Page 62 of Holiday Hostilities

I clear my throat. “You settling in okay?”

“Sure.” She pauses for a moment, wrinkling her nose before she adds, “Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“Anytime.” I quirk a grin. “I was ready to throw you out after you grinched out about my Christmas tree, but you’ve redeemed yourself.”

I expect her to make a smartass remark in response, but instead, she glances at the tree in the living room and frowns. “Sorry about that. Christmas isn’t my favorite.”

This confirms my earlier suspicions, and I feel a little bad for calling her a grinch. Twice.

“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her.

She lets out a sigh. “I’m sure Jake mentioned to you that our parents got divorced at Christmas time, and it was, well, messy.”

I knew their parents were divorced—had been since before I even met Jake—but he never told me any details. In contrast, I was blessed to have parents with a loving marriage full of mutual respect, but I know a lot of people who are kids of divorce, and how hard it was on them.

“That must have been difficult.”

She lifts a shoulder, but then a shadow falls over her eyes, and for a moment, her guard slips as she adds, “Nah, it was almost a relief when they finally went their separate ways and stopped constantly screaming at each other.”

“Were Christmases a little better after that?” I ask haltingly, wanting to give her space to express how she feels.

“Yeah.” Her pretty eyes flutter closed behind her glasses, like she’s replaying a memory in her mind. But then, she exhales. “Well, no, actually. Not really. By the next Christmas, my mom was remarried to a guy who had no time for Jake and me, and my dad got arrested for drunk and disorderly behavior.” She looks up at me suddenly, and her expression shutters again. “Christmas isn’t ever really the same after you’ve spent it trying to get your dad bailed out of jail.”

I swear under my breath, finally understanding her desire to hunker down for the holidays, alone. I get the sense she must do this every year—just ride it out until it’s over, trying to pay the festive season as little heed as possible.

It’s such a clear, polar opposite to how me and my family normally spend this time of year, and I wish I could do something to make it better for her. Make this Christmas a little brighter.

But if I’ve learned anything about Olivia Griswold, it’s that she knows what she likes. And even more so what she doesn’t.

“I’ll be out of your hair soon enough to give you time to yourself over the holidays,” I say, nodding towards the corner of the living room. “In the meantime, though, I’ll take down the tree.”

“No, please don’t.” She shakes her head with a dry laugh. “I can only imagine how much work it was to move that monstrosity in here. My personal beef with Christmas shouldn’t stop you from celebrating it in your own house.”

She gives me one of those determined looks of hers and I study her, trying to read her face. “About the gala,” I say gently. “I don’t want you to feel obligated if it’ll bring back painful memories for you. I can find someone else to come, or just ditch, and you can obviously still stay here?—”

“Aaron,” she cuts me off. “I’m a grown ass woman. I might not like Christmas, but I can go to a party.” Her eyes light up. “Plus, I kind of want to get a peek at this infamous Brandi.”

The joking tone in her voice indicates that her walls are back up and our serious conversation is over. For now, at least. Because I kind of liked talking to Olivia so openly and honestly. Kind of liked seeing what lies behind her guarded exterior.

And I’m not ready to part ways just yet. “Okay, well, thanks. I appreciate it, in advance.” I give her a smile. “In the meantime, do you want to eat soup and watch a scary movie with me? Notan ounce of Christmas cheer, just a bunch of decapitations and stabbings?”

She laughs. “I thought you’d never ask.”

23

OLIVIA

The morning after I move into Aaron’s house, I wake up to a sound that is foreign to me…

Silence.

Sweet, beautifulsilence. And it’s made even better by the fact that I’m lying in the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in. Times a million. I’m talking fluffy cloud pillows, and the best mattress, and yes, I must admit, Aaron’s sheets are incredible.

Aaron’s sheets.

With a start, I sit up, my blood heating as I remember my dream:

Aaron Marino, shirtless in his kitchen, wincing as I dabbed cold washcloths on him like I was Florence Fricking Nightingale. But then, the dream version of this event became a lot less PG than the actual occurrence.

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