetic. I love the holly and the tinsel and multicolored lightbulbs. I love the star twinkling at the top of the tree and a fine dusting of snow on shop windows. My kingdom for the perfect cup of cocoa on a brisk winter’s night.

  It’s the party that’s the problem.

  More specifically, it’s my parents who are the problem.

  Not all ornaments are created equal. Not every shiny thing dangling from a tree branch has a heart of gold. Not every person bathed in Christmas lights has the spirit of giving and joy at its core.

  All that glitters, and so forth.

  So while my parents’ house might be one of the main attractions in town tonight, the light spilling out the windows only gives the illusion of warmth.

  I stand up from the booth and put my coat on. I tuck my book into one of the oversized pockets. I tip Gene 100% for keeping the diner open on Christmas Eve Eve and go out into the night.

  It’s five blocks from Blitzen’s to my parents’ house.

  My feet feel heavier with each step I take.

  I’m going to be sinking through the concrete by the time I get there.

  Why do I keep doing this to myself? Year after year, I come back to experience the magic of the holidays and end up experiencing the understated menace of parents who are perpetually disappointed in my life choices.

  Namely, the choice to work in a library and not date every eligible bachelor in Manhattan. Never mind that it’s an amazing library, and I love my life—I love my life. I am a confident, well-adjusted adult, and it does not matter what my parents think.

  Oh, god. Should I really have to put on armor to go to their Christmas party? Should I have to gird my loins like I’m going into battle?

  No. The answer is no. The answer is an easy no. And furthermore, I should get a ride to the airport and get on the first plane out of Montana.

  I wheel around to put this plan into action and run face-first into a carved chest covered in an expensive wool overcoat.

  “Where are you going?”

  The voice is deep and even and intoxicating.

  It’s also familiar.

  Very familiar.

  “Ry, what are you doing here?” I pull my best friend in the entire world, Ryan Olsen, into a huge hug. “I thought you weren’t getting in until tomorrow.”

  “I got an early flight.” He hugs me back, and it’s impossible not to notice that he has been working out. Notice it again, I mean. Ryan started working out when we were seniors in high school and it was like he transformed overnight from lanky, lean best friend to outrageously hot best friend, with abs like a washboard and biceps that could bend steel.

  But my best friend nonetheless.

  “I’m sorry we can’t spend more time together.” Ryan or no Ryan, I’m getting out of here. I’ll be much better off working on the book I’m writing in the airport. “I was just leaving. Got a long night of edits to keep me busy.”

  He laughs, and it sends hot-chocolate pleasure down my spine. “I’m not falling for your tricks, Ellie. You and I both know you’re going to the party.”

  “I’m not.” My breath goes out of me in a whoosh. “I’m done, Ry. This is it. I’m skipping town and I’m never looking back.”

  He narrows his blue, starlit eyes. “And miss out on the chance to show them up?”

  “Show them up?” It’s honestly not going well for me on the snort front tonight. “I’m basically a walking, talking disappointment t
o them. I’m not going to show them anything.”

  “Listen, Ellie. We both know what’s going to happen at that party. Your parents are going to do what they always do—make you feel like you’re never going to measure up.”

  “Measure up to who? I’m their only child.”

  “And that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that you start to believe it. For a whole month, maybe two, you walk around with your head hanging because you let them mess with you.”

  “All the more reason not to go to the party.”

  Ry steps closer, and there’s an understanding in his gaze that warms me from the inside out. He’s always understood me, obviously, or we wouldn’t still be best friends after all these years. Still. I’m not used to this kind of look from the men in Manhattan. Their sexy librarian fantasies are short-lived and easily forgotten. “You’re going to the party. I’m coming with you.”

  For a moment I can’t speak.

  The confident edge in his voice is new. But how new? We video chat two or three times a week and have since we graduated college. Did it sneak up on me? Probably.

  I’m thinking that it did indeed sneak up on me.

  “Ry, you can’t just tell me what to do.”

