Page 11 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Theo
It’sbeenyearssinceI allowed myself to indulge in the commotion of my family’s Christmas traditions.
And while I don’t mind a little competition, an endurance match in interpretive gesturing doesn’t exactly top my list of priorities.
Not when NXT Collective’s biggest campaign to date drops on New Year’s Eve. A relentless barrage of texts and emails lights up my phone—emergency revisions, urgent signoffs, last-minute clientepiphanies.
A little over a year ago, my two partners and I walked away from AdCraft’s hollow empire with nothing but a vision and enough contempt to torch everything the place represented. Distended bureaucracy. Spectacle over policy.Illusion parading as impact. We built our firm on a new kind of blueprint. One that serves as much as it sells.
And now, we’re launching a career-altering crusade. Golden goose. Golden ticket. Pick a gilded metaphor—they all apply. This client isn’t just big. Our connection to them is brand-defining. The kind of win that turns a boutique agency into an industry heavyweight.
Though the credit readswe, everyone knows whose name is riding point. I reeled in the brand. Bled for the brief. My sweat stains every line of the pitch. While I haven’t shed any tears, I’ve sacrificed a hell of a lot to make sure this thing doesn’t miss.
Once it soars, our legacy is cemented.
If it crashes? The wreckage is mine to own.
Flexing my fingers, I resist the impulse to reach for my phone and check in with Xiang and Nassi.
Instead, I drag my focus back to the game. It’s our turn to rattle off movie titles while the women’s team heckles from the couch. Not that they need to highlight our obvious deficits—the score is a full-blown massacre. The men are neither a theatrical threat nor a tactical one.
Asher spins and thrashes like a windmill possessed by a ghost of an inebriated backup dancer. I have no idea what he’s miming, but his over-the-top enthusiasm grates on my nerves.
My little brother has, in fact, been pissing me off since the moment he walked through the door.
It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s hijacked Isla’s undivided attention. She’s perched on the edge of the couch, her honey-colored gaze glinting with amusement.
Leaning back in my chair, I take a sip of whiskey. The burn is a welcome distraction—something to temper the flames of irritation licking at the remaining threads of my patience.
“Unless you’re summoning a demon, Ash, my guess isStripper Santa. Put us out of our misery and tell me I’m right.”
He freezes mid-dance to flip me off. “That’s not a movie. Are you even trying?”
“I am,” I deadpan. “Areyou?”
At those words, Isla’s eyes flick to mine, one corner of her lip twitching like she’s fighting a grin she doesn’t want to surrender.
A low grunt rumbles in my chest, the heat of her look setting off a chemical chain reaction that overrides logic.
Even from all the way across the room, her presence wounds me. She’s a bruise I’ve never allowed to heal. A thorn lodged deep inside my mind. My body. Every fucking traitorous part of me.
We stay locked on each other for a heartbeat.
Then another.
By the third, I throw back the rest of the whiskey, the sting of alcohol slashing my throat in sharp, bitter punishment.
“Elf!” My stepdad, Graham, jerks me back to the game with his shout. “Wait, no—The Grinch?”
My twenty-one-year-old twin brothers, Felix and Rowan, immediately launch into a competition to see who can rattle off the longest string of holiday titles. Their voices meld together, creating a mash-up of festive plots absurd enough to land on Netflix’s December lineup.
“No!” Asher huffs out a frustrated sigh. “Pay attention! Look!” He thrusts his arms toward the ceiling and stomps around in wide, graceless circles.
“A man about to earn himself a hernia,” I throw out.
Willow mimics the sound of a buzzer. “Time’s up!”
“The Nutcracker!” Asher groans, collapsing to his knees. “I was a ballerina! Aballerina!”
