Page 43 of Holiday Friend Zones
“By all means, Davis,” I say.My smile widens unconsciously, both my heart and mind already on edge, ready for whatever crazy reason he’s come up with.
Because if nothing else in life is true, Davidson Oswald Barnes is a chaos gremlin.To the max.
If rom-com goddess Pippa Grant is to be believed, all Davises have man buns, live secret lives, and are hotly mysterious.Only, my Davis is batting zero where those things are concerned.His light brown hair might be slightly unkempt, just long enough to hide the scar right above his left eyebrow from where I hit him with a Frisbee when we were eleven, but it doesn’t come anywhere close to man bun territory.He’s never been able to keep a secret for more than about fifteen minutes—including what he’s getting anyone for Christmas—much less leading an entirely separate existence.And the only thing mysterious about him is how he got this far in life without breaking a bone.Or requiring major surgery.Because if something weird and wild in this world exists or could happen, it will happen to Davis.
He is hot though.Insanely hot.Like, stop traffic and stare hot.
“So, here’s the deal.I kinda made a boo-boo with an investment?—”
“A boo-boo?”I cut him off.A boo-boo?What is he…five?
“Kyra, are you going to let me tell you this or not?”
“Sorry.”I hold up a hand in surrender, my own silent way of apologizing.Not that he can see me.
“Remember when we were in such a hurry to get your personal investments sold earlier this year?”
How could I forget.Six months ago, my parents decided to officially sign over Tennessee Trouble to my siblings and me, giving the four of us ownership and control.Signing over the family business was always the plan, but one that I had assumed was asomedaything.Turns outsomedaycame sooner than I thought, and my parents were ready to start their transition into retirement now.
With such came some scrambling on our part.Okay, my part.All three of my older siblings were a little more prepared for this day than I was.Including being armed with the knowledge of certain requirements of ownership.
“Yeah, that still doesn’t make sense to me.Is beer really competition?”
“The clauses in the contract are clear.Any and all companies or corporations that produce a like product, i.e., alcohol, is considered competition and therefore you aren’t allowed to hold any kind of investment in them.”
I sigh, slouching back in my chair.He’s explained this a hundred times, and let’s not lie, he’ll probably have to explain it a hundred more.The stock market doesn’t make sense to me.I understand it on a basic level—buying shares and all that—but past that you lose me.I can market the shit out of anything.Need a social media campaign or catchy slogan?I’m your girl.But don’t go asking me how to invest your money.
“This is why I hire you, to handle this for me.”
“I know.And I have.Except…”
“Except you made a boo-boo?”I sass back, unable to help myself.He is my best friend after all.If you can’t sass your bestie, who can you sass?
“Because of the quick timeline, I sold them short,” he explains, his voice turning more serious.“Resulting in a bunch of losses.”
“So you lost a bunch of my money."
“To be fair, I thought we would have enough time to make up for it with other investments, but that’s not how it worked out.The good news is, tax wise, it works out for you.”
I nod, following just enough of this to hear what I think is him telling me I should see a tax break.Then again, the wordtaxesalone makes my head hurt, so what do I know.
“However…” he continues, not giving me a chance to confirm what I think I’m understanding.“Here’s where it gets sticky.I got really lucky on another investment—one that was supposed to remain stable, but ended up splitting and skyrocketed before I could sell.Which isn’t so lucky when it comes to taxes.”
I don’t see what that has to do with me.Other than being the one who has the potential to help.But, marriage…really?
“So…if we get married…that would fix it?”I say, pausing along the way, my pulse starting to race.
“Yes.”
Oh boy.
My pulse kicks up again, galloping a little faster now.He’s serious.More than that, the word no isn’t immediately flying out of my mouth.
Technically, we got married once before.Granted, we were nine, and Maggie Robinson presided over the ceremony in front of the monkey bars on the playground.She swore to us she was ordained at the time, but legally speaking I’m not sure that moment would hold up in court.We didn’t even seal it with a kiss.
At least not in front of the monkey bars or Maggie Robinson.
Davis did kiss me later that afternoon, when he walked me home from school.Dropped me right at my front door, looked me square in the eyes, and proudly proclaimed he could kiss me now, because I was his wife.He planted one on me, which lasted for all of maybe two seconds, then promptly ran away.
