Page 1 of HoHoHo for You

1. The Reason for the Season

~ SAM ~

The front door slammed.

“Fuckingfuck!”Bridget screamed, startling me so that I almost dropped the hot pot lid and had to juggle it to the counter.

“Whoa, whoa,babe.What’s—?”

She stormed around the corner and into the kitchen, dark hair flying, eyes wide and welling with tears, face pale, arms gesticulating wildly as she spoke.

“It’s not even Thanksgiving, Sam! What thefuckare they thinking?!”

Frowning, I dropped the oven mitts to the counter and started towards her. “Slow down. What’s going on?”

She paced past me, but I hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her up against me. She turned and buried her face in my chest, which was a relief—it meant I wasn’t the one she was angry with. So I stroked her hair as she brought her hands up to her face. “Breathe, babe. Just breathe.” Touch always grounded her. But fuck… she was shaking.

When she’d taken a couple breaths, I tipped up her chin and made her look at me. “Bridget, what’s happened?”

A single tear trickled down her cheek as she looked up at me and my heart sank. But at least she lowered her voice and wasn’t throwing her hands around anymore.

“I stopped at the corner store and they were playing fucking Christmas carols…”

Oh, shit.

“…It freaked me out so I just left to drive home—but now our asshole neighbors are putting their Christmas lights up.Already.It’s not even Thanksgiving, Sam! How—”

I pulled her back into my chest, wrapped my arms around her and held her tight, shushing her because she needed to breathe and calm down before we talked about this.

Help me out here, God. This is… exactly what we didn’t need.

“It’s going to be okay,” I murmured into her hair, stroking her and holding her tightly because it helped her breathe.

Christmas was Bridget’snightmare.She was a child when, in the middle of December, her organized crime boss father shot and killed her mother in front of her—then took the seven-year-old Bridget on a month-long road trip while he killed several of his enemies. And threatened Bridget’s life countless times in the process—all while every song on the radio, every store, every television show bombarded her with Christmas music and decorations.

She couldn’t see a hint of Santa or hear jingle bells without her body yanking her back into that trauma.

I’d known this was coming. She’d been twitchy ever since Halloween. I could tell she had already wanted to run—something she had done every year as an adult. She’d disappear to another country, or a hidden remote area where no one knew her. Last year she had finally called me and let me join her. I had hoped we’d have a little more time before she wanted to run this year. I talked to her about it back in summer and offered to plan a trip, but she’d said let’s wait and see because her father passed away this year and she hoped she wouldn’t be as affected.

Clearly that wasn’t going to happen. I squeezed her tightly as another wave of shivers rocked through her body.

Dammit.

I didn’t want her to panic and leave without me again. When she’d first disappeared last year, it was the scariest two days of my life—and I was an ex-felon.

I kept stroking her hair and holding her until her breathing slowed. My mind swam back to those days last Christmas when it looked like I might be going back to prison at the same time she was fighting her demons.

We were in a hotel bed together during our very brief honeymoon, basking in the afterglow and just talking, but her mind was churning…

“I hate Christmas.”

“Because of your Dad?”

She nodded. “Before that year, Christmas was literally my favorite time of year. Mom would always let me help her decorate the tree the day after Thanksgiving. And she’d collect presents and wrap them early so I’d come home from school and there’d be new boxes. I loved it—hot chocolate, peppermint, Christmas carols, the whole thing. But every single memory of those weeks looks like decking the halls, sounds like fucking jingle bells and Michael Bublé, and… God, I hate it so much.”

“Bridget—”

“I’m not exaggerating, Sam. I’m a walking panic attack for like six weeks. By the time New Year’s finally arrives, I’m exhausted. Gerald, my Psychologist, says it’s the true definition of triggers—”

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