Page 38 of Wreck Me

Oh, COME ON. The whole movie is the best part of the whole movie.

Eh.

Next you’re going to tell me Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie, aren’t you?

Well…

No.

Absolutely not.

Abort mission. Rewind. Delete, delete, delete.

I’ve actually never seen Die Hard, so it could persuade me.

Thank fuck for that.

Gotta run. Time to pretend to be something I’m not. I’ll message you when I’m leaving. X

* * *

“Ah! There she is,” my father’s voice boomed as I walked into the dining room ten minutes before six. Despite my early arrival, it appeared I was late. A table filled with food was the first thing I noticed; piping hot entrées and side dishes were placed perfectly across the span of the table, while each of the chairs was occupied, aside from mine. Faces I hadn’t met stared at me with wonder, the men at the table sliding their chairs back and standing as I made my way further into the room. “This is my lovely daughter, Isla. Isla, the Bradleys.”

“Hello,” I said sweetly, tipping my head in greeting. Though my parents had been inattentive, they still found the time to drill me with manners and made sure I was the perfect daughter. Couldn’t let me ruin their pristine reputations. Faking my life came so naturally while in these four walls, I had no trouble melting right back into the role they had molded me for.

“Isla, this is Steven, Claire, Levi, Willow, and next to you is Blake.” My mother’s hand fluttered toward each person as she spoke their name, giving me the rundown on who was who of the Bradley family. They were all gorgeous, and frankly, it was a little intimidating. They looked like the perfect family from the outside. Too good to be true.

They probably were.

Blake pulled my chair out for me and I sat, lifting myself slightly as he pushed me in. I smiled tightly and reached to pull my linen napkin into my lap.

The men took their seats again once I had settled. My father was in his normal seat at the head of the table, naturally, while my mother sat on his left, and Mrs. Bradley—Claire—sat next to her. The Bradley's daughter, Willow, sat between her mother and father—Steven—who sat at the opposite end of the table as my father. Rounding the table was Levi, their youngest son, Blake, and then me. Much to my dismay—but not surprise—I was also next to my father.

As if on cue, the waitstaff moved forward and removed the silver cloche covering the turkeys, serving small portions of each dish to our waiting plates.

“So, I’m thinking this is a setup,” Blake whispered, leaning into me once the waitperson between us finished serving and walked away. His eyes were crystal blue, his light brown hair styled with a thin layer of product to keep from falling in his face. He wore navy blue smart pants paired with a white button-down shirt that had two buttons at the top popped open. No tie, no suit jacket. I liked that he went against the grain of what surely his parents expected of him, judging by his father and brother’s attire. Still, he was no Caleb, and as stunning as his bright eyes and million-dollar smile were, I set my heart on a set of sinfully gorgeous chocolate brown eyes and a panty melting smirk.

Therewasa difference. Caleb had a whole vibe to him that made me weak in the knees.

“I think you may be right.” My father caught my eye, watching mine and Blake’s exchange.

When the servers retreated, my father clapped his palms together and stood again. “Steven, thank you and your beautiful family for joining us for Thanksgiving this year. We hope this is the first of many.” My father looked at me as he ended his sentence, silently daring me to defy his words. He knew I wouldn’t, but it still made me physically sick to know he was enjoying this. “Join me in a quick toast and then we can let the feast begin!”

He raised his glass of scotch. “To family, new friendships, and lasting partnerships.”

“Here, here!” Steven replied animatedly, raising his own glass and tipping it in my father’s direction.

All around the table, glasses clinked and sips were taken.

I downed my champagne, gulping it in one breath before setting the flute down on the table. I felt Blake’s eyes on me, but he said nothing as he opted for his water glass instead.

A server rushed over and refilled my champagne flute. I smiled up at her as I picked it up. “Thank you. This will be my last. I’m driving.”

“Of course, Miss.”

“Please, begin,” my father commanded, gesturing to the surrounding feast.

The kids wasted no time scooping up their forks and digging in, as the adults followed suit. Everything tasted delicious. Savory flavors from the turkey had me swallowing a groan as I dipped another bite into my cranberry sauce. My eyes fluttered closed as the tangy taste of cranberry with a hint of orange crossed with the salt that stood out from the turkey’s seasonings.

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