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“I know,” I say stiffly. Yes, it’s so nice to see her happy, but I still can’t help feeling a little dishonest. “You deserve it, Mom, and so does Sir Oinkswell. Every last dollar.”
I oink back at her and she laughs. I’m just trying to squelch the firestorm in my head.
Also, I can’t decide if I want to crucify my boss or kiss him to death. But since the latter’s off-limits...
I go to my room to drop my bag down and text Mag where Mom can’t see.
Sabrina: Quit buying my mom’s books. She thinks she’s on her way to movie stardom or something, and I can’t buy enough books for her not to be crushed. I’m just your EA. You wanted it that way. Plus, I’m sure you’ve never purchased another assistant’s mother’s books.
Magnus: Don’t get your panties in a twist. I haven’t bought her books since we were in Arizona that day. It was a one-time thing.
Uh-oh. Worst hopes and fears confirmed.
But how do I know he’s telling the truth?
Sabrina: Then how, pray tell, is she still selling 50-100 copies a day??? I add a lady shrugging emoji.
Magnus: Sales beget sales, Miss Bristol. Marketing 101. Let your dear old mom be a lesson.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe.
But I’m still not sold on her freaky hot Marine-prize pig-serial killer clown thing screaming success.
Sabrina: Yeah, okay. Funny how I always bought her books, and that never got her sustained sales.
Magnus: You never put her on a list. Visibility is king with these online retailers. Books are the same as every other product. Research the algorithms yourself and leave me to enjoy my scotch.
Sabrina: Your poor liver, snarlypants. I add a smiley face with its tongue hanging out.
Magnus: Don’t worry about my liver. You’re just my EA, remember?
I don’t point out that only one of us got a choice in that.
Dear God.
No one infuriates me like this walking trope of a man.
In the morning, Mom piles the table high with all my favorites: cinnamon apple pancakes, sizzling bacon, and homemade hot chocolate.
My favorite part of being home might be the company, but the food’s a close second, and so is the nostalgia.
She used to do this every day of Christmas break when I was a kid. And just like then, Dad sits next to me, the newspaper open with a heaping gas station cup of black coffee at his side.
I keep the comments about caffeine and his heart to myself, filling my belly up and planning on being rolled out of here when my phone goes off.
Heron flashes across my screen.
Mom clears her throat. She hates me having my phone at the table.
“It’s my boss,” I whisper, smiling sheepishly.
“He bothers you over the holidays too?” Dad grumbles, looking up from the news. “Jackass.”
“Nolan, no.” Mom’s voice is warm and excited. “He’s not bothering her. He’s just keeping in touch.”
I haven’t even gotten the message open yet. I glance at Mom over my phone.
What the hell does she mean?
“Honey, you call me at least three times a week and mention him by name every time. I know he’s not just your boss.” She takes a bite of her pancake. “You can be honest with us.”
“He’s what?” I echo back, distracted by a photo in my messenger. It’s Mag’s hand, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and it fills my screen.
Magnus: It’s no Heron blend, but it’s good.
I smile helplessly.
“Seeee?” Mom whispers.
Dad chuckles, hiding behind his paper.
I groan. I’ll set them straight in a minute. But for now...
Better than your scotch? I type back, breaking into a blush.
Magnus: No. But it’ll do since it’s the wrong time of day for scotch. Thank you, and Merry Christmas again.
I giggle, my heart doing this wibbly swing.
I power the phone off and look at Mom. “He’s my boss. Nothing more. I promise.”
“Sweetheart, you smiled bigger than I do over my books when you saw his text.”
I sigh. “Mom, you live for love stories. This isn’t a romance. I work for this guy and he’s kind of a demanding ass...I just need to keep my job. Staying on good terms is part of it. Besides, he’s a shameless workaholic. He isn’t interested in anything else.”
“Oh?” Mom asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Oh, what?”
She shrugs and purses her lips. “How do you know he’s not interested in anything else unless you’ve talked about it?”
Oh my God. That red sunburst on my cheeks burns hotter.
I shake my head. “Drop it, Mom. Please?”
Her forehead creases. “I’m sorry.”
Thankfully, she goes back to her pancakes, and I’m left alone with my thoughts of the sexiest and most insufferable billionaire mogul in the universe.* * *Christmas morning comes and we all gather around my parents’ tree.
Dad hands me a heavy box to unwrap.
I tear the paper off and lift the lid.
“Wow, nice!” I pull out a leather briefcase. “Thank you so much, guys. I love the retro look.”
