Page 379 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

It coats my tongue like oil, the sharp bite of alcohol making me pull in a breath laced with fire. It’s sweeter than whiskey and tastes almost fruitier. But I gag at the aftertaste and hastily put the glass down. “Yuck.”

Jude smirks. “It’s cognac. You’re supposed to sip it, not down it.”

He takes the glass from me and pours it into his tumbler. Then he turns around again and reaches for a bottle of cream liqueur. “Guess this is more your style, then.”

My body goes tight. Out of all the bottles, what made him choose that one?

This is dangerous. I know how to handle myself when I’m drinking wine or whiskey…but this?

He gets a new glass from the cabinet and puts it down on the bar in front of me.

I shouldn’t let him pour.

Creamy liquid sloshes into the tumbler.

Don’t take it.

My hand moves of its own, closing around the glass. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply.

“Shall we toast?”

“To what?” I ask in a thick voice.

“To family,” he says grimly, holding out his crystal tumbler.

“Family,” I murmur, clinking my glass against his.

Chapter 5

Jude

Harper’s glass is empty long before mine. A good cognac deserves to linger on the tongue, not act as mouthwash.

“Another?”

At my voice, she starts a little and comes back to the present with a soft sigh. Silently, she slides over her glass and I top her up. She’s perched on the barstool next to mine, staring out the French doors. She takes a sip and then glances at me with the glass still by her lips.

“I thought we were drinking together.”

“We are,” I say before coating my tongue with cognac.

“It’s evaporating faster than you can drink it,” she says, her eyebrows lifting. I give her a grudging smile. Booze really seems to loosen her up.

Harper takes a gulp from her glass and then narrows her eyes at me. “Let’s play Truth or Dare.”

I roll my eyes. “Not in a million?—”

“Three rounds.” She holds up her hand, fingers spread.

“Not interested,” I say, reaching for my glass. She puts her hand over mine, pressing it to the wooden counter. When I look at her, she tilts her head a little.

“Chicken?”

“Games are for kids,” I say.

She shrugs. “Then, let’s pretend to be kids for a while.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time in a long time, I drink in the sight of her. Her shiny dark hair. Her bright-blue eyes. Her perfect, heart-shaped face. She’s prettier than anyone has a right to be.

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