Page 32 of Holiday Hostilities

Luckily, I am not one of those people who buys into Aaron’s ways of wooing people.

I watch as he produces a glass from a cupboard along with a chilled bottle from the fridge—one of those industrial-style ones that I’m sure holds many, many protein shakes. He pours a large glass of wine and hands it to Sof with a flourish, before turning to the stove to stir a simmering pot of gravy like he’s Martha freaking Stewart.

At that moment, a couple of hockey wives and girlfriends swoop into the kitchen and Sofia turns to chat with them. Meanwhile, Jake waves at Dallas and Colton through the window, and makes his way out to the deck to join them.

I expect Aaron to follow suit without so much as a backwards glance at me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sets down his gravy spoon and leans against the island, casually crossing one leg over the other.

“Drink, Olivia?”

He says the four syllables of my name slowly, thickly, like his voice is drenched in honey.

And suddenly, a drink sounds like the best thing on the planet. Anything to ease the sudden jangle of nerves brought on by me standing here, in his house, without the buffers of Jake and Sofia.

“Yes.” I swallow, then tack on a, “Please.”

Because I will not forget my best behavior plan, no matter how weirdly fidgety I’m feeling.

“Beer, right?”

I frown slightly. “What makes you think I drink beer?”

I’m more curious than defensive. Last time Aaron and I were around each other for any significant period of time involving a drink, it was back inhishigh school beer-swilling days, while I was still religiously ordering Unicorn Frappucinos from Starbucks.

Maybe there’s a unicorn-frap-to-beer pipeline I don’t know about.

“You ordered one last spring,” he says, his voice so low that only I can hear. When I look at him even more curiously, he adds, “At the club that night.”

The fact that he remembers this makes me feel a little strange—the fact that he remembers seeing me at all, let alone what drink I ordered.

Clearly, he kept that little piece of intel locked away so he could pull it out to use against me when the time was right. Remind me of how foolish I looked when I practically fell on him that night.

Weird thing is, it doesn’t feel like he’s making fun of me right now.

Not at all.

The cluster of hockey wives are making their way outside, and soon enough, it’s just the two of us in the kitchen, locked in some sort of stand-off. The roomy space suddenly feels far, far too small for both of us to exist here at the same time.

“Right.” I swallow again, then force my lips to tip up. “The night you ditched your date.”

He gives me a closed-mouthed smile, his full lips pulling back to reveal dimples. “Actually, she ditchedme.”

“Ha! I find that hard to belie?—”

The glint in his eyes cuts my sentence short. My guffaw is still echoing around the kitchen, mocking me. Because not only was I about to accidentally compliment him, but I was going to do so ratherenthusiastically.And he knows it.

His smug expression is smuggening by the second, and so I change course and shrug. “Well, whoever ditched first aside… maybe I want something a little stronger today.”

“Margarita?” He jerks a thumb in the direction of a Jimmy Buffet Margaritaville machine in the corner, which is currently churning slushy green liquid.

“Why am I not surprised that you have one of those.”

He pats the top of the machine. “I only take her out for special occasions.”

“Her.Gross.” I roll my eyes. “You boys and your toys.”

“You want one or not, Lil Griz?” His voice lilts, teasing.

“I do,” I admit.

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