  “The hell I can’t.” He takes me by the elbow and turns me around. “We’re going to the party. You’re going to walk in there like you own the place. In and out. Fifteen minutes. And if you want to leave after that, we can. I’ll be there by your side the entire time.”

  “And if I want to stay?” I’m not going to want to stay. Not even for fifteen minutes.

  “Then I’ll stand by your side all night.” Sure, Ryan.

  Out of the corner of my eye I scan his outfit. Business casual with an overcoat that’s to die for. He looks like he’s just walked out of a men’s fashion magazine, all long, gorgeous lines. He doesn’t slow his pace until we’re both clambering up the front steps of my parents’ house. It’s always a race, in the end. Neither one of us can resist the habit.

  He reaches the doorbell first and slaps his big palm over it. “Merry Christmas, Ellie.”

  2

  Ryan

  I’ve been watching Ellie’s parents belittle her and dismiss her and insult her for all of her twenty-five years. As her best friend it was my place to commiserate. I told her they were wrong. I told her she was the most special girl I’d ever known, which didn’t mean a whole lot coming from a guy who’d never left Mistletoe at the time.

  The door opens, revealing a splash of colorful lights and raucous sound. Ellie’s mother looks like an older version, her edges harsher, her smile brittle even on this occasion. She gives us both a shrewd look, her gaze narrowing when she sees me. “Ellie. I see you brought Ryan. Of course we always love seeing your little friends, but I did ask you to bring a date this time.”

  I was part of the problem. I’m from the wrong side of town. Quite literally across the train tracks, outside of Mistletoe’s city limits. My father was a drunk, my mother skipped out when I was ten, and I got a handful of shoplifting arrests on my juvie record. Ellie being friends with me was the best part of my life. I wasn’t willing to give that up, not even to make her life easier.

  “Mrs. Morrison,” I say, giving her a nod and a small smile. “Then I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to know that Ellie did bring a date. That’s me.”

  Ellie stiffens against me, and I rub gentle circles at the base of her back. Surprise. No one expected pretty, sweet, shy Ellie to end up with a bastard like me. I certainly never expected it. Five years spent building my import/export business in San Francisco has made me into a different man. I’m not cowed by the Morrisons anymore. I would never have stepped foot in Mistletoe again if it weren’t for Ellie.

  “He is,” Mrs. Morrison says, her eyes bulging. She glares at her daughter for confirmation.

  Ellie lifts her chin. She may like to please her parents, but she always stood up for me. Even when it got her in trouble. “Why not? Ryan’s a great guy. Honest, hardworking, kind.”

  An icy smile is the response. “I see. Please come in, both of you.”

  There’s a general shuffling of scarves and coats as we enter the foyer. Then Mrs. Morrison is called away on a pie emergency, and we’re left in relative solitude amidst a small town party in full swing. I brace myself for Ellie to demand an explanation for the date comment.

  Instead she covers her mouth with a giggle. “Oh my God, did you see her face? I think she almost had a heart attack at the idea that we were dating.”

  “What an idea,” I say, my voice dry. I don’t tell her that this is a real date, at least for me. Her. Me. This party. Why wouldn’t she date me? I’m not that bruised, hungry boy from fifteen years ago. I get my share of interested women, but I don’t want them. I want her.

  She frowns. “I shouldn’t have let you come here. I know you wanted to support me, but they’re just going to be rude and insulting the whole time.”

  “They’ll do that whether I’m here or not,” I say, steering her to the heart of the party. “The difference is that I’m going to stand up for myself now.”

  I’m going to stand up for her. It felt like shit not being able to defend her from them. That changes now. I don’t care that much what they think about me, but I’m not going to let them say shit about her. Not while I’m here. And I intend to stay glued to her side.

  Her brown eyes soften as she looks up at me. The Christmas lights twinkle in her gaze, and my throat tightens. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her how beautiful she looks, but I know it won’t stop there. I won’t be able to pretend to be her friend anymore. Hell, I don’t know how I did it as a teenager. We’d play in the lake during the summer, and I’d go home and rub one out in the shower. We’d hang out in bed looking at comics, and I’d have to take a long walk in the snow to cool off. Whatever restraint I had is gone now.

