Page 36 of Holiday Hostilities

Who upset her?

I want to ask if everything’s okay, but knowing Olivia, she’s not going to volunteer that information in front of all these people. And especially not to me.

So, I try another tactic instead.

“Okay, fine,” I say with a shrug, hoping to propel her back into playful mode and take her mind off of whatever’s going on. “If not your favorite hockey player in the room, then the sexiest one.”

I’m gratified to see the mischief make its way back into her hazel eyes and dance there for a moment before she leans over and extends her glass to Dallas.

My teammate—who has uncharacteristically shown up to dinner without a female companion—gives her his best smile. “Cheers, Griz’s little sister.”

“Cheers, second best defenseman on the Cyclones,” she says silkily, her eyes shining.

Dallas quickly clocks what she’s saying—he plays defense on our first line next to Jake, and she’s clearly seconding him to her brother. He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re mouthier than your big brother. I like it.”

Dallas is now donning his bedroom eyes, gazing at Olivia like he’s a starving man and she’s an all-you-can-eat buffet. This little exchange flares up a protective instinct in me. Makes me kind of want to deck my own teammate. Which is absolutely absurd.

“Hell yeah, she is,” Jake crows proudly, more animated than usual thanks to his beer-buzz. And also more obtuse, because he’s clearly missing Dallas’s not-so-veiled flirting. “And she’s right, too.”

Liv sits back down and leans forward on the table, her expression triumphant. “Done, Marino. Anyone else you’d like me to clink glasses with?”

I shift forward, too, so my elbows are on the table and I’m mirroring her pose.

“How about a toast to your host for the evening?”

“Fine.” She gives me a little smile as she holds up her margarita, still gloating over what she thinks was her win. “Happy now?”

I tap my glass against hers. “Absolutely.”

And I am. Because for once, I’ve actually made her happy, which feels likemywin.

14

OLIVIA

“And now, we eat the rice porridge!”

Lars Anderssen claps his gargantuan hands together, icy blue eyes glinting with conspiratorial excitement.

We’ve just finished dinner and are about to partake in what Lars says is a peak Scandinavian Christmas tradition.

And while I’m excited to try Swedish rice porridge, I wish the moment wasn’t being overshadowed by the news I just received.

I scowl down at my phone again, but I have no new notifications.

Lars’s wife Lena—who I’ve had the pleasure of exchanging a few words with this evening—smiles cheerily as she produces a literal cauldron from beneath the table. She holds it up for the room to see. “There is a single almond hidden in here. Whoever is lucky enough to find the almond in their bowl is the winner!”

Guess I won’t be eating that.

I’ll probably stick to the pie I brought. At least I can be sure of its ingredients. Dessert was really the only meal I was concerned about tonight. Although, given Jimmy’s apparent penchant for putting literally anything and everything into his potatoes, I did have to double check his “recipes” with him.

And yes, I’m aware that I’ve just stuffed myself silly on turkey and all the fixings, but I’m a girl who always has room for dessert.

“Ooh, is it timed?” Colton asks, looking genuinely invested. They all do, actually.

These hockey players are a competitive bunch. At the word “winner,” they donned their game faces—Jake’s eyes are narrowed, Dallas is wielding his spoon, and across from me, Aaron is rolling up his shirt sleeves.

Which is ridiculous. And even more distracting to my already distracted mind, because now, those thick, muscular forearms are on display, veins slicing up his olive skin. A black leather rope bracelet is wrapped around his left wrist. I’ve noticed it a few times lately, but I haven’t thought much of it until now—for a guy who clearly considered his outfit this evening, the bracelet doesn’t exactly match his white-shirt-and-extremely-well-fitting-khakis aesthetic.

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