Page 1 of The Crush of Christmas Past
One
Isla
“Nothingsaysholidaycheerlike a Christmas vacation turned hostage situation!”
“You’re not a hostage, Isla. You’re just—”
“An unwilling accomplice in your rom-com con?” I grumble as Asher’s vintage clunker throws a tantrum down the winding road. “Even your car wants out of this unhinged plot.”
Lifting one hand from the wheel, he waves me off with a flick of his candy cane. “Oh, come on. Fake dating is festive fun.”
“More like a festivefelony. Forcing your best friend into staged mistletoe makeouts and casting your parents as the marks? That’s criminal behavior. The start of your villain era.”
“Look,” he says with a sigh. “I know it’s a big ask, but Mom’s been waterboarding me with concern since Sienna and I split.If I don’t distract her with something sparkly, she’ll spend our entire vacation micromanaging my mental health.”
“A full-blown avalanche of glitter won’t fool Evangeline,” I counter. “She’ll clock the lie as soon as I open my mouth.” My lackluster acting skills are no match for her bullshit detector. Calibrated on five strong-willed hell-raisers, it’s basically military-grade at this point.
“Even with your heart permanently stitched to your sleeve and those big, golden eyes broadcasting every emotion in high-def, my family is bound to buy the illusion. They’re desperate to believe I’m okay. As long as I keep smiling, no one will bother to dig past the pretend.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because being a Thorne means believing in love. Betting big on forever. That’s just how we’re wired.” He scrunches his nose. “Well, except for the wildcard, of course.”
I flinch. “Wildcard?”
The only wildcard we have in common has spent years dodging this annual tradition.
Theo Thorne.
Too cool for tinsel. And me.
Not that I care.
That ghost of Christmas past isn’t allowed to haunt my present.
“Dear old brother is the only one prickly and perceptive enough to be an actual threat to our fictional affair,” Asher mumbles around a mouthful of red-and-white-striped sugar. “Don’t worry, though. The Grinch won’t show. He’s allergic to eggnog. And emotions.”
With that assurance, he reaches for the radio, twisting the dial in search of something more festive than static fuzz. His battle for reception is no match for the car’s antique antenna,sentencing us to a quiet ride along the tree-lined road leading toward his childhood home.
The town spills into the valley ahead like a set designer’s dream of winter. White-quilted rooftops, chimney smoke curling into the sky, and glinting icicles form the perfect opening shot.
Throw in twinkle lights, miles of lush garland, plus snow-people with better wardrobes than I’ll ever own, and the whole place looks staged for a holiday movie.
Behind it all, the mountain commands the horizon, serving pines, powder, and peak drama with full-on main character energy.
December in Sugarpine Springs is the definition of postcard porn.
Never one to sit in silence for long, Asher clears his throat. “Don’t be mad at me, Lala. I just need to prove I’ve moved on.”
Great.
Now he’s weaponizing puppy-dog eyesandchildhood nicknames.
Classic guilt-trip combo.
“Besides, we only have to fake it until Christmas Eve. Then Sienna marries her billionaire prince and everyone can quit treating me like a nuclear threat.”
“For what it’s worth, there’s no way the guy is actual royalty,” I soothe. “And let’s be real—he’s probablyonlya millionaire.”