  “Come on,” I tell her. “Your fifteen minutes made it down to fourteen, and I’m definitely not leaving here before we have some of that cranberry pie.”

  We make small talk as we work our way toward the food tables. Everyone’s face lights up when they see Ellie. She has that effect on people. They close up when they see me. You steal a few cans of creamed spinach when you’re starving, and you lose that trust forever. I’ll always be Mistletoe’s fuckup. I know that. I’m not trying to change it. I’m only here for her.

  The food spread at these parties is always top notch. Mrs. Morrison isn’t my favorite person, but the woman knows how to cook. She works for weeks before the event, prepping and freezing things so that she can feed fifty people in a single night.

  Ellie gets roped into talking to Kyla Parkins about the bonfire tomorrow night, so I grab a plate and get started. A little bit of cranberry pie, a little bit of pumpkin pie. Some chocolate pie with a thick meringue on top. A few of the cookies, but no gingerbread. When Ellie joins me I hand her the plate, and her face lights up. “You remember.”

  “That you’re a nibbler? Absolutely. You want to try a little bit of everything.”

  I grab another plate and load up two slices of cranberry pie. I’m not really one for Christmas. We didn’t celebrate in the Olsen household. There was no tree, and more often than not, no food. Seeing all the decorations is just a reminder of what I never had. But I can’t really resist the cranberry pie. It’s just the right amount of sour and sweet to make me crave more.

  We move to the edge of the room, near a window that radiates cold air. Icicles form pretty designs on the other side of the glass. Ellie shivers, and I move closer to her. It’s so tempting to put my arm around her. To pull her close to my chest. To lift her chin and kiss those full lips. To claim Ellie Morrison in front of God and everyone in Mistletoe.

  Instead I shift so she’s closer to the fire, and I’m by the window.

  “Sooo,” she says, taking a bite of a chocolate chip cookie. “How did that meeting go?”

  Ellie and I have been best friends for fifteen years. That hasn’
t stopped even when she moved to New York City and I moved to San Francisco. We talk on the phone every day. Text messages. Voicemail. Zoom calls. Is it the same? Fuck no, but I knew I had to find my own way if I wanted to be worthy of her. Besides, I want more than friendship.

  “Not bad,” I say. “A lot of bullshit for an hour. Some hemming and hawing about prices. But I told him, if you want your phones to line the cargo hold of Somalian pirate ship, go with the lowest bidder. Olsen Freight charges a fair rate for exceptional work.”

  She takes a bite of pumpkin pie and grins. “You won the contract.”

  “Hell yes I won the contract.”

  A squeal. Our plates barely find footing on the side table before she throws herself at me. Her arms circle my neck, and before I know it, I’m breathing in her sweet minty scent. I stand there, shocked, turned on as hell, before wrapping my arms around her back and squeezing. I know it’s wrong. I know she’s only hugging me because it’s the biggest contract that Olsen Freight has ever signed, but I press my face against her temple. I place a barely-there kiss, wishing I could do more, but taking more than I’ve ever had before.

  “Well, if it isn’t that Olsen boy all grown up.”

  Ellie whirls in my arms, standing as if she’s going to defend me in some battle. Oh hell no. Not this. Not anymore. I’m the one who protects her. I take her by the shoulders, very gently, and move her aside so that I’m facing Thomas Morrison. The Sheriff of this town for decades. I heard he was replaced, but he was personally responsible for every single one of my arrests. When he wasn’t busy booking my dad for being drunk and disorderly.

  “Good evening,” I say, my voice hard. “And merry Christmas.”

  It’s a reminder that however the two of us feel about each other, we’re standing in the middle of a goddamn party. I don’t want this to be a scene, but only for Ellie’s sake. Otherwise I’d punch the smug son of a bitch for every time he left teenaged me in lockup with grown-ass men.