Page 1 of Stuffing His Stocking

PROLOGUE

LIV

Five Years Earlier

Are they really arguing again? It’s Christmas for heaven’s sake.

My favorite holiday songs spill from my Bluetooth speaker as I bend down to grab a very shabby-looking gingerbread man from a brown cardboard box. These old ornaments have seen better days, and so has their sad container, which is only held together by duct tape and prayers. All these homely decorations seem out of place in our pristine, elegantly-decorated living room.

My new stepfather has insisted that Mom and I don’t need to lift a finger to decorate anything, that we can just relax and let the professionals turn the house into awinter wonderland, as he calls it. I suppose he means well, and while the house is certainly beautiful, it’s all so impersonal. Everything is too perfect…lifeless. It was nice the first couple of days, but now it just feels like I’m living in a hotel rather than my own home.

So I pulled out the old ornaments that Mom has been collecting since before I was born to give our Christmas treea little more character and warmth. I doubt Bruce will notice my additions, but I know they’ll put a smile on Mom’s face. Christmas was always our favorite holiday, especially after my dad died. It was just the two of us for so long, and I want to keep some of our holiday traditions going for as long as I can.

As I find the perfect spot for the pipe-cleaner snowflake I made in kindergarten, I hum along with the music and bask in the orange glow of the crackling fire. Our old house didn’t have a fireplace, so I’ve pestered Bruce almost every night—well, every night that he’s actually been home—to light this one for me. Thankfully, he’s typically more amused than annoyed at my insistence and lights it without much complaint.

Right now, though, he’s complaining. A lot.

“Why can’t he be on time for once in his life?” he gripes.

Mom sighs. “Give him some time, honey. There’s probably a lot of traffic coming from the city. It is snowing after all.” Her tone is calm and soothing, but appears to be falling on deaf ears. Bruce grunts, and I hear thetap-tap-tappingof his expensive loafers on the Brazilian walnut floors as he paces in the sitting room.

I gingerly set down the ornament in my hand and creep to the doorway, making sure I remain out of sight. Mom stands off to the side, her forest-green dress perfectly complementing her olive-toned complexion while her dark, wavy hair frames her worried face. She watches my stepfather with his tense gait as he strides back and forth in his slate-gray slacks and starched white button-down. I glance at my ugly Christmas sweater and matching leggings, and wonder if Bruce will want me to change for dinner. Everything we do is so formal and boring.

“You know, it’s just like him to be late, Carol,” he huffs. “I know he’s doing this on purpose just to get under my skin.”Looks to me like it’s working.“And on Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake! He never thinks about anyone but himself.”

I almost snicker at his overreaction until he spins around and I see his lips cruelly twisted into a sneer while his neck and cheeks have turned a deep shade of red.

Mom cautiously approaches him and gently cups his face. She says something too softly for me to hear, and Bruce’s shoulders marginally relax as some of the anger dissipates from his expression. His eyes crinkle with fondness and adoration, and he places his hands on her hips before leaning forward to kiss her. She giggles and moves her hands from his cheeks to the back of his neck.

My gaze snaps to the floor and I swallow hard, trying to tamp down the embarrassed blush working its way up my face. It’s not like I haven’t seen them kiss before, but it feels like I’m intruding on a private moment. I may have had my reservations about Bruce, and to be honest, I still do. But it’s been years since I’ve seen my mom happy like this, and I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to ruin it.

They had a whirlwind romance, marrying this past summer after only a few months of dating. And even though we’ve lived with him for over half the year in this fancy-schmancymansion, I can’t say I know a whole lot about him. He works all the time and he’s hardly ever around. He has been nice to me, though, so I can’t complain too much, regardless of my gut feeling.

For my eighteenth birthday back in August, he bought me a new car, even though both Mom and I stressed that it wasn’t necessary. And at the start of the school year, he handed me his black card and told me to buy anything I needed. School supplies, clothes, makeup, it didn’t matter. I thought it was pretty cool of him to do that, but I still can’t say I really like the guy. I have my reasons, and because of them, I keep my stepfather at arm’s length.

Bruce comes from old money. He has everything he could ever want, with women literally throwing themselves at him.If the salacious internet blogs are to be believed, he’s indulged in numerous noncommitted relationships and earned himself quite the reputation as a womanizer. So what on earth does he want with a sweet, kind woman like my mother?

He came in like a bulldozer and swept her off her feet, love-bombing and showering her with lavish gifts. I’m not saying my mom doesn’t deserve every bit of it, but it just seems so odd, as she’s not the typical woman he seems to be attracted to. I’ve seen countless articles about the tech tycoon and his vapid socialites of the month. They’re nothing like my mother, a hard-working administrative professional with subtle elegance and sophistication.

Although I can’t pinpoint his motives, Bruce does seem to care a great deal about her. Maybe it is love, or as much as it can be for a man like him. And Mom does appear to be in love with him. I just don’t want to see her get her heart broken. Not again, after losing my dad all those years ago.

The other reason I’m leery of Bruce is?—

The front door bangs open, allowing a cold gust of wind to blow into the foyer. I scooch back, pressing my body flat against the wall when a tall figure strolls inside with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He shakes his sandy-blond tresses and snow flurries float into the air. Then he lifts his gaze, and I inhale a sharp breath, catching a glimpse of his startling green eyes.

I clamp my mouth shut so he doesn’t hear me and drink in his appearance from head to toe. His tousled hair is slightly damp at the ends and he pushes the wet strands off his forehead. After rubbing the stubble on his chiseled jawline, he unbuttons his stylish wool peacoat and shakes the snow onto the wooden floor. My heartbeat quickens when he rolls the tension from his neck, revealing cords of muscle that lead down to his gym-perfected physique. Even from my hiding spot in the livingroom, I can see tiny flecks of snow stuck to his long eyelashes, accentuating his bright, sea-green eyes.

He seems completely unaffected by the weather or anything else with his casual swagger and indifferent demeanor. The man is stunningly gorgeous, but either doesn’t know it or doesn’t give a damn, and I can’t help gawking at my stepbrother.

“About damn time, Dylan.” Bruce hisses his son’s name like a curse, and I flinch despite him not directing his ire at me. But Dylan merely kicks the door shut and gives his father a bored look.

Bruce stomps up to his son and jabs a finger into his chest. “Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is and how long we’ve been waiting for you?”

“It’s fine, Bruce. Just calm down,” Mom pleads.

“I willnotcalm down, Carol. This spoiled little shit has kept us waiting all evening.”

Dylan rolls his eyes and bats Bruce’s finger away as if it were nothing more than an annoying gnat. “Relax, old man, before you have a stroke. I’m here, aren’t I?”

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