Page 8 of Puck Me for Christmas

“Sonofabitch!” she barked, grabbing the nearest salt and pepper shakers. She shook them around like maracas, letting out a wild, primal wail. The sight of the serene spa therapist losing her Zen with egg yolk dripping down her temple was equally hilarious and horrifying.

I ducked behind a chair, trying to avoid the worst of the incoming food missiles. Sasha shouted something about “ruined footage!” as she stumbled around filming. The newlyweds were locked in a furious standoff, gravy slopping onto the floor. Pearl and Norman hurled half-spent accusations between bites of drenched rolls. Drinks spilled, plates shattered, and the entire feast turned into an absurd battlefield.

Finally, my shirt now completely covered in flecks of gravy and cranberry sauce, I shouted for the chaos to come to a halt. “Stop!” I yelled loudly in the voice I normally reserve for the field.

Immediately, everyone froze.

The mood successfully broken; the energy of the previous mayhem fizzled like a snuffed out wick. People slumped into chairs, panting. The table was a wreck: plates overturned, silverware scattered, lumps of food dripping off the edges. The floor fared no better, smeared with gravy and mashed potatoes. Even the walls hadn’t escaped the tirade and were dotted with splotches. Everyone stared around as though stunned by the sight of what they’d done.

Dante emerged from under the table, shoulders caked with bits of stuffing. He offered a wan smile. “Anyone want…dessert?” he asked weakly, attempting humor. No one laughed.

A heavy, sullen silence descended. Jenna wept softly into a gravy-stained napkin. Tyrese set his jaw; arms crossed. Sasha’s phone dangled from her hand, filming or not filming, I couldn’ttell. Pearl glowered at Norman, who was trying to wipe off a smear of sweet potato from his shirt. Raul shook his head, disgusted. Celestia flicked egg yolk off her sleeve, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Holly Joy stood in the corner, eyes wide, torn between tears and laughter. Emberleigh, spattered in gravy and who-knows-what, looked utterly drained, her arms wrapped around herself. I longed to pull her to me, to make everything right somehow.

After a long, excruciating pause, we all moved in slow motion, retrieving cloths, napkins, anything to start cleaning. Pearl found some old rags in a side cupboard, handing them out. We sponged gravy from the furniture, scooped up lumps of food from the floor. There was no conversation now—just the scraping of chairs, the wet splat of gobs into trash cans, and the stale smell of our destroyed feast.

I kept sneaking glances at Emberleigh. My chest ached at the sight of her wiping stuffing off her sleeve. I recalled her eyes, lit with that old spark hours ago in the snow, and how it had almost led to something real. Now she was covered in the ruins of a meltdown none of us saw coming. I wanted to talk to her, to at least check if she was okay, but she avoided me, focusing on wiping up the spill of gravy.

One by one, people slipped away when the cleaning came to a close. I had no idea how long we’d been at it, but I suspected it was nearing midnight.

Soon, only Emberleigh and I remained in the room, along with Dante and Holly Joy. Now, I told myself, I need to talk to her now. I stepped toward her, my voice low. “Emberleigh,” I began softly, “can we talk?”

She looked up. Our gazes caught—my chest fluttered with the intensity in her eyes, something raw and unguarded.But before she could respond, Sasha, swaying and slurring, stumbled up behind me.

“Logan,” she purred, planting a hand on my arm. Her breath reeked of spiked cranberry. “Come on, let’s go…somewhere. Just you and me babe. This is too funny, right?” She tried to cozy up, giving me a clear view of cleavage.

Emberleigh’s expression shut down on the spot. She turned on her heel, marching swiftly towards the exit. I yanked free from Sasha’s grip, my pulse spiking, and chased after Emberleigh’s retreating figure, but the freshly mopped floor slowed me, my shoes squeaking. By the time I cleared the room, she’d already disappeared into the main lobby, heading for the small bank of elevators near the front desk.

“Wait!” I called, rounding the corner. However, I was too late. The elevator doors glided shut, Emberleigh inside. My heart twisted at the sight of her reaching up to wipe away a tear. Was it just due to exhaustion? Being snowed-in and unable to attend whatever plans for the holiday she’s had? Or could her emotion have something to do with me?

