Page 6 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“We finally took the leap and gave in to our will-they-won’t-they tension.” He turns to me and winks. “Right, Mistletoe Munchkin?”
“Uh-huh.” I clear my throat and plaster on a smile in lieu of an eye roll. “A true holiday miracle. The kind that hits you out of nowhere. Like a rogue snowball to the face.” Summoning fake pep, I deliver every line straight to Asher like I’m starring in some chipper ad for fake dating.
“Suppose it was inevitable.” The words drag roughly from Theo’s chest, but his expression remains impassive. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I inch closer to Asher, leaning into his easy warmth, seeking refuge from the frigidity of his brother’s indifference.
Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together.
The thought loops like a cursed holiday jingle.
Maybe this relationship charade with Asher is exactly what I need to get through the week unscathed.
I’ll be under the same roof as my heart-wrenching crush of Christmas past, but I’ve built up immunity over the years.
I can play nice. Be civil. Act unbothered.
I’m fully prepared to unleash an arsenal of bland, beige, emotionally sterile coping mechanisms if it keeps me from stumbling back into mistake-riddled quicksand and humiliating myself twice in one lifetime.
My holiday strategy is simple: fake date the crap out of my best friend and stay the hell away from his big brother.
No slipping into old habits.
Or—even worse—Theo Thorne’s orbit.
Three
Theo
“YouandIslaaredating?Dating?” The word is acid on my tongue. “What the hell, Ash?”
“No matter how many times you ask, no matter how you phrase it, the answer is still the same. Yes, we’re dating. Yes, we’re head-over-heels in love.” My brother laughs, steam puffing out of his mouth and dissipating into the freezing night air. “It’s a fairy tale.”
“It’s bullshit.” I choke the life out of the handle of my axe and swing, splitting a log cleanly in half. The loudcrackis barely audible over the rush of blood in my ears.
He’s always believed in magic. I believe in facts. And reality.
Both make one thing very clear:they’re a terrible match.
Asher’s amused blue gaze narrows. “You wouldn’t be sulking if you were in my shoes. Or, rather, in Isla’s pa—”
“Don’t finish that fucking sentence,” I threaten, pointing the blade in his direction. My voice is a low, primitive growl. “Why now?” I grit out before I can stop myself. “Whyyou?”
“Why not me?” Asher grins, tugging his Santa hat lower over his ears. “Isla’s a catch. Figured it was time someone stepped up and made sure she knows it.”
The comment lights a fuse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He laces his arms behind his head, elbows out, posture dripping with smugness. “Unless you want it to mean something?”
Without answering, I obliterate the piece of wood in front of me. It explodes, splinters flying like shrapnel.
Asher whistles as he sidesteps a careening chunk of kindling. “Oh, my. Is that jealousy I’m detecting on your revoltingly too-handsome face?”
“I’m not jealous.” The swing that follows is so forceful it could easily hack through stone.
“Is that why you’re chopping shit like a lumberjack with a vendetta?”
“Pick up an axe, asshole,” I snap, setting up another log. “Or do you plan on just standing there, talking about your relationship all night?”
