Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“Clearly.” I breathe my first real sigh of relief. “I thought I messed things up for you two.”
Leo scoffs. “Impossible.” He calls over his shoulder, “Be back in a bit, sweetheart.”
“Don’t take too long,” Charlotte warns in a sensual tone that hints at another round of makeup sex.
“I won’t.” He shuts the door, claps my shoulder, and nods down the hall. “Deck and scotch?”
“A perfect pairing for tonight.”
A few minutes later, we’re parked on the outdoor couch under the stars, the electric fireplace on, drinks poured. Leo holds up a glass. I don’t feel much like toasting, but the way I feel isn’t important, so I clink back and say, “To your wedding tomorrow.”
He shakes me off. “You don’t need to toast my wedding tomorrow. It’s going to be great. We’ll toast to you telling me the truth.” My nice, happy-go-lucky, charming, green-flag best friend who’s kind to everyone shoots me a stern look. “What really happened with my cousin?”
I pause, debating how much truth to tell him, pinch the bridge of my nose, then say fuck it. Half-truths won’t fix this mess. Avoiding the real story because it might cause awkwardness in the wedding party won’t help anyone. “I didn’t want to tell you. He’s your cousin and a groomsman. You looked out for him growing up. He’s family.”
But Leo just beckons with his fingers. “Serve it up.”
Gladly. Fucking gladly. “At my Thanksgiving dinner, he hooked up with the caterer at Aunt Bibi’s house, sneaking off with her to the wrapping room, where Fable found them right while Brady was singing ‘Joy to the World’ while Iris hummed along with her mouth full.”
Leo freezes for a second, then the glass falls from his hand.
Our hustle to clean up shards of glass on the deck feels like a fitting metaphor for tonight.
49
NO TRESPASSING
Wilder
It’s not my place to say let’s kick him out. But it is my absolute pleasure to agree when Leo declares, “Let’s kick him out.”
I drop the last dustpan full of glass shards into a sturdy paper bag, then put it in the outdoor garbage bin, saying, “More than happy to.” Tossing out that fucker might be one of the best Christmas presents ever. It’s also the next thing I need to fix in the long list of mistakes I’ve made.
“Yes, but we need a plan.” Leo strokes his chin in the universal signal for I’m devising a brilliant scheme.
But brilliant schemes are right in my wheelhouse. The perfect strategy has come to me fully formed.
I explain it to Leo, and his eyes light up. “Let’s do it now.”
First, I make a few phone calls, arrange a handful of details, and enlist some troops. As I do, Charlotte calls Leo and tells him she forgives him for being late. She also has juicy new info about the gingerbread competition.
When Leo shares it with me, I’m not surprised. But I will enjoy the hell out of this extra ammo.
As soon as everything and everyone is in place, my best friend and I head directly to Brady’s cabin on the outskirts of the resort I own.
The operative words—I own.
The clock nears eleven. Leo raps loudly on the outer door and I stand to the side, out of view. Rustling sounds come from inside the cabin, then the trudge of tired feet. Brady swings open the door in the middle of a yawn.
“Hey, cuz.” Leo’s upbeat tone gives nothing away. “Got a minute to chat about the big day tomorrow?”
The yawn deepens. “Any chance this could wait till the morning? I’m tired and Iris is asleep.”
I roll my eyes. What a lazy jerk.
Leo flashes him a smile as he shakes his head. “Groomsman business. Needs to happen right now.”
“You sure, man?”
“Positive.”
“All right,” Brady says, like he’s so put out. “It’s just been a rough night for me, you know?”
He has no idea how much rougher it’s about to get.
“Thanks,” Leo says and crosses the doorway.
My turn. I move from beside the door, stepping in front of the beady-eyed asshole. Brady’s wearing a bathrobe, boxer shorts, and a T-shirt advertising a podcast on how to get rich fast. Prick.
“It’s your least favorite person,” I say as his eyes bug out, brimming with fear. “Which is entirely mutual.”
“W-what the hell are you doing here?” Aww, it’s cute that he’s scared, but then he adds in a mean voice, “After you ruined my phone.”
He cares nothing about people. Only things, money, and himself.
I step inside, closing the distance between us. “Fuck you and your phone. You ruined the entire Christmas competition.” I advance on him through the foyer as he backs deeper into the cabin. “Ever heard of respect? Decency? How about manners? You lurked around my grounds and recorded a private conversation with my daughter. You cheated in the gingerbread competition with a store-bought gingerbread house. You begged me for an audience to pitch your portfolio management, and when I turned you down—which businesses do all the time, so get used to it, Brady-i-o—you chose to get even with a public shaming.”