Charlotte Say what you want about my aunt Cecelia Westwood, but the woman knew how to throw a Christmas party. It was all glitter and grandeur, not even a single pine needle daring to fall out of place. I maneuvered through the crowd of Westwoods with Claire perched on my hip like a sequined accessory, her tiny fist clutching the end of my hair and her other hand reaching for a crystal ornament shaped like a swan. “Gentle hands, Your Royal Drooliness,” I murmured, leaning just far enough for Claire to pat the ornament and leave a smudge of baby slobber on it. “Don’t worry, Aunt CC loves a personal touch.” Claire giggled and my heart melted right on the spot. One year old, and my cousin Sterling’s little girl was already a genius level charmer, an expert at getting exactly what she wanted. CC smiled serenely at me from across the room and I returned it, but then quickly averted my gaze and hurried Claire away from the now drool-smeared swan. “Plausible deniability, kiddo,” I murmured to the talcum-scented cherub on my hip. “There are lots of kids here. If no one sees us, it wasn’t you.” Missing last year’s Christmas extravaganza had been akin to an act of familial treason as far as my aunt was concerned, but this year, I wasn’t the only Westwood girl anymore. Once upon a time, that had been a real thing, the lack of female babies. So real that it had caused a rift between CC and my mother when I’d been born. But now, with Claire, as well as Hailey and Briar, the twin girls Jameson and Sadie had produced, the family’s female drought was officially over. CC was positively intoxicated on estrogen, so much so that she’d forgiven me my treasonous act, but if word got out that I was responsible for the drool on the decorations, that might be the last straw. My shoes, gold heels that could double as medieval torture devices, clicked against the marble floor as I raced—calmly—away from the scene of the crime. As the last Westwood born before the current baby boom, I’d always been the golden girl, but now that time and biology had caught up, I was just one of four born Westwood women and I was only too happy to pass the mantle to the little ones. It took me nearly ten minutes to cross the ballroom—mostly because everyone wanted a peek at Claire, not me. I was essentially the chauffeur to the main event and I loved it. “There she is!” I called when I finally spotted Laney near the dessert table, one hand around a flute of champagne and a tartlet in the other. She was grinning like a woman tasting freedom for the first time, but then she spotted me and immediately shook her head. “Oh no,” I warned under my breath, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
Before Claire could see her, she was already backing away, mouthing something about five more minutes before disappearing behind a wall of poinsettias and rich aunts wearing holiday sequins. “Traitor,” I muttered, bouncing Claire lightly on my hip. “Okay, baby. Don’t worry about your mother. Auntie Char’s got you.” Claire answered with a delighted squeal, drool glistening on her chin like it was part of her outfit. Honestly, the kid could spit up on a Prada dress and still look like a Gerber commercial. Naturally, I loved her for it. I loved kids, period. I always had. There was just something about them, soft, squishy, loud little bundles of chaos who somehow made the world make sense. In another life, maybe I would’ve spent my days reading stories to second-graders or handing out stickers after performing exams in a pediatric clinic, but Westwoods didn’t do stickers. We did mergers. Banking world domination was the family business. My entire life had been about money, legacy, and never letting the empire crumble. No matter how many times I’d imagined a different kind of life, one with finger paint instead of finance r eports, I would never say it out loud to anyone in the family. But I had managed to find my own ways to live out my passions, ways no one could object to. Noise rippled through the room and I turned just in time to see a familiar figure in a black coat st ep through the grand archway. Harrison, the baby of the San Francisco Westwoods, wearing his usual casual confidence and arriving late as usual. At twenty-six, he was the closest to me in age out of the cousins, with me just one year younger, but somehow, Harrison had always managed to seem like he had it all figured out. A trait I sure as heck didn’t possess. “Sorry, traffic,” he said to no one in particular, scooping Claire neatly out of my arms before I could protest. “Traffic?” I arched a brow. “Your house is six minutes away. On the estate.” He grinned, utterly unbothered by being called out on his obvious lie. “I know, it’s crazy, right?” “Uh-huh. And the perfectly styled hair?” “That’s genetics, my dearest cousin. You should know that. Style is in the Westwood DNA.” Before I could roll my eyes, his wife, Aurelia appeared at his side, elegant, glowing, and very much the kind of woman who could walk into a room like this and make it her stage. She gave me a quick hug, then flashed him an exasperated smile. “Quick,” she murmured to him. “Let’s go get this done.” Harrison’s blue eyes sparkled like freaking gemstones. He nodded at her, took her arm with Claire on his other hip, and sw ept them across the room in a blur of showmanship and deliberate purpose. I shook my head. I had no idea what those two were up to this time, but from the sound of things, Harrison and Aurelia had become something of a power couple. Always chasing another deal and whatnot.
