Page 3 of A Wilde Christmas

Mom was hurrying around the kitchen, finishing last-minute prep for dinner. She looked stunning in a sweater the color of red wine, with her blond hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and diamond stud earrings sparkling every time she moved.

Libby Wilde had worked her way up from an assistant district attorney to an appointment as general counsel for the Department of Defense. She spent several years serving as special advisor to the president, then returned to the family business as the head counsel for Wilde Security Worldwide before finally retiring last month and passing the legal reins to his cousin Fiona.

Retirement looked good on her. She carried less stress in her shoulders and around her eyes.

Davey wanted to hug her, but he knew better than to get in her way while she was cooking, so he stopped in the doorway. “Hey, Mom. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“If you could grab the—” When she turned and saw which of her three sons was asking, she stopped, and her eyes widened behind her glasses. “No, no. I’ve got it. You go and sit down; get off that leg.”

“My leg’s fine.”

“Your dad and brothers are in there watching football,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him.

“More likeplayingfootball,” he muttered.

A crash sounded from the other room.

Libby closed her eyes and sucked in a breath that had Davey backing up a step. He knew that look. He’d seen it directed at him and his brothers enough times. Mom was on the warpath.

“Jude Wilde, I swear to God, if you knock over the Christmas tree again this year, you’re sleeping on the couch until next Christmas!”

Dad appeared in the doorway. His hair was still more pepper than salt, but there were a few more streaks of silver in it than the last time Davey had seen him. He wore a shockingly green sweater that said, “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal,” in blinking lights.

Because, of course, he did.

Dad wouldn’t be Dad without the traditional ugly Christmas sweater. Jude Wilde was a prankster who loved any excuse to dress up in absurd costumes—he’d even worn a Hawaiian shirt to his wedding, which Davey still couldn’t believe Mom had allowed.

Jude held up his hands in supplication. “I swear I didn’t break anything. Cam and Vaughn were... having a disagreement.”

“One you provoked, I’m sure.”

He just grinned, looped his arms around her, and kissed her.

She smacked his chest. “Ugh, you drive me crazy, you know that?”

“Aw, Libs, but you still love me. You must for putting up with me for thirty-five years.”

“Yes, I do,” she said on a long exhale. “So maybe I’m already crazy.” She swatted him. “Now get out of my kitchen. Go annoy your brothers.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all afternoon?” He laughed and gave her another kiss, then straightened and stole a roll from the tray on the counter behind her. “Hey, Davey,” he said a little too casually and took a bite. “Glad to have you home. If you have a minute after dinner, your uncles and I want to talk to you about something.”

Dad was up to something.

“Mom.” Davey hooked a thumb toward his retreating father’s back. “What was that?”

“Oh, who knows?” She shrugged, but the hint of a smile before she turned away told himsheknew. And she wasn’t telling.

Shit.

two

The tree stayed upright.

Barely.

Davey wandered into the living room and found his dad seated between his uncles Vaughn and Cam, identical twins who looked so much alike it was sometimes impossible to tell them apart. Davey never could as a kid, so he’d taken to calling them both “Uncle Vam,” and the name had stuck. They hated it almost as much as they hated when their oldest brother called them “Twins” instead of using their names.

He grinned at them. “Uncle Vam.”

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