Page 2 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“Doesn’t matter.” With a deep groan, Asher adjusts his Santa hat over a thick mass of blond hair. “I’m still a liability.” I had no idea his face was capable of such a deep frown. “My family lives for this week. I don’t want to ruin the vibe.”
Reaching across the console, I give his forearm a gentle squeeze. “You went through seismic heartbreak, Ash. Emotional aftershocks are normal. So is the urge to blow shit up.”
Sienna and Asher’s three-year relationship didn’t crumble over petty drama. It shattered under the weight of real trauma. Though he stays tight-lipped about most of the story, the pieces he’s shared are sharp enough to hurt by proxy.
“Don’t worry. I’m all healed. Everything’s fine. Perfectly fine.”
The love of his life is marrying another man, and my masochist of a friend RSVP’d to the live premiere of their happily-ever-after just to prove he’s over her.
The lack offinein this situation is colossal, but it feels cruel to call out the obvious.
So, instead, I relent.
“All right. Okay. I’ll be a merry little elf and go along with your ridiculous charade.”
It’s not like I have better plans. Unemployed, evicted, emotionallyandfinancially overextended—I’m a free agent in the most pathetic sense of the word.
After two and a half years of bleeding my creativity dry, the company I sold my soul to kicked me to the curb. A few days later, my landlord followed suit. This all hit right as my savings account started firing off SOS flares.
The magic of the season isn’t quite…magicking.
Being my best friend’s emotional support human is the closest thing I’ve got to purpose right now. Helping him cope also distracts me from my own problems, putting off my inevitableI’m failing at lifebreakdown for at least a few more days.
“Thank you.” Asher cracks a smile, letting out a relieved exhale. “Truly. This is gonna be great.”
“Greatmight be pushing it. Have you thought about what our breakup will do to my relationship with your parents and siblings? Am I—” My fingers knotin the coppery mess of my bangs as I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest. “Are they going to cut me off?”
When it comes to family, the Thornes are all I have left. We may not be bound by blood, but their love keeps my heart beating. Losing them wouldn’t just hurt—it would destroy me.
“We’ll cite creative differences,” Asher says breezily. “Tell them we split amicably and reverted to bestie mode. Worst case? I take the fall and you get full custody of my parents.”
“This is going to cost you.” I slump down, thumping the back of my head against the seat. “Big time.”
“I know. All-you-can-eat cupcakes for life. Frosted with eternal gratitude.” He nudges my shoulder. “I appreciate you, Pinecone Princess.”
“No way.” I swat at his elbow. “This charade is tacky enough. We don’t need cheesy nicknames.”
“I see yourno wayand raise you ahell yeah. Nicknames sell the narrative.” He wields his candy cane like a wand, pointing it at me. “Sugarplum Sweetie,” he says before turning it on himself. “Sexy Santy.” Swirling it in the air, he adds, “Boom. Christmas couple goals.”
Eye-rolling isn’t really my thing, but around Asher it practically turns into a trademark. “Keep pressing your luck, Creepy Claus, and I’ll be forced to break out that oversized nutcracker riding in the trunk.”
“Careful,” he teases. “My jingle bells might interpret that as foreplay.”
“And my ears interpretthatas assault.”
Thanks to a soulmate-level friendship between our mothers, Asher and I grew up with a sibling-like bond. We’ve supported each other through a lifetime of ups and downs. Pride. Pain. Puberty. Twenty-five years later, we’re permanently locked into another P-word:platonic.
Though my heart adores him, my body has never even flirted with the idea of interest.
It doesn’t help that my bonus brother is equal parts overbearing, oversharing, and obsessed with anatomical innuendos. Decades of dodging dick jokes have done their damage. One more pun about hisNorthPolemight be the end of me.
The universe takes that as a dare.
Tires screeching over ice, the car lunges sideways, whipping us into a fishtail that slams me into my seat belt.
“Ash!” I scream as the world outside blurs into a swirl of white.
The candy cane flies from his hand. “It’s okay,” he pants, fighting to regain control of the wheel. “We’re okay. I’ve got it.” His words, taut with panic, are far from convincing.
