CHAPTERONE
CLAIRE
Molly: Merry Bitch-mas ;)
Claire: Happy Ho-lidays ;)
Normally, the back-and-forth with Molly would have been enough to take the edge off.Their annual snark fest.A cherished tradition with her oldest friend.A friendship that carried them through bad breakups, career detours, and a regrettable Christmas Eve on Austin’s Sixth Street involving a very drunk Molly, a Santa suit, and mistletoe held in questionable places.
But not tonight.
Claire stared at her phone screen, waiting for some degree of warmth and reassurance to kick in.Nothing came.Not an inkling of comfort.Just the hollow echo of a day that had veered wildly off script.
Molly: What did Calvin say about the job?
Claire: I haven’t told him yet.
Molly: WHAT?Girl.Just do it!
Claire: Excuse me, but my life is not a Nike commercial.
Molly: Chicken shit!
Claire: And THIS is why you’re always at the top of the Naughty List.
Molly: Santa likes it when I’m on top!;)
Claire snorted and tossed her phone on the sofa.She reached for her Pinot, the cool glass chilling her fingers like a warning.Her gaze made another sweep of Calvin’s perfectly curated beach house.Like his opulent home back in Bel Air, it was all sharp lines and neutral tones, giving magazine spread.More Men’s Health than Esquire, if you took into account the ten-thousand-dollar rowing machine blocking the view from the best window.Ocean view and air conditioning—a win-win, Calvin had boasted, back when he and this relationship still felt like a good idea.
Two years in, Claire wasn’t so sure.
She locked on the fireplace on the opposite side of the room.The once-roaring fire had dwindled to a lazy smolder.How fitting.Mumbling expletives, she stoked the logs back to life, shoving the wrought-iron poker back on its stand with noisy force.The flames danced again, illuminating the room and further heating her Pinot-flushed cheeks.Her focus dropped to a tiny box tucked beneath the branches of the massive Noble Fir in the corner.The only remaining gift.Her insides twist with apprehension.In minutes, Calvin would join her, ready to sweep her up into what she guessed was every woman's fantasy.But Claire wasn't every woman, and the butterflies in her stomach now moved in time with the lights twinkling on his Christmas tree.
Down the hall, his laughter boomed through the house, echoing off polished-wood floors.A hearty laugh that usually made her smile, but not now.She noted the time on her vintage watch."Five minutes, Claire.Time me,"he'd promised.But his five minutes had long expired.Just another example of how their lives struggled to sync.They operated on different schedules and lived in different time zones.When he did manage to carve out time, it amounted to little more than a sliver.She pretended it didn't bother her, but deep down it did.
Calvin Butterworth.He could make love to a woman with one hand and close million-dollar entertainment deals with the other.A forty-four-year-old Brit who drank too much and slept too little.Award-winning Hollywood director, Olympic-caliber prankster, and “Cally” to his closest friends.A whirlwind of a man, but his honest eyes and twisted sense of humor helped Claire forgive a multitude of sins.
In the beginning, Calvin’s fast-paced world excited her.The passion with which he approached his career so closely mirrored her own.But what she originally deemed admirable ambition turned out to be no-holds-barred obsession.There were literally no stopping points.Nothing felt sacred.And now, sitting alone in front of the fire, she sighed with the realization that Christmas Eve had become one more casualty.
Another five minutes fell off the clock.She yawned, drained her wine glass, and trudged upstairs to his equally elegant bedroom, shucking her heels and little black dress with record speed.Dressing up for a romantic holiday dinner had been his idea.He'd spared no expense.And Liz, his administrative assistant, hadn't overlooked a single detail.The personal chef.The exquisite floral arrangements.The candles.A perfect holiday dinner for two,ifClaire had been dating Liz.Alone in his beautifully appointed but never used dining room, Claire waited while Calvin downloaded and approved segments for an upcoming project.By the time he showed up—barefoot and in jeans and a ratty Pink Floyd shirt—her soup sat cold, the candles smoked, and her patience balanced on the thinnest edge.
She rifled through her suitcase.Her impulse buy of silky red lingerie suddenly seemed ridiculous.He probably wouldn’t notice anyway,she thought.She tossed it aside and pulled on an oversized T-shirt.Laptop in hand, she crawled into what Calvin jokingly referred to as “his office’’—the king-size bed where he conducted morning operations before disappearing into the studio until midnight.This was Calvin’s life.His routine.Though the time difference between his L.A.empire and her Dallas apartment was small, the recovery from his unique brand of jetlag took days.
She opened her laptop, greeted by her favorite photo of them, side-by-side on Seven Mile Beach in Negril.Their smiles could’ve sold toothpaste.But the sparkle in her eyes?That had faded.The only vacation she'd ever convinced Calvin to take, and Hollywood had followed them to Jamaica, its obnoxious bark begging for his attention the entire trip.
Her inbox overflowed with last-minute emails from retailers.She scrolled past the junk to the only message that mattered.Palms sweating, she considered the magnitude of the two simple lines of text:The job is yours if you want it.Let me know ASAP.
ASAP?A laughable thought.Calvin couldn't sit still long enough to eat, let alone engage in a discussion that would change the direction of her life—and their relationship.Claire filed the message underUrgent,then resumed deleting her seasonal spam.Her phone pinged with another text notification.
Dad: Hope I’m not interrupting.Just wanted to say goodnight.
Claire: You’re not.I miss you!Just checking email.
Dad: On Christmas Eve?
Claire: Calvin's on a business call.
Dad: Does the man ever take a holiday?