The doors sealed before I reached her. I hit the call button, but it was too late—the elevator hummed upward, carrying Emberleigh away from me. Chest heaving, I stood there, gravy splattered on my pant leg, my mind spinning with regrets. The corridor remained empty and silent.

How had everything spiraled so out of control? Just a few hours ago we’d managed a near-kiss in the snow, and I thought maybe it wasn’t too late to fix things, maybe even ask for another chance. Now everything was chaos—ruined dinner, raging tempers, misunderstandings on top of misunderstandings. I stared at the elevator’s reflective surface, feeling the press of shame and longing. We were trapped in this chalet at least two more days, over Christmas, all of us. I clenched my fists in anger.If only I’d avoided Sasha’s clingy flirtation from the start. If only I’d talked to Emberleigh in private hours ago. If only the roads weren’t blocked.

But if the roads were clear, would I have run again? The question stung. No. No, I wouldn’t run. Coaching had taught me to face mistakes and correct them, not flee. Emberleigh and I had parted under a cloud of unfinished emotions. I needed to fix that, to tell her why I left years ago, that I never wanted to hurt her. That I still cared, probably more than I should.

I exhaled shakily, stepping back. Above me, the antique chandelier flickered, as if mirroring the powerlessness that now hung over me.

After a minute, I turned and walked slowly back to help Dante and Holly Joy with the last of the cleanup as a way to calm my restless spirit. I couldn’t make things right with Emberleigh tonight—that much was clear. But maybe the forced proximity of Christmas would give me another opportunity. And if Emberleigh slammed the door in my face, at least I’d know I’d taken my shot. The sting of regret was almost as sharp as the memory of her scent behind that pine tree. Almost.

Chapter Five

Emberleigh

I fled down the hall as cranberry sauce dripped from my blouse and cursed Mother Nature for trapping me here…withhim. The polished wood steps echoed under my boots, the cacophony behind me fading as I reached the sanctuary of my room. Shutting the door firmly, I sagged against it and closed my eyes. The sticky residue of whatever was in my hair clung to me like a bad memory—appropriate for the way the entire evening had unraveled, which I was sure would be burned into my memory forever.

I should be at home back in Denver, taking advantage of the holidays to get ahead on my work projects. It wasn’t like I had any family obligations. My parents were off skiing with my sister, her rich investment banker husband, and their perfect 2.5 children. I doubt they’d even heard about the storm. I’d beenlooking forward to spending Christmas, just me and my laptop—or at least that’s what I told myself.

And yet, here I was now, marinating in a cocktail of emotion, cranberry sauce and gravy. My room felt stifling. I paced, trying to banish the image of Logan from my mind, but the memory of his body on top of mine and the look in his gray-blue eyes behind the pines had unraveled me in ways I didn’t want to admit.

I rubbed the sauce on my blouse again with a face towel, wishing the mess of my emotions were as easy to clean up. I knew that Logan had been trying to talk to me, but I hadn’t let him get close, not because I was angry—though I was—but because I didn’t feel strong enough to resist him, despite what he’d done to me in the past. The pull between us was as potent as ever, dragging me toward dangerous waters I wasn’t sure I could navigate without drowning.

Logan McKenzie was a hurricane. A bear of a man—strong, handsome, and utterly devastating. I’d fallen for him once, only to be left with my heart in pieces. He’d disappeared from my life without so much as an explanation. Now, seeing him all over social media—surrounded by beautiful women, smiling, unburdened—had only cemented my belief that I couldn’t compete. Couldn’t hold his attention. I’d be the girl left behind again, the footnote in someone else’s story.

I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my hair still styled, my makeup intact despite the chaos downstairs. Even with food stains and flushed cheeks, I looked like my on-air persona: polished, put-together, untouchable. But it was a shield, wasn’t it? A way to keep everyone at bay, to avoid being seen—truly seen—for the flawed, uncertain woman I was underneath.

That was it—I’d had enough of this mask.

With trembling fingers, I reached for a clean washcloth and ran it under warm water. Slowly, deliberately, I wiped away the foundation that had become my armor. I scrubbed at the eyeliner and mascara, letting the black streaks trail down my cheeks before washing them away. Layer by layer, the glossy reporter vanished, replaced by someone softer, more real. My freckles emerged, faint but visible, across my nose and cheeks. My lips, bare of lipstick, were pale but mine—no fillers plumping them up like Sasha’s overblown pout.

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