Page 34 of For The Record

“Hey, lovebirds, that’s my car!”

We separate, and I almost choke on a laugh, peeling back from the car and turning to see the poor schmuck. Tatted sleeves cover both arms, a ring on his eyebrow, legs the size of tree trunks. Yeah, I’m not messing with him, all things considered, especially since he looks like an angry bull, ready to charge.

Leo’s face looks both abashed and amused as he grabs my hand and we bolt through the concrete parking garage, our steps pounding against the pavement.

“Oh my gosh,” I say, tears springing to my eyes, I’m laughing so hard by the time we reach his actual car. “Did you see his face?”

Leo shakes his head, still chuckling. “I only saw that you’re nothing but trouble, Skye Holland.”

I shoot him a quick grin. “You started it.”

“And you never finished it.” A smile curves his mouth.

“I will, I promise,” I say, jangling my keys in my hand.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, and, dropping a kiss on my forehead, opens the door for me to get into the car. “Let’s go.”

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@TheRyderBlack: Happy Thanksgiving guys! Thankful for all of my fans today who have supported me from day one >>>

Chapter 17: Skye Holland

“Skye!” My stepmother, Heidi, greets me when I show up at the door of my imposing childhood home with a bottle of wine in hand. Clad in tights and a burgundy velvet dress that cuts off mid-thigh, I almost stagger back when she flings her arms around me. “Happy Thanksgiving! It’s so good to see you.”

“You, too,” I say with a polite smile as she takes the wine from me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Heidi studies the label for a moment. In addition to her Food Network gig, she’s also worked as a sommelier, so this last-minute grab from the liquor store probably shouldn’t impress her much. If she considers the wine low-quality, she doesn’t show it, giving me a nod of approval. “This should pair well with the turkey.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say as we make our way into the kitchen. Heidi never cooks on Thanksgiving, instead preferring to hire caterers to throw the whole shindig since we have so many extended family members coming over and no one wants to do the dishes, let alone touch the stove. Even if she is a professional chef. I guess it’s one perk to being a trophy wife, though she’s practically ancient by Los Angeles standards: thirty-eight to my father’s fifty-four. “Where’s Dad and Harper?”

“Your sister is playing Minecraft, and your father is still at work,” she says, as she surveys a pot of cranberry sauce bubbling on the stove. Apparently meeting her approval, she keeps walking past the industrial-sized kitchen, complete with a double oven and Viking stove.

“At work?” I frown. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“He should be home soon. There are just some things to be wrapped up,” she says as we make our way towards the formal living room. Yes, this house is big enough to have a formal living room, a sitting room, a living room just for family, and an entertainment room complete with movie theatre-style seats and surround sound. Growing up, I thought everyone lived like this. Then I went to college and learned otherwise. “Or so he says.”

Her tone of voice suggests she’s not happy about his choice to work on a public holiday, either. I try to change the subject. “Have the twins arrived yet?”

“Aaron is here, but not Isabelle,” she says, making me raise an eyebrow.

Usually, my older siblings, twenty-nine-year-old twins—one of them a director being hailed as the next Spielberg, the other an Oscar-winning actress—arrive at the same time. “They share an apartment.”

Heidi shrugs. “I know as much about Isabelle’s tardiness as you do.”

The last time Isabelle and I talked was at the twins’ birthday party. In June. So, Heidi and I probably know the same amount: nothing. Growing up, I was never close with the twins—by the time I reached middle school, they were already in high school, and when I made it into high school at Hollywood Arts, they were busy with internships and the like. They were always closer to each other than they were to me, being twins and all.

Especially as time went on and it became clear that I wasn’t going to work in the family business. I shudder at the memories, thinking about Aaron’s constant tormenting. The patronizing pity I got from Isabelle.

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