Harrison had married a girl who came from a family exactly like ours, another acquisitions-hungry bloodline with ambition in spades. I wanted to catch up with them sometime and get to know her a little better, but obviously, they’d arrived on some kind of mission that they were dead set on achieving, which meant now wasn’t the time to chat. While I’d given him shit about the traffic thing, I wasn’t even sure where they lived at the moment. I’d heard they’d moved to New York, but I’d also heard they were in the Mediterranean. Knowing Harrison, constantly being on the move was also entirely possible. My brothers and I hadn’t been able to attend any of the spate of weddings that had happened last year. In our defense, there hadn’t been much notice for any of them, but still, I was sorry not to have been around. It sounded like my cousins had had quite a year. Now, however, Claire was gone. My arms were empty and none of my cousins or their wives were in sight. For a second, I just stood there, surrounded by champagne flutes, chandeliers, and the low hum of a fancy party that was definitely doubling as a business meeting. They always did. Since I wasn’t interested in closing deals or discussing mergers, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself now that there was no baby, no mission of my own, and no one to make me look busy. In the end, I did what any self-respecting Westwood would do. I straightened my shoulders, smiled like I knew exactly what I was doing, and started wandering. The first floor was packed, the fir eplaces roaring, and the scent of sugar and money thick in the air. Alex caught my eye across the room and lifted his chin in a silent acknowledgment. That was it. No wave, no smile, no hey, baby sister, are you having a good time? Just the solemn upward nod of a man who would rather be anywhere else and would still barely glance in my direction. We’d flown in together this morning, with him grumbling about quarterly r eports and me pretending not to fall asle ep on his shoulder. Apparently, that burst of familial warmth had expired upon arrival. “Glad we had that bonding moment,” I muttered under my breath, a little miffed that Oldest Brother couldn’t be bothered to give me more than a curt chin-lift-nod thing. I snagged another flute of champagne from a passing tray. If my brother could drink his feelings, so could I. The main sitting room was a glittering wonderland of flickering firelight, twinkling garlands, and crystal bowls overflowing with gold-wrapped truffles. St epping through the arched entryway, I took a long sip and let the bubbles fizz across my tongue. I scanned the crowd for someone, anyone, I actually wanted to talk to. “Oh, look!” The sudden squeal made me flinch. An older woman I didn’t recognize was staring directly at me, one manicured hand flying to her pearls, the other pointing upward like she’d just spotted Santa himself. “Mistletoe!” she gasped, her eyes wide with delight. As if an uncontrolled champagne cork had popped, heads started turning in our direction. Conversations stuttered. Suddenly, every set of eyes in the room was on me.
And then, on him. Across the archway, leaning casually against the opposite column, was a man built like a brick wall in a tux. A fortress of a guy with broad shoulders, a sharp jaw, and a watch expensive enough to scream that he didn’t check the time, he owned it. He held a glass of amber liquid, probably scotch that cost more than a luxury SUV. I followed the woman’s pointing finger, and sure enough, there it was. Mistletoe. A dainty little sprig, hung precisely in the dead center of the archway. Perfect. My heart did a tiny, traitorous skip as I looked back at the man. He seemed familiar. Rugged, dark red hair slicked back, cheekbones that could cut glass, and those eyes, ice blue and sharp, narrowing slightly as they met mine. I had to tilt my chin up and then up again, because he was that tall, just to even the playing field as I looked into his eyes. Someone nearby tittered. I heard ripples of the word “kiss” floating through the crowd. “Well,” I said brightly, because silence was not my friend right now. “This is festive.” The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t move. Instead, he just studied me with quiet amusement like he was waiting to see what I’d do next. To be fair, I was doing the same thing. Then those ripples grew louder, becoming a chant of “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” It rolled through the room like an avalanche gathering speed. My entire face caught fire. The man, mountain he was, shifted, sucking his bottom lip thoughtfully into his mouth. His eyes sw ept the crowd like he was searching for an exit. That tiny movement, the tightening of his jaw with his lip caught between his teeth, triggered something in my memory. Wait. I know that jaw. And the hair, dark red, stubborn, never quite behaving even when styled within an inch of its life. When he turned fully toward me, the light caught those ice blue eyes, and suddenly, I was twelve again, sitting cross-legged on the back porch while my brothers and their friends played cards inside. Trent Sh epard. Born into oil money and a ranching empire. The richest man in Texas other than his father, and the walking, talking legend of my preteen summers. My oldest brother’s best friend. My cousin Jameson’s best friend. Everybody’s best friend. Every single one of my girlfriends back in Chicago had lost their collective minds over him whenever he’d visited as we’d gotten older. His Texas drawl and dimples were the subject of too many giggles during our girly, teenage sle epovers. Now here he was. Under the mistletoe. With me. Perfect. Just freaking perfect. I tried to laugh it off, but my cheeks were burning so hard I was pretty sure they could melt the snow off CC’s front lawn. Trent’s gaze flicked over my face, taking me in like he was sorting through memories of his own. Then his eyes narrowed just a touch and a wry, lopsided smile appeared. He took a st ep closer and the crowd whooped. Someone shouted, “Do it for Christmas!” He leaned in slightly, his cologne all spice and cedar, his voice low enough that only I could hear it. He’s going to do it. He’s totally going to kiss me.
I forgot how to breathe. “Not gonna happen,” he drawled in that thick, slow, southern accent, a voice that could be poured over pancakes. And then, just like that, he was gone. He slipped through the archway, vanishing into the glittering chaos of the dining room and leaving me standing there with a thousand eyes on me and approximately zero percent of my dignity intact. Merry fucking Christmas to me, huh? The room erupted in laughter and chatter again as soon as Trent disappeared. The chant dissolved into whispers and clinking glasses. I turned on my heel before anyone could catch my expression and ducked into the crowd with my head down and my cheeks still burning. If Trent Sh epard could disappear like smoke, the least I could do was vanish into sequins and cashmere. Or something like that. My brain was barely working. I didn’t stop walking when I hit the staircase, seeking refuge in the quieter hallways upstairs. As I walked, I pulled my phone out and texted Oldest Brother. Me: Time to leave soon? I sent one message and then another. Then three more, none of which got an answer. The sounds of music and chatter drifted faintly after me as I k ept walking, but the house was so big that soon they were only the merest of whispers. Yet my phone still hadn’t chimed with a response. My heels sank softly into the plush carpet as I made my way to the one room I knew would be empty. The library had floor-toceiling bookshelves and two leather armchairs that looked like they’d been stolen from a castle. Flames flickered in the hearth. It was my favorite room in the house. I slipped inside, closed the door, and inhaled the scent of old books. This was more my speed. I would wait right there until Alex was ready to go, but when I checked my phone again, he still hadn’t even read my messages. “Excellent,” I muttered. “Abandoned by my brother and humiliated by Texas royalty. I’m glad I showed up this year.” I was halfway through deciding whether to sneak out the back when the door creaked open and voices filtered in, low, masculine, and familiar. I froze, sinking into the shadows before they could see me. Jameson, my second oldest cousin, st epped in first, followed by Sterling, the oldest, and then, of course, because the universe just had to make my Christmas even more sucky, Trent brought up the rear. They moved with the ease of men who’d grown up together, pouring drinks from a decanter and loosening their ties. Guess I’m not the only one who’s done with the party. “Man, you could’ve just kissed her,” Jameson said dryly, swirling the liquid in his glass. “It would’ve saved her the embarrassment.” Trent’s r eply was smooth, sure, and immediate. “I’m not in the business of kissing random women in front of a crowd.” He downed the drink in one go, holding his glass out to Sterling for a refill. One word r epeated over and over again in my head like it was stuck on an endless loop.
Random. Trent hadn’t recognized me. Of course, he didn’t. I was a kid the last time he saw me, a tagalong little sister in braids, always two st eps behind six freaking brothers and at least two cousins at all times. I knew it shouldn’t bug me, but hurt bloomed anyway, doubling the sting of humiliation in my chest. As I watched him laugh at something Sterling had said, I wished I’d just gone home early. Or maybe that I hadn’t come to this party at all.