Page 50 of Single Mom's Christmas Wish

“I happen to like my job very much. Mixology is what I’ve always been passionate about. As soon as I graduated high school, I got started in it.”

Callie raises an eyebrow, her curly red hair flowing over one bony shoulder. I wonder if her skin is naturally caramel or if it’s a tan. “Talk about an ambitious woman, eh?”

“What do you do for a living?” I shoot back as I shake her drink, finding odd comfort in the sound of ice cubes dancing around in the tin right next to my ear. Around us, the evening unravels in calm and sophisticated tones, yet the tension between my sister and me is palpable.

“I run the Monroe Foundation,” she says. “We organize fundraisers, galas, balls, and other charitable events. We partner with the Met Gala as well.”

“Ah, okay, so you organize parties where rich people can give money and not feel so shitty about having that much money in the first place.”

“I connect people, and I help people.”

“Which people are you helping exactly?”

“Children in Africa and Southeast Asia, for the most part.”

I shoot her a cold grin as I pour her drink into a cocktail glass. “American kids weren’t good enough, huh?”

“We help inner city communities, too,” Callie says, but I can tell she’s stumbling ever so slightly. I’ve been in this line of work for long enough to read people with remarkable ease. “We have loads of charitable projects.”

“Have you ever been to any of the actual projects? Or to those African or Southeast Asian villages you claim to be helping?” I ask.

Callie squirms in her seat, but one sip of my cocktail is enough to slightly relax her frame. “No, why on earth would I go anywhere without running water?”

“My God, you are the poster child of elitism,” I chuckle dryly. “You claim some kind of high ground over me because you sign off on menus and get paid a ridiculous salary just to organize black-tie events, yet you’ve never really worked a day in your life. The Monroe Foundation is yours. No one gives a shit if you show up for work or not.”

“What’s your point, Dakota?”

“My point is that I work hard for a living. I earn my money fair and square. I’m sorry I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in mymouth like you, but at least my labor is honest,” I reply. “So, all this judgy bullshit aside, what the hell are you really doing in San Francisco?”

She smiles and straightens her back, eager to answer.

“I’ve got a few charity projects I’m thinking of starting here in town,” Callie says.

“Bullshit,” I immediately call it.

“There are three community centers that have reached out to my foundation for financial and logistical assistance. I figured I might as well come out here and see what I’d be working with,” she replies with a casual shrug. “I also thought I’d check up on you, seeing as I will be coming into a lot of money on Christmas this year. Maybe I’ll throw you a few pity dollars in the spirit of the season.”

I don’t know what it is about Callie that’s got my competitive engines roaring, but I just can’t stand back and let her tear me down purely for the fun of it.

“Whose money are you coming into? Because it isn’t going to be mine.”

“Right. Like you’re actually getting married,” she cackles in sheer mockery.

“My fiancé looks forward to meeting you,” I say. “Maybe we could arrange that while you’re in town.”

Callie stills, suddenly aware that I could be serious. Good. I want her to panic. I want to knock her down a few pegs because I’ve had enough of this emotional boxing. I’m not her punching bag. “You’re engaged,” she says flatly.

“It’s fairly recent.”

“Wow, you work fast.”

“I’m determined. You keep that old house, Callie; I don’t need it. But I am going to put that Monroe money to good use and show you how it’s done,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at her. I can almost hear the blood rushing up to her head.

For a moment, she almost buys it.

But I’m not a shrew. I don’t have the nastiness some people do. And I am a terrible liar, as Archer often loves to point out. I hate to admit that he’s right as Callie bursts into laughter, throwing her head back for good measure before she downs the rest of her cocktail and sets it on the counter. She then taps the edge of the glass with her emerald-encrusted gel nails.

“I’m not an idiot. Fix me another drink and tell me all about how you’re going to spend that eighty million that you’re never going to get. Please. I’m on the edge of my seat.”

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