Page 9 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“Details!” she prods, oblivious to the emotional minefield I’m tiptoeing through. “I’m still trying to figure out how the whole thing works.”
Same.
Asher and his creative, lying ass should be here to bail me out.
Dragging my fingertips across my bottom lip, I rack my brain for a believable tidbit of information.
Something safe. Authentic.
“He sends me treats at work.”There.One thing I don’t need to lie about.
For nearly a year now, packages have been appearing at my cubicle every Monday morning, brimming with spoils I’m too stingy to splurge on. Some days, those deliveries were the only thing that got me through the week in my toxic office.
Willow nods in approval. “Not bad.”
“He also champions my work.”Another truth.
Despite relentlessly pushing me to join the creative team at Theo’s new marketing firm, my best friend is wholly invested in supporting my career as a graphic designer.
“It’s obvious he adores you,” Evangeline says. “As do the rest of us. You’ve always been a part of our family, Isla.”
If guilt were snow, I’d be buried under an avalanche right about now.
I swallow down my discomfort and paste on a smile. “I adore you all even more.”
That’s the exact moment Asher and Theo make their entrance.
The older Thorne strides to the fireplace, unloading an armful of logs into a wicker basket without a word. The front of his sweater is soaked through, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. Damp waves cling to his forehead, darkened to near-black by sweat.
I make a valiant effort to ignore the flex of his forearms as he works.
He ignores me—period.
Meanwhile, the younger brother bounds up to me with the enthusiasm of a tongue-wagging puppy. “We chopped some wood to keep you warm, my Jingle Belle,” he says, bopping my nose.
I look up at him—not a hair out of place—and stifle an eye roll.
“Spoiling our Isla, huh?” Willow says. “Treats at work and now hauling in literal heat?”
Asher winks. “What can I say? My girl deserves to be pampered.”
“What was in her care package this week?” Willow asks, eyes bright with curiosity.
My stomach flips. This is no longer harmless family teasing. It’s fragile hope taking flight—and I’m the liar giving it wings.
“A bunch of stuff, right?” Asher purses his lips at me. “High-end drawing pencils, a new sketchbook since your last one was full, that wrist brace thingy to stop your hand from cramping when you’re working too much, a bunch of chocolate, cupcakes—”
“Straight from Sugarpine Sweets,” I tack on, prompting the women to immediately break into a chorus of delighted coos.
“Oh, and those smoothies you’ve been addicted to lately.” He pats my cheek. “Like I said—only the best for my—”
“Boba,” Theo mutters, his voice low and gruff.
A sharpcracksplits the air as one of the logs snaps.
Everyone glances his way, but he stays locked in a quiet sparring match with the fire.
Undoubtedly offended by my sugary choice, he’s probably cleansing his protein-packed soul with visions of the swampy sludge he calls breakfast